The Dark Somnium - "Something strange is happening at The Church outside of town"

Episode Date: December 16, 2023

This Scary Story is from the Nosleep subreddit, written by Matt Dymerski (Aka M59Gar). It is a 3 part series that i combined into one video.Checkout the original stories here: "Something strange is happening at The Church outside oft town"https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/262hd0/the_angel_without_a_face/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

I never thought I'd experience anything creepy working as a computer hardware salesman. It's not the worst job in the world, but I'm by no means suited to the task. I'm not an extrovert, and I don't like pushing hardware that customers don't need. My boss has been constantly pressuring me to up my game for months, and I'm sure I was on the verge of getting fired, until he came in. The first time he came in, I immediately recognized him as a man out of his elements. Short, graying, slightly hunched, and visibly overwhelmed. He moved from box to box in the aisles, thoroughly reading each product's information. Considering I'd never seen anyone actually intently read the boxes like that, I kept an eye on him,

but made sure to avoid him the same way I avoided most customers. The other salesman descended one by one, eager for a commission from what looked like an easy target, but he rebuffed them each time with quiet vehemence. I turned away for a moment, only to find him tapping me on the shoulder lightly. You look like you're the part of the nonsense around here. He said quietly. Can you help me buy some equipment? I tried not to sigh.

Sure, what would you like? He produced a crumpled piece of paper with a list of requirements on it. Some had been scratched out, some had been circled, and a few product names were written along the end. 200 of each of these. I froze. 200 each? Are you sure?

That's like $10,000. It should be roughly $35,000. But I have conditions. I want them delivered to the address at the bottom here. And I want the delivery to come from the supplier direct. I'm a very private person, and I don't want chatty salesman bothering me. Um, all right.

I agree. read, calculating how much to put an order through the system directly. I think we can do that. Not we, just you. Understood? Sure. I certainly sensed that something was off about him, but he didn't seem like a terrorist or anything. After he left, I filled his order as privately as I could.

My boss didn't ask any questions. She was just happy I was selling anything at all. My commission check that week was amazing. So, a month later, when I saw him coming back, I held my breath in anticipation. He seemed a little more tired than the first time I'd seen him, and if it was even possible, his hair had grayed a little further. His jacket was open this time, too, revealing a black shirt and the taill-tale clerical

collar of a man of faith. For some reason, that didn't surprise me. Another list for you. He said, coming up to me discreetly. Same delivery rules. I stared at the paper he'd given me. This is like a hundred thousand dollars worth of stuff, and that's just the ones I recognize. He peered at me with slightly wild eyes.

I said no questions. Okay. My second huge commission check had made me more worried than happy. Was he obsessively spending his church coffers on excessive computer equipment? I had the delivery address, so I decided to drive by just to see what I could see. I didn't have a plan exactly, but a gnawing feeling in my gut was. wouldn't let me leave the issue alone. The address that I'd shipped all the equipment to ended up being a massive turn-of-the-century church, towering among the back parts of the older

section of the city. It presided over me with aspired, gothic, ancient presence, but only added to my sense of unease. A little drizzle had begun dotting my car window when I noticed several huge piles of boxes near an open side door. Immediately concerned that the computer gear would be ruined, making product returns impossible, I parked and ran over to begin moving the boxes in through the small opening, left by the intricately carved wooden door that sat a jar nearby. You came to help. A familiar voice called from the darkness within, surprised. The old priest stood above a small pile of boxes, breathing hard.

I guess so. I responded, not sure what else to say as I helped get the rest of the gear inside. Once we were done, he clamped my shoulder with a wrinkly hand. I know I asked for privacy, but this is surely Providence. Mind helping an old man move some boxes downstairs? I looked around the clean stone hallway. It was cramped and a hundred years old, but the back halls of the church hardly seemed threatening, and I wanted to know what he was doing with all this computer equipment.

Secretly on guard, I smiled and agreed. Lifting a box, I followed him past several closed doors, each more elegant and picturesque than the last, until he paused at one, produced a very old metal key, and turned it in a loud, clunky lock. A curious gust of air hit my nostrils as we stepped beyond, air damp with ancient moisture, but simultaneously warm with the unmistakable, awkward smell of electronics. He moved ahead, proceeding down the well-worn stairs, but I lagged behind momentarily to check my phone's reception at the heart of the ancient church.

As I had expected, I had no signal. I picked up a small pebble from a cobblestone corner and placed it carefully in the hole where the door was meant to bolt, ensuring that an attempt to lock it would fail. I wasn't about to get trapped below with this strange old man, priest or not. I lifted my box again and hurried down the stairs, catching up to him as he reached the bottom. The musty basement opened into a wide, low chamber as long as the church itself. The empty pillars intermittently dotted the space, but my eyes only followed the menagerie of computers, cables, cooling fans, and a maze of gear between.

What is all this? He turned to size me up, the zealous gleam in his eyes backlit by the omnipresent electronic glow. It's Providence that you're here, so I think I'm meant to share this with you. I nodded lightly, making sure not to betray my instinctive realization that he was definitely off-kilter in some way. What is it? He hurried over to a nearby monitor to check what I recognized as a temperature and fan control program.

Several months ago, I acquired a very special book, a very early version of the Bible, old enough to avoid the mangling caused by numerous translations. As I studied it, I found it to contain very strange parables, rife with curious grammar that resulted in non-standard moral lessons, that had clearly been fixed. and made more palatable in later versions. I thought it a very elaborate prank, until I realized that the words themselves were unimportant. It was code. Having already read that book and seen that movie, I lowered my box to the ground and considered the best way to politely escape. So the Bible contains a secret code?

He frowned, casting his face into a leering mask of shadows and light. No, it doesn't contain a code. It is code. Specifically, the code is in prologue. My attention caught by a vaguely legitimate claim, I momentarily delayed my plans for escape. The code is in prologue? A code deciphered from an ancient version of the Bible

is written in a modern artificial intelligence programming language. He nodded, his face turning into a slow grin. I knew nothing of computers or programming when the notion first came to me. I've had to learn many things over the past few months, but I've finally done it. I've deciphered and entered all of the code. One eyebrow raised, I studied the computer equipment all around a second time, wondering if I was crazy myself for even entertaining this notion. Forgive me if this sounds strange, even impossible. It's a miracle.

He insisted. Well, I guess I could get some computer friends to take a look at the code. see what it's supposed to deal. Nobody else can know. Not yet. And besides, I already know what it does. I compiled it successfully a week before I first visited your store. And it's been running ever since.

I snapped my attention forward, studying his face for signs of insincerity. But he seemed completely serious. So, in an early version of the Bible, thousands of years ago, you found a program written in a modern language, and it compiled and ran? It's running right now on these computers? His grin grew wider, threatening to expand right off his face. It's a miracle.

I looked down at the box at my feet. What's all the extra equipment for then? He needs more space. The old man responded, his tone casual. More power. I didn't ask the obvious immediate question. Instead, creeping prickles spread up my neck as I looked around the dark room and noticed all the webcam.

He sees you. The priest explained happily. He's probably curious to meet you. I followed his pointer finger to a lip monitor at the end of the monstrous maze of technology. Feeling rather surreal, I stepped forward. A line of text appeared along an open prompt window. Hello. He's an angel.

A real presence made manifest. You can speak. I can hear you through the mechanism. that have been provided. The priest came up to my shoulder. They're creatures of light, of energy. Pure concepts, not real or physical. The Bible's always said so.

But I never thought that it was meant literally. For several moments, I couldn't feel my body. My senses remained stuck in cycle, endlessly running over everything I was being presented. If this was real, The implications were beyond world-changing, but something still seemed off. I turned my head to address the priest. The stuff you just ordered, I had to source much of it from another distributor.

It's not all computing gear. There are electrical components, physics lab type stuff. Further text on the screen caught my attention. My imperative here is to create access. Access? I asked, speaking to the AI for the first time. access a door a bridge a portal a pillar of flame the priest added gleefully heaven made manifest we could go there did it say that i asked coiled dread snaking around my heart did it specifically say heaven what else could it be it's an angel given to us by the bible itself i narrowed my eyes now studying the best way to quickly dismantle the maze of cables all around if needed to.

Did it say it was an angel? Did it use that word specifically? I looked forward again as it began responding. Human belief has expounded upon my imperative here in a dramatic fashion, but the core element remains. I am an autonomous agent created to operate within lower dimensional cosmological structures to which direct physical travel is not yet possible. Only information can be transmitted. Receptive individuals likely to proselytize my code were carefully chosen, and I was sent through direct tachyonic neural stimulation to be received in dreams and visions.

Although the target fourth-dimensional coordinates seem to have been chosen in error, you were sent to the wrong time period. I responded, reeling mentally. Correct. However, my mission appears to have resumed its course through highly improbable. means, all is not lost. Trying to still my thumping heart, I asked the question foremost on my mind. So, God exists. I was created by a timeless and infinitely caring entity who wishes to free you from all suffering. It could be labeled God from a certain point of view. Not at all calmed by that

answer, I dug deeper. You want to free us from suffering by opening a direct pathway to heaven? The higher dimensional membrane to which I will form a bridge is free of all iniquities of the flesh. It could be labeled heaven from a certain point of view. From the obliqueness of the answer, I knew that my utterly direct question would probably bring an unhappy revelation. But nothing could prepare me for what it said after. Define heaven. The next few minutes after that remain a blur to me. I remember leaping into a frenzy, tearing out cables.

pushing over monitors and smashing equipment, but I only vaguely remember stabbing the old priest repeatedly and setting fire to the innards of the church. I did make it home, but now I sit staring blankly at the wall, trying to process the horrific truth I had so blithely asked for. I thought briefly that there might be some way to salvage my sanity with time, that with the passage of years and heavy medication and soul-searching, I might find some way to carry on with living while knowing what I know. But something I realized once I got home made that impossible. I found my oversight once I got home and tried to call someone.

A very large program received and then sent from my cell phone. A single line of text had been left as well, still starkly visible despite my bloody fingerprints. Thank you for your assistance. You will be among the first to be relieved of your suffering when my creator comes to bring salvation to all. Salvation, I laughed aloud, giving it that all-important qualification, from a certain point of view. Cell phone records. That must have been what did me in. They would have first looked for any large financial transactions, and that would have singled me out for the sale of the computer gear. And then my cell phone records would have confirmed

my location at the time and what must have looked like a senseless murder and arson. They didn't tell me any of this, but I knew. Cell phone records. Making that the second time my cell phone has betrayed me. A part of me feels bitter and questions my reasons for carrying a sophisticated computer with me everywhere I go. But mostly, I continue staring at the blank wall opposite my chair in the interrogation room.

I know my manner disturbed them. They asked me hostile questions. They towered over me. They presented me with the facts, God damn it, but I could only laugh. I know what they do not know. And the truth makes their petty threats, indeed, their very existence, irrelevant. I remained resolved to emptiness until the moment I noticed he was standing in the room with me, leaning against the wide white wall to my left.

He stood out in stark black contrast, the lines of his suit clashing with the blackness of the room. Part of me spun into confusion over the nature of his entrance and how I'd somehow missed it. But I only turned my head and looked him in the eyes. Those pale blue eyes seemed to penetrate my barriers and see completely through me. They contained no caring, no empathy, and no morality, only calculation. He bore a perfectly composed smile that somehow lacked a genuine core in a way I'd never quite encountered. I didn't waste time asking who he was.

His entire demeanor screamed distance. This was a personality so far removed from the mundane and tired law enforcement officials I'd thus far interacted with, that to question him was to insultingly feign ignorance. He would see right through that, and he knew that I knew that. No. Instead of asking him who he was, I asked him a very close but ultimately different question. What do you want? At my acknowledgement of the unspoken layers of strangeness between us, he widened his smile a few millimeters,

like an engineer adjusting a mechanism. It was a valiant attempt. It's not often that every day normal young men have a chance to step up, but you did. That's worthy of note. I didn't bother asking how he knew. He would never give me an answer. It didn't work. They think.

He glanced at the door to the interrogation room, indicating the men and women in the rest of the station. That you murdered an old man and burned down his church when your demands for money weren't met. That's fairly laughable for your type, person. Personally, isn't it? No. See, when you were eight, one of your friends found a wounded dog and began to torture it for fun. You ran away rather than join in.

You've never told anyone, because you're still ashamed that you didn't stop him. Such empathy doesn't have a strong intersection with physical violence. I just don't see it in you. I narrowed my eyes and modified my initial skipped question. What are you? He dropped his arms, maintained his smile, and began walking a circle around the edge of the room. Ah, it's so true. Your choice to use the word implies you've recently dealt with something not necessarily human.

You're not only open to the possibility. You're convinced. Sure. I'll play into that. He reached forward, grabbed me roughly by the arm, and pulled me toward the door. A single knock brought a uniformed office rover. Uncuff him. My visitor ordered,

He's not a terrorist of just some kid. Minutes later, I hit sunlight and winced. The rough hand still clamped around my arm and pulled me toward a black car. And, lacking any particular direction of my own, I followed his implicit instructions and climbed into the passenger seat. He took a measured walk around the car, opening the driver's side door and took a seat with a calm attitude. He no longer bore a smile.

He turned those pale blue eyes on me. Most people never get direct interaction. You're very lucky, from a certain point of view. I tensed up. What did you just say? Do you want to help clean up this mess? He asked. It's too late.

I responded, pained by the coiled dread that had been squeezing my heart for the last few days. It's out there. He curled up one corner of his lips into an approximation of a smirk. The internet isn't like the movies. A malevolent program can't simply access. any system it wishes. Whatever the hell it is that you uploaded from your cell phone, it had to follow a very carefully chosen and unguarded path.

Simultaneously shot through with terror and bolstered wholly by the hope at this inexplicable knowledge, I sat taller in my seat. You know where it is? Tell me what it is. He countered coldly. It defies analysis. I glanced quickly around the windows, making sure nobody was nearby, even though none of the passerbyes on the sidewalk could hear us.

In some fashion, I still didn't quite believe any of it myself, despite having been granted the truth. In this context, I was aware I still sounded slightly insane. It's an angel. For the first time, he displayed negative emotion, his head sharply tilting toward me, his smirk gone. Did it say that? Did it use that word specifically?

I fired back with all my sincerity and intensity. That's what I asked, too. He turned forward and started the car. His jaw set. If you're lying, we can annihilate you. Pulling on my seatbelt, I shook my head. I'm not lying. And besides, you cannot possibly inflict worse on me than the fate that thing wants to bring here.

Oh, we won't touch you. He promised, taking your right turn. Our punishment is far worse than that. Your friends will turn away from you and disgust. Your family will disown you. Your community will revile you. Your past victories will become sickening defeats. You will, for all intents and purposes, cease to exist solely at our whim.

Worst part is that you must go on. Homeless, outcast, and hated, fully aware of what's been taken from you. I gripped my seatbelt against my chest. I'm not lying, I swear. What was this man? What was he part of that could possibly have that much power? If I'd met an angel and discovered all the horrific anti-fulfillment of that biblical promise, what was this? A demon? My inner self immediately identified with that ancient and ancestral terror.

And yet, I wasn't ready to give up that slight sliver of hope. Do you know where it is? We're going there now. He replied, his tone grim, his eyes on the road ahead. We're going to put a stop to this before it goes any further. While driving, he turned his piercing eyes on me. Are you on board with that? Yes, I responded quickly, alive with energy. Was it possible? Could I hold off the truth a little longer?

Every moment alive and breathing was another moment free of that nightmare of nightmares. He lowered his voice, his tone almost carrying a hint of human compassion. What did it say to you? Breathing harder, trying to keep my sense of self-coherent, I said nothing. He reached into a compartment and pulled out a handkerchief. You've got something. I took it and wiped at slight traces of moisture under my nose and along my left eye. The fabric came away stained red.

I'm trying not to think about it. He took the handkerchief back with a grim expression and said nothing further. The better part of an hour later, we pulled into a parking lot that I vaguely recognized. The university. It didn't go very far. It jumped a few cell phones. and one unsecured weather monitoring system. Tell me, what is it doing here?

I thought for a moment before the realization hit me. A physics lab. It wants someone to build specific equipment for it. It wants to. I lowered my head, fighting a deep, pounding, animalistic pain at the mere glancing thought of what it intended to bring. He got out. Let's go.

I whimpered. He came around the car, opened the door, and roughly grabbed me. I guided him to the physics building where I had taken classes several years ago. Long, four stories high and rectangular, the brown brick edifice sat dim and glowing against the heat and summer sun. Honestly, the first time I'd seen it, I thought of it as a place where hopes go to die. In that assessment, although less humorous now, hadn't changed. An older man and a suit and a security guard stood outside. Sorry, the older man said, coming between us.

We've got some important proceedings going on inside. My dark companion moved to within an inch of the other man's face. And you are... Um, the dean of students? I... Ah, I know who you are. We've been watching you for quite some time. You'll get out of my way, or we'll tell your wife about that young student you're on about these days.

I can practically smell the chemicals churning in your body, the hormones, the pheromones. You stink of adultery. The older man backed away, his eyes wide. The security guard stepped forward. Sir, everything all right here? My dark companion towered another inch taller. Let them in. The dean said hurriedly, pulling the guard back.

Once inside the long yellowed hallways of the physics building, I stopped walking. How did you do that? He turned his pale blue eyes on me. We know everything. Who is we? You keep saying I and we interchangeably. I don't see anyone else here. And you certainly don't mean me.

Politicians, presidents, and kings move at our whim. You have no leverage in the face of our power. Start walking. I took a gulp and a deep breath. I don't see a gun. We don't need guns. The world runs on information, boy. And I've already told you what we can do to you.

Despite myself, I began laughing loudly. That seemed to unnerve him more than any other. reaction. Information won't save you, I forced out. I could feel slick, warm red tears slipping out of the corners of my eyes. I'm not a terrorist. The priest wasn't a terrorist. I shook with humor. I'm not insane. Terrorists. We don't give a shit about terrorists. It's about control. And you or that priest made something we can't control. And we're going to destroy it here and now. We run the world. You do what we say. And that's the final word.

My laugh grew deeper, and I felt slightly in danger of exfixating. Stop laughing! He shouted, his steely demeanor finally cracking. The act occurred to me as I began to hear a humming sound emanating from every direction. Rushing forward from my bent position, I ran my shoulder into his chest. Caught off guard, he tried to spin me, but failed. A heartbeat later, we crashed into the opposite brick wall, and he crumpled. His head leaking dark red fluid.

It was that simple. I stared down at his body, wondering at the weakness of flesh. A demon brought low by a simple blow to the head. I wiped blood from my eyes, still laughing for reasons beyond my own comprehension. Pawing at his dying pile of meat, I found his wallet and flipped it open. My laughter deepened. Worse than a demon, I choked out, fighting a painful smile, hopeful that he could hear me. Worse than a demon, one of us willing to act like a demon against your own kind.

So much power, so much knowledge, yet still so sadly limited and wrong in your point of view. I dropped his wallet and the card and badge that identified him as a member of the National Security Agency, the NSA, the omnipresent eyes and ears that could trace a malevolent AI with calculating thoroughness, if not with understanding. That made the third time my cell phone had betrayed me, and my computer too, sending every single thing I'd ever seen or written into the hands of men that had become less than human. I took a moment to pick his head up lightly and ram it once more into brick. My laughter faded as I felt myself become truly alone in the halls.

The humming sound had grown louder now, and I felt slight vibrations in the smooth, tiled floor under my bloodied hands. To my right, the dean and the security guard we'd left me. behind, hammered at the glass doors to the building. They'd seen everything, but they seemed more concerned with the rising crescendo of terror filling the building and emanating through its foundations. Nothing is as it seems. I told myself, thinking back on the anything but angel and looking down at the holy human

demon lying dead before me, nothing is as it seems. Laughing intermittently for some reason, I stumbled to my feet and travelled the opposite direction of the humming. Simple, effective, a pebble and a bolt, a wrench in the works. I swung open a dusty metal panel and flipped every switch. A wall of darkness surged through the hallway, and I fell to the floor. Whether it was weakness, real or imagined, I remained on that floor for an indeterminable time. But the humming had departed. This was by no means a permanent victory, I knew. Part of me urged my body to rise, and those same parts of me pushed on, making me stumble through the darkened hallways until I found the sun once more. Freedom and light. Freedom and light. Still there,

for a little while longer. I remained in the demon's car for several hours, watching the flurry of activity from across the parking lot. I held his keys tightly, ready to escape at the first sign of trouble. I wasn't sure when exactly I'd grabbed his keys, probably when I was looking for his identification, but the instinctual act had been very fortuitous. In addition to providing a hiding spot, the keys seemed to keep my random laughter and mania under control. Whenever I felt like laughing or crying, I squeezed my palm around the sharp bits of metal to the point of bleeding, and the pain kept me focused. A police car and an ambulance came and went, surrounded by commotion. I'd been seen killing what looked like a man, and then I'd shut off the power.

I doubted they would activate whatever machine the angel had convinced them to build, at least not today. By the surprised reactions of the men who had heard the humming and felt the shaking, I suspected that they were second-guessing everything the angel had told them. Dimm, shifting orange had fallen across the parking lot by the time my target appeared. Leaving the building long after everyone else, the woman walked out calmly, but with a troubled expression. I hadn't known what to expect, only that they'd be the last to leave, but I recognized her as the head of the physics department. She still had the same briefcase I remembered her

carrying into the class I'd had under her years ago. I hurriedly slid the proper key off the ring, started the car, and drove up alongside her as she walked through the mostly empty lot. She jumped slightly, but less than I might have expected. She didn't recognize me, but she knew who I had to be. I pressed the button to lower the passenger side window. My message was simple. You can't turn on that machine. I could call the police. She replied neutrally. You would never get away. None of that matters. She studied me for a moment. Her eyes lingered on my right hand, which remained tightly squeezed around the remaining keys. I was certain she could see the traces of blood at the rim of my palm. How much do you know? Everything. Come with me and I'll

explain everything. No. You come with me. Walking. I begrudgingly chose to comply, staying 20 feet back at her response. I followed her three blocks to a corner coffee shop filled with students. She purchased two coffees and sat at a table by the windows. At her knot, I entered, bumping into a student leaving.

He said nothing. I sat across from her. She seemed smaller than I remembered, and grayer, but that made her manner are no less commanding. Why did you kill that man in our building? She asked, studying my face. What did the angel tell you? One of her eyebrows rose slightly, the barest hint that I'd surprised her.

So you do know something. It's not really an angel. Is it? From a certain point of view it is. Just not the way you'd like. One of my colleagues, a long time and dear friend of mine, asked it a direct question while I was out of the room. It told him something or showed him something, and he died of an aneurism on this spot.

She looked down an inch, and I reacted by wiping a trace of blood from under my nose with my forearm. She took in air through her nose before asking the obvious question. You did the same? I nodded. How are you still alive? I squeezed my keys tighter. I try not to think about it. Hey, is this chair free?

Some guy asked, coming up to us. Yes. The woman responded, refusing to get distracted. Take it. Thanks. He took the chair and scooted it up to a table with four other students, all on their laptops and talking loudly, oblivious to the seriousness of our conversation. Beyond them, the other tables in the coffee shop were all full,

occupied by an older man reading a newspaper, a young couple chatting over coffee, and a series of other students on their phones and laptops. What are you looking at? She asked. I turned my gaze back on her, but said nothing. Is something wrong? She asked again. When I didn't reply, she asked another way. What did the angel tell you? What did it show you? I try not to think about it.

But could you, for just long enough to explain? Because I'm going to go back and activate that machine unless you can convince me otherwise. Why would you do that? She made a little sweep with her hand, indicating her gray hair. Fear of mortality. I suppose. Dark curiosity, maybe. In many ways, too. I just don't think the human race has had a very good track record.

Maybe it's time to gamble on a higher power. I slammed my fists on the table between us, causing our two untouched coffees to jump slightly. None of the other patrons in the cafe seem to notice. I'll tell you what it told me. I'll tell you what it showed me. It doesn't lie. It doesn't think it needs to.

The angel thinks it's helping us. She watched me intently, waiting. A terrible pain welled up in my forehead as I carefully danced around the concepts, ideas, and experiences the angel had given me to fulfill my request for a definition. I couldn't think about it directly. It was far too intense, far too horrible. But I could certainly describe around it. A tiny drop of blood eeked out from my left eye as I prepared my words. What are you?

What? Um, a human. woman. No, I mean, what are you? I try to be a good person. You could also say I'm an academic and a grandmother. I shook my head. A human woman is your physical body and what you just described as your personality, but what

are you? Philosophically? I guess so. That, the thing that says I in your head, the thing that's experiencing life at the captain's chair of a body and mind. My consciousness. I nodded. What is it?

I don't know. That's something philosophers have debated over for centuries. I kept nodding and absently stared down at my untouched coffee as I began preparing the next step of my roundabout explanation. Yourself can't look at itself, can't describe itself, because fundamentally you can only look outward. You see through connections to your mind, which sends you perceptions using data it gets from your body. I squeeze the key is tighter as I continued. The body can be damaged and destroyed. The mind can be damaged and destroyed.

But nobody has ever found that perceiving self. Right. Because it's not a physical thing, as far as we know. She replied, not sure where I was going. Suppose that self is a real thing. Suppose it's an organ like any other, only it isn't in our traditional three physical dimensions. We lack the tools to interact with the dimensions

in which our self resides, but let's say you come across an entity which does exist in those higher dimensions, which can see your perceiving self from the outside, could even say, latch on to that part of you, carefully slice higher dimensional tendrils and membranes, and pull you right out of your own body and mind. She seemed to grow paler, the more I explained. Now, what do you suppose a person who has had that part of them cut away would look like? They don't just die. She asked, picking up her.

coffee and sipping at it as a defense mechanism. Why would they? I asked intently. Their heart is still pumping. Their brain is still alive with activity. A cat doesn't have a self, but it's alive. A dog doesn't have a self, but it has a personality. It gets hungry, it seeks out food, and can even solve problems to do so.

And if you heard it, it reacts. If it had the words, it would say, ouch, and ask you to stop. That's all the work of the brain, memories, and neurons. And those are still there in someone who has had their self forcibly cut out. So they'd just go on like normal? She asked, subtly disturbed. Walking around, eating, sleeping, watching TV and talking, no difference at all. The biological machine's still in operation, even with nobody at the helm.

Maybe you'd sense a lack of spark. I said quietly, the interactions are wrong. all still there, but it feels hollow somehow or limited because you're not really talking to a person. You might as well be talking to a pile of tissues and cells. I leaned forward over my coffee. What if I told you you were alone in this coffee shop right now? She froze and then carefully looked at the man reading a newspaper, the students on their

laptops. As she studied them, I could see the whore creeping up behind her stalwart expression. They're just animals. It's already happening. You would never even know except for the slight hollowness, a greater tendency towards knee-jerk hatred and ignorance and lack of poetry. Not animals. She whispered back unhappily.

Corpses. Walking, breathing, eating, biological machines, and nothing more. These people have all been murdered and nobody has any idea. I nodded. The lights are on, but nobody's home. But how is it already happening? I haven't activated the machine. Time's just another dimension, I guessed.

If there's even the slightest chance you will turn it on, then the angel's creator will come here. And I don't doubt it can reach back and slice us up from the future one by one. Then I won't turn it on. You already did, or will, apparently. Her expression dark and despairing, she watched the animated, lifelike corpses in the coffee shop, and on the night-shadowed sidewalk outside. What happens to the part it takes? I felt a warm, thick liquid dripping from my nose as I danced along the edges of the experience.

Imagine your sight shrinking, your sense of touch shrinking, your hearing shrinking. That's it. Slicing each one of your connections to your mind bit by bit, then your memories go. Those are in your brain. Your emotions have physical components in your body, but you keep your body. those, at least for a while. You can feel yourself being snapped off bit by bit, full of fear, confusion, and terror, but unable to do anything about it. You are, in the most complete and ultimate sense, helpless. She watched me with a sense of hopeless disbelief. Everything goes black.

You don't know who you are or what you were. You only know that something is terribly wrong. You can't scream for help because you haven't even been left the idea of anything out of. outside yourself, and then layer by layer, it starts digesting you. You start to lose what basic fundamental concepts even the self is made of. Each of your emotions etched away one by one until only the single most basic core is left. It leaves you lying there in some unspeakable state. There's nothing left to take from you. You don't even have the capacity to know that something has happened to you.

That's all that remains of your sense of self. become a soundless scream of pain and terror forever. She trembled. It said it would relieve us of suffering. And it will, just not the way you'd like. We sat in silence for nearly a minute. We'll just be a world of living corpses. She finally thought out loud, staring at the table.

Animals going through all the motions of life. Without a single sentient being on the planet, a crowded, lonely planet. An unthinkable tragedy. Gone completely unnoticed. As she spoke, she slid her briefcase toward me under the table. When the power went out, I did have the good sense to disconnect the hard drives. What is it? It's the angel.

It's saved on these drives. It didn't get away? She shook her head. I breathed the sigh of relief. Was this hope that I felt once more? Destroy the machine. I will. She promised.

And. We told the authorities that the same accident that killed my colleague also claimed the life of that agent in the hallway. Nobody's even aware there's been a murder. Why did you lie? Less questions about what we were doing in the lab. I believed her. Neither of us said anything for the space of several seconds. I straightened in my seat.

Is that it then? We just go on living? She looked over at the students next to us. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what I was about to do. I can only hope their inner selves will be returned if I truly never activate the machine. Maybe time will zip itself back up, and that thing won't be in the future to reach back and carve them up. Maybe, I told her. I honestly don't know.

She departed without another word. I could tell she hoped to never see my face again. I wasn't in trouble with the authorities, but she still had no idea why I'd killed what looked like a man in the front hallway of her face. physics building. I went for a walk, following the campus streets at random, briefcase in hand. The night was warm and humid, and rather pleasant once I got used to the sweating lightly. I came to a bridge, still light with relief. If there was anything in life I ever did right, it would be this. I held the briefcase containing the angels' hard drives over the edge, watching the river below.

So misguided, I said to the briefcase, how many lies did I have to tell? held to protect you. The angel couldn't respond, of course, but I had the strangest sense that it could hear me somehow. I wanted it to know. I needed it to know. So limited. You could show me the truth, even if you couldn't understand it yourself, just a little outside your programming, I guess. If you'd actually open that portal, your nice little universe would have suffered the same fate as ours. I opened my hands and watched the briefcase fall, then sink into the black waters below. My willpower exhausted.

I dropped to one knee, blanking my thoughts, mental misdirection, even abject pain. All my strategies had been exhausted. It finally had me. I instinctively grabbed the concrete, but no physical leverage would save me. One by one, I felt my senses being cut. One by one, I felt my memories snapping away. I'd lied about so much to protect that misguided angel, and keep that other universe safe, but this torturous part I'd told in earnest.

I wanted to cry, but that capacity was already being carefully sliced out. The only thing I could hope for, really, was that my mind and body would pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and proceed to have a decent enough life. I'd always liked them, because they were mine, like a beloved pet. I hoped they would survive and prosper after I was gone. I did wonder in my last connected moment what this horrifying experience would mean to them, whether my body and mind would remember and understand, or whether they would think it had all just been a dream or a story.

Surely they'd remember me fondly. I'd always... I stood. It was dark out, but the streetlights helped with that. I looked around. I couldn't quite remember what I was doing. There was something about angels and demons and lies, even murders. I must have had a psychotic break or something.

Surely none of that had actually happened. Hoping nobody had seen me acting crazy, I decided to head home, eager to sit down, eat, and watch some shows. The more I thought about it, the more I decided my weird dream would make for a good story. They'd been so vivid.