Chapter 2
1842words
I'm the original poster who shared my experience in St. Mary's Village when I was five. Many of you have messaged asking for updates. Honestly, I wanted to leave this all behind, but recent events have forced me to continue documenting what's happening. I'm hoping someone with similar experiences might offer some guidance.
Quick recap: At age five in St. Mary's Village, I witnessed the disturbing ritual of replacing arms on that multi-armed angel statue, stole and ate a sacred offering, and then a mutilated female corpse appeared in the village. My parents fled with me that very night.
For thirteen years after that, we lived a normal life in suburban Chicago. Dad worked at an auto plant, Mom became a hospital nurse, and I went to school, played video games, and hung out with friends like any American kid. Those bizarre childhood experiences faded into something like a half-remembered nightmare—after all, how reliable are a five-year-old's memories, right?
Then last March, about a week after my eighteenth birthday, the nightmares started.
I first dreamed of her on a Tuesday night. I remember because I'd stayed up until 2 AM finishing a literature paper due the next day.
The dream setting was bizarre—I stood in a vast white emptiness, with nothing around me except soft light coming from everywhere and nowhere. Then I heard a woman's voice: "Michael..."
Her voice was gentle and soothing, like a mother's lullaby. I followed the sound and saw a woman's silhouette in the distance. She wore a flowing white dress, her hair cascading down to her waist like a waterfall, beckoning me closer.
"Come here, Michael..." Her voice was ethereal, captivating, impossible to resist. "I've been waiting for you for so long..."
I tried to see her face clearly, but no matter how hard I strained, her features remained blurred, as if hidden behind a veil of mist. Only her outstretched hand was perfectly visible—pale as fresh snow, with slender, elegant fingers that seemed almost translucent in the white light.
"Who are you?" I asked in the dream.
"I am... I am..." She seemed about to answer, but her voice faded away, and I woke up.
I woke at 7 AM with sunlight streaming through my curtains. My forehead was drenched in cold sweat. I can't explain why, but the dream felt unnaturally real—as if I'd actually been speaking to someone just seconds before.
Over the next few days, similar dreams returned. Always the same white void, the same female figure, the same pale hands. But her calls grew more distinct:
"Michael, come find me..."
"Michael, I'm waiting for you..."
Her voice was hypnotic, making it impossible to resist moving closer. Yet whenever I approached, she would retreat, always maintaining the same distance between us.
Two weeks later, the dreams became more detailed. She would hum an ancient lullaby with a melody so hauntingly beautiful it broke my heart. Sometimes she'd stretch out her arms as if to embrace me, her lips moving in silent words I couldn't quite catch.
What truly unnerved me was that as these dreams became more frequent, I began feeling watched in my waking life too. Walking across campus, I'd feel eyes on the back of my neck. Getting up to use the bathroom at night, I'd sense movement in the dark corners of my room.
Exactly one month later, on a Saturday morning, I finally broke down and mentioned these dreams to my parents over breakfast.
"Mom, Dad, I've been having this recurring dream about a woman in white calling my name," I mentioned casually between bites of toast. "Her voice is incredibly beautiful, like an angel's, but I can never see her face clearly..." The moment the words left my mouth, something changed in the atmosphere.
Mom's coffee cup froze halfway to her lips, her face instantly draining of color. Dad slowly lowered his newspaper, fixing me with a stare so intense you'd think I'd just confessed to murder.
"Michael..." Mom's voice quavered. "This woman... did she say anything else to you?"
"No, she just calls my name and asks me to come to her..." I shifted uncomfortably under their stares. "What's wrong? It's just a dream."
My parents exchanged a look loaded with meanings I couldn't decipher—fear, despair, and a resigned acceptance, as if they'd been dreading this moment for years.
"Michael, listen carefully," Dad set aside his newspaper, his tone deadly serious. "If she appears in your dreams again, no matter what she says, you must not answer her. Understand? Especially if she asks you questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"ANY questions!" Mom nearly shouted, then caught herself and lowered her voice. "Especially about your birthday or where we live. You absolutely must not tell her!"
"But why? She's just a figure in my dreams..."
"NO!" Dad slammed his fist on the table, sending coffee splattering across the tablecloth. "She is NOT just a dream! Michael, there are things you don't understand yet, but we have to stop this before it's too late..."
That afternoon, my parents launched into a frenzy of activity that left me completely bewildered. Mom pulled out religious texts she'd collected over the years, frantically flipping through them and muttering to herself. Dad started making calls to every religious figure he knew.
"Father Flanagan? Patrick Collins here... Yes, it's happening... We need your help..."
"Sister Margaret, I apologize for calling at this hour, but we're facing a... situation of a supernatural nature..."
"Father Martin, I know how this sounds, but something is targeting my son..." For the next three weeks, my parents dragged me to three different churches.
First was St. Patrick's, our regular parish. Father Flanagan, a kindly old Irishman, listened as my parents described my dreams. His expression shifted from polite skepticism to grave concern as they spoke.
"These are no ordinary dreams," he said after blessing me. "But the malevolence I sense is beyond my abilities. You need someone more experienced in exorcism."
Next was Assumption Church across town. Father Martin, a middle-aged priest supposedly experienced with supernatural phenomena, had me kneel before the altar while he sprinkled me with specially consecrated holy water. Halfway through, he abruptly stopped.
"My child, I sense an ancient and powerful curse," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "This isn't ordinary possession—it's a deeper binding. Take him to Bishop Weitzman at Chicago Cathedral. Only he can address something of this magnitude."
Our final stop was Chicago Cathedral. Bishop Weitzman, an imposing German with silver hair and piercing eyes, listened intently as Dad reluctantly explained our connection to St. Mary's Village, though I noticed he omitted many details.
After listening silently, the Bishop studied me for a long moment before shaking his head. "There is indeed a mark on this boy, but it's ancient—likely tied to pre-Christian pagan rituals. I'm sorry, but this is beyond what the modern Church can address. You need someone with... specialized knowledge."
After these three failed attempts, I started thinking my parents were overreacting. As someone raised with a modern education, I found it hard to believe a few dreams could have any supernatural significance. This seemed more like a psychological issue—delayed childhood trauma or just stress-induced sleep problems.
"Mom, Dad, can you please calm down?" I finally snapped one night. "I'm not possessed or anything. They're just weird dreams. Maybe I need a psychologist, not an exorcist."
"Michael, you don't understand..." Mom's eyes filled with tears. "The things in that village—those traditions and curses—are far more terrifying than you can imagine. We thought escaping would free us, but now it seems..."
"Seems what? What aren't you telling me?" My parents exchanged another loaded glance but remained silent.
The breakthrough came on the last weekend of April. Mom heard from an old friend who worked at a monastery about a nun in Michigan who specialized in ancient evils.
On a chilly Sunday morning, after a three-hour drive, we arrived at a small monastery nestled deep in the Michigan woods. The ancient stone building, covered in creeping ivy, exuded an aura of mysterious isolation.
Sister Angela was a tiny woman of about sixty with unnervingly sharp eyes. Her face was deeply lined, her hands rough from decades of work, but when she took my hand, I felt an unusual warmth. "Tell me your dream, child," she commanded in a surprisingly powerful voice. "Leave out nothing."
I described everything—the white void, the blurry woman, her heavenly voice, those pale hands. The nun listened intently, occasionally nodding, her expression growing increasingly grave.
"Has she asked you any questions?" the nun asked sharply. "No, she only calls my name and tells me to come to her."
The nun exhaled sharply. "There's still time, then." She pulled a wooden rosary from her pocket, each bead carved with symbols I didn't recognize. The beads were deep brown and smooth, clearly worn from years of use.
"Wear this," she said, pressing the rosary into my hand, her tone deadly serious. "And remember what I'm about to tell you—this may be the most important advice you'll ever receive: in your dreams, no matter what that woman asks, never reveal your real birthday or home address. Especially your birthday—you must never tell her."
"Why not?"
"Because certain ancient entities need this information to locate and bind souls," she replied, her gaze piercing mine. "Your birthday is essentially your soul's true name, and your address tells her where to find your physical body. If she obtains both pieces of information, the consequences would be... unimaginable."
Whether it was her grave tone or the genuine fear in her eyes—the look of someone who had truly faced evil—her warning burned itself into my mind.
The first night wearing the rosary, I slept soundly without dreams. Same with the second night, and the third, and the fourth. A full week passed with no sign of the woman in white.
My parents visibly relaxed. Mom stopped checking on me in the middle of the night, and Dad quit calling religious figures for advice on arcane rituals.
"See? I told you it was just psychological," I said smugly. "A simple rosary fixed everything, which proves there was nothing supernatural about it."
"Maybe..." Dad didn't sound convinced, but he clearly wanted to believe it. "Maybe we were just overreacting." For the next two months, life returned to normal. I focused on my studies and finished my freshman year successfully. I even planned a camping trip to Lake Michigan with some friends for summer break.
The reason I'm posting now is to ask if anyone here has studied ancient curses or supernatural phenomena. I'm beginning to suspect the rosary only temporarily blocked whatever was happening, rather than solving it permanently. Lately, I've started feeling watched again... In my next update, I'll detail the even stranger events that began after I started sophomore year.
If you find my story useful, please share it. Maybe someone with real expertise will see it and can help.
