The Patterns

Life didn’t quite return to normal after that night, nor did I expect it to. The wake-up call I had experienced wasn’t just a singular event; it had opened a door—a door I wasn’t sure I could close, even if I wanted to.

Weeks passed, and the air around me seemed different. It wasn’t something I could easily describe, but I could feel it. The small, almost imperceptible changes—like the soft whispers at the edge of my consciousness, the flicker of shadows just out of sight—made me aware that I was never truly alone. I tried to dismiss it, rationalize it, but deep down, I knew better.

One evening, I was sitting in the living room, watching TV to distract myself from the growing unease. My mind wandered, as it often did, back to that night. The voice. The snow. The absence of any tracks. My friends and I had never spoken of it again, as if a silent pact had formed between us to forget the incident. But the memory stayed with me, sharp and clear, gnawing at the back of my mind.

That night, the room felt unusually cold. It was the kind of chill that seeped into your bones, no matter how many layers you wore. I glanced at the thermostat—70 degrees, just like always—but the cold persisted. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw it: a shadow, fleeting, but unmistakable.

I froze.

It wasn’t just a trick of the light; something had moved, but there was nothing in the room. My heart raced as I scanned the walls and furniture, searching for a logical explanation. There was none.

Then came the feeling again—that same eerie sensation. A tug, as if something was trying to pull me out of my own body. I held my breath, waiting. But nothing happened. The sensation passed, leaving only the cold behind.

Over the next few months, the strange occurrences continued. I started seeing the cloud again—the same one I’d spotted that day before my brother-in-law’s tragic accident. It would appear in the most unexpected places, hanging low in the sky like a bad omen. I began to dread its presence, knowing that it meant something was about to change, something I had no control over.

One afternoon, while walking through the town, I saw it again. This time, it was directly over the town. I felt a wave of nausea as I stared at it, unable to look away. I tried to shake off the feeling and carry on with my day, but a deep sense of foreboding lingered.

The patterns were becoming clearer now. Every time the cloud appeared, something significant would follow. A death. An accident. A disaster. It was as though I was being warned, but I didn’t understand why. Why me? Why this strange, unwanted gift?

I started keeping a journal, documenting each encounter. I filled pages with details—dates, times, locations—hoping to find a connection, something that would explain what was happening. But the more I wrote, the more the mystery deepened.

As I flipped through the pages one evening, I noticed a disturbing trend. The incidents were getting closer together. What had once been a rare occurrence was now happening almost weekly. I could no longer ignore the signs. Something was coming, something bigger than anything I had experienced before.

The dreams were the worst part. Every night, I was pulled back to that crystal land, standing before the empty throne. The voice, calm yet commanding, echoed through the air: “You must prepare.”

Prepare for what? I wanted to scream. I had no idea what was coming, but I knew I wasn’t ready. Whatever it was, it was beyond anything I could comprehend, and I feared the moment when I would finally have to face it.