MY HEART II (MY DEMONIC SELF)

John woke with a start, sweat soaking his shirt, his heart hammering in his chest. The remnants of the dream still clung to him—wind howling, lightning striking, the swirling force that had thrown him helplessly through the air. He shivered, gripping the edge of his bed, trying to shake the vivid terror from his mind.

Glancing at the alarm clock, he realized it was morning. He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady from the lingering adrenaline, and made his way to the bathroom. The cold splash of water on his face did little to calm him.

Later, he found himself in the dining room, joining his sister at breakfast. The mundane normalcy of her eating, the clinking of utensils, and the morning sunlight streaming through the window felt almost surreal after the intensity of his dream.

He forced himself to eat, nodding politely as they exchanged casual words, and then, after a brief goodbye, left for work.

At the police station parking lot, he slid into a parking space, exhaling as he reached for the car door. But before he could step out, the door beside him opened from the inside.

“Good morning, Detective,” said a familiar voice.

John froze. The voice, the presence—it was her. The lady police officer—someone he had thought… dead. He stared, dumbstruck, his mind momentarily unresponsive. Reality seemed to blur, as though his dream had followed him into the waking world.

The lady tapped him gently on the shoulder. “Detective?” she repeated, voice patient but firm.

The sound snapped him back, though his eyes remained wide, disbelief painted across his face.

“Ho… how are you alive?” he stammered, his voice trembling.

The lady tilted her head, confusion knitting her brow as she asked, “What do you mean?”

John said nothing. Instead, he stepped closer and instinctively cupped her face with both hands, searching for warmth, for proof of life. His fingers traced her cheeks—soft, real, undeniably human. No ghost, no illusion.

“Is there something wrong, Detective?” she asked gently, noticing his anxious gaze.

John opened his mouth, then paused. A voice called from the entrance of the police building, drawing the lady’s attention. She smiled, turning toward the sound.

“See you later, Detective,” she said casually, walking toward the man who had called her.

John remained frozen, eyes following her every step. His mind raced. Am I dreaming? Isn’t that Ray… Lydia? The dead ones? Panic and disbelief collided inside him.

He slapped himself three times, hard, to force reality into focus. Pain confirmed he was awake. He exhaled sharply, whispering to himself, “If I were dreaming, I’d be awake by now…”

And yet, the question lingered, unresolved. She was alive. She was standing there. Right in front of him.

A chill ran down his spine as he realized: something impossible was unfolding before his very eyes.

John closed the car door behind him, a cold knot of unease tightening in his stomach. Every step toward the police station felt heavier than the last.

What the hell is happening? he wondered. Dead people… alive. His mind refused to make sense of it.

As he walked past office cubicles and officers moving about their duties, a chill ran down his spine. Every officer he passed—the same ones he had seen fall under Fawrus’ attack—were alive.

Healthy. Smiling. Some even greeted him with cheerful nods and casual chatter. John’s stomach lurched. He blinked rapidly, thinking perhaps it was some trick of the light or a figment of his imagination, but no… they were unmistakably alive.

By the time he reached his office, his chair felt like a lifeboat in a stormy sea. He sank into it, staring blankly at his desk, heart pounding, mind racing. Nothing on the screen, no files, no reports could anchor him to reality. All he could think about was the officers he had seen dead—and now walking, talking, breathing.

Work became impossible. Every attempted report, every phone call, every spreadsheet blurred into a haze of disbelief.

Around midday, John gave up, leaving early, his steps slow and heavy with the weight of confusion.

---

At home, the questions persisted, gnawing at him like relentless insects. How… how is this possible?

Determined for answers, John began an investigation. He visited the homes of the officers he had thought were dead, asking their families about past accidents, sudden deaths, anything that could explain their resurrection.

Each household greeted him with silence. Stares full of disbelief and mild contempt followed him to the door. Am I losing it? He wondered. But he pressed on.

Next, he went to the hospitals, requesting death certificates. The doctors chuckled politely, assuming he was joking. They said, “None of these officers has ever died. You must be mistaken, Detective.”

Not satisfied, John combed through every cemetery in the city, searching gravestones for names he remembered as gone. Nothing. Not a single grave.

Doubt began to claw at him. Am I going crazy? Was Fawrus… just a dream? The thought made his chest tighten.

Days passed, and the unease grew. He decided to take time off work and see a therapist, hoping a professional might untangle the threads of reality from hallucination.

---

On the morning of his appointment, a call from the police station stopped him in his tracks. Three strangers had come looking for him, they said, and had been directed to his house. He called the therapist to delay the appointment and decided to wait.

Seated alone in the living room, John jumped slightly when the doorbell rang. Opening it, he froze. Three strangers stood there—a man, a woman, and another man—smiling warmly.

“Hello, John,” said the woman, her voice familiar yet alien.

John’s mind spun. How do they know my name?

“Who are these people?” he asked aloud, “Are… are you the ones asking about me at the station?”

“Yes,” the man replied simply.

John stepped aside, swallowing hard. “Okay… you can come in,” he said, motioning them into the living room. He guided them to the sofa, his mind still racing.

“Who are you people? And what do you want from me?” John asked, eyes narrowing, suspicion and confusion clashing in his voice.

“You’re joking, right, John?” the woman asked, tilting her head slightly.

“I’m not joking. I don’t know any of you,” John shot back, defensive.

The man spoke up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He said, “Come on… it’s me, Uncle James.”

John’s jaw tightened. He said, “I said I don’t know you. I don’t care what your names are. Leave if you have nothing to say”.

The woman glanced at the other two silently, speaking in whispers: “I think he’s lost his real memories… just like you two.”

“We’ll have to help him recover it,” the man murmured in return.

John stood abruptly. He said, “It seems you have nothing important to say. So please, stand up and leave. I have an appointment and don’t want my time wasted.”

The man—the one who claimed to be Uncle James—sighing, tried a different approach.

However, the other man said, “John… we’re sorry for not introducing ourselves properly. I’m Adewale, and this is Adetutu. I’m sure Uncle James has… tried to explain. Please, just hear us out.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He said, “I’m no longer interested. I don’t know any of you. Leave quietly, or do I call the police?”

Uncle James’s voice softened, calm yet commanding: “It will only take a few minutes. Please… sit down, John, and listen.”

John’s heart thumped, a mix of irritation, fear, and curiosity. The air felt heavy, as though the room itself was waiting for his choice. He made it.

John picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen, ready to dial—but then Adetutu’s calm, deliberate voice cut through the tension.

“I know you’re going through a lot right now,” she said, her eyes steady on his, “and you might think you’re losing your mind… seeing people from the past alive in the present. Someone you thought was dead… is alive. If you want to know whether Fawrus is real, call us.”

She dropped a small piece of paper onto the sofa. On it was a single number, handwritten neatly. The three of them stood up, their expressions unreadable, and left the house as silently as they had entered.

John sat frozen for a long moment, staring at the door through which they had disappeared. His hand trembled slightly as he picked up the paper and examined the number again. How did she know? he wondered. How could they know what I’m seeing?

He sank back into the sofa, mind racing. On one hand, there was the therapist—someone trained to untangle the mind, to separate hallucination from reality.

Going there might offer guidance, a way to ground himself. But what if the therapist dismissed him, called him crazy? And yet… these strangers, these people who claimed to know him, held knowledge he couldn’t explain. They were alive, aware, and somehow connected to everything he’d seen.

Minutes stretched as John weighed his options. His thoughts circled like vultures, gnawing at him from all sides. Call the strangers, and risk walking into the unknown. Go to the therapist, and risk being written off as delusional. Which is safer… which is smarter?

The ringing of the front doorbell startled him. He jumped slightly, then realized it was his sister returning home. He forced a casual expression, greeting her as she stepped in.

“I’ve got a police mission tonight,” he said, forcing his tone to sound official, “so I won’t be back home.”

It was a lie, a carefully crafted excuse. He couldn’t tell her the truth—not yet.

As soon as she left the room, John exhaled, fingers clutching the paper tightly. He dialed the number. The line rang twice before a calm, familiar voice answered, confirming they were expecting him.

They gave him an address—a place to meet. John stared at the number one last time, the weight of uncertainty pressing on him like a storm about to break. With a final glance at the empty living room, he whispered to himself, Here goes everything…