The Demon Head

I do not know if this asylum in which I find myself is truly Hell or merely the prison of my soul. Yet I know with certainty that there is an evil here—an evil that embodies unholiness itself. It is not averse to the sins or madness of men; rather, it thrives on them.

Mad, some say I am. But I am only the crude reflection of a mortal haunted by the shadows of fear and the eeriness of seclusion. Death taunts me at every corner, merciless and unrelenting. A terror haunts me daily—its indelible face etched deep within my mind. I dare not utter the full extent of its madness. I prefer silence, allowing that madness to fester and consume me from within, for my own perverse amusement.

This may be the confession of a madman, but I assure you, the horrible demon head that terrorizes me is no hallucination. I cannot forget its inscrutable image—its sadistic grin, horrendous laughter, and malevolent eyes piercing into my soul. How it found me, I do not know. But find me it did, in every place, on every occasion. The years since have been a testament to the deterioration of my sanity.

The story I recount is composed of truth. You may choose to believe me, or you may deem me insane. There are moments in life when fiction eclipses reality, when the surreal becomes tangible—and when that occurs, there is no longer any distinction between the two.

Nightmares linger, ever unplacated, rooted in the mind. Irrational thoughts reside deep within our waking consciousness. Who can say when nightmares end—or when our awareness suddenly crosses the veil? The shade of the unnameable bears no color but darkness.

It is that darkness which feeds upon our fears and causes us to yield to its cruelty. I did not summon it. I merely met it. And for that, I have been condemned to this asylum. Yet these walls cannot protect me from its insidious horror. The only offering I can make to you, dear reader, is the account of what I have experienced—ever since the day I first encountered the demon head.

I recall it was the year 1919. I had traveled deep into the remote rainforests of Brazil to search for the elusive pygmies of South America. My name is Jethro Miller. I am an American anthropologist and had spent years exploring various cultures across the globe—studying Aboriginal tribes in Australia, the Mayas in Mexico, and other primitive civilizations in the name of science.

I was eager to witness the pygmies firsthand. This would be my first visit to Brazil. I expected to be assisted by the locals and had corresponded closely with a fellow anthropologist named Adriano Souza, who was to serve as my guide.

Professor Souza assured me he knew of a village deep in the forest where the pygmies lived. Once I arrived in Manaus, he welcomed me to his home. Over the evening, we discussed our upcoming journey in detail. The thought of discovering a culture so untouched by modernity was exhilarating.

The pygmies, Souza warned, were private and reclusive—tribal people who had preserved their customs for generations. The prospect of introducing them to anthropology was a noble one. I thanked him for his assistance, knowing I could not undertake the venture alone. That night, I rested in a guest room after a long and weary flight.

As I lay awake, thoughts haunted my mind. I knew there was no guarantee of success in this journey. Yet a strange feeling welled within me, as though I would uncover something…something that waited to be revealed.

The next morning, I awoke with anticipation. A local contact of Souza’s had provided the exact location of the pygmy village. Navigating the thick, vast rainforest would not be easy, but we pressed on—and we found them.

The pygmies were short, dark-skinned, and wore minimal clothing. Their ability to detect scents was uncanny; perhaps it was our cologne they sensed, for they knew the flora of the jungle intimately. They were a people who had not advanced technologically in decades, yet they retained wisdom of a different sort. Souza, fluent in Portuguese and the pygmies’ dialect, served as my interpreter.

We had only four hours with them—danger lurked in the jungle in the form of jaguars, snakes, crocodiles, and worse. At first, the pygmies were reluctant to engage, but they warmed to us. We exchanged gifts, offered them medicine and tools, and made it clear we had no desire to alter their way of life.

They were not only primitive, but deeply superstitious. They feared spirits—supernatural beings they believed had once walked among them and become evil. That is when my nightmare began.

While observing the village, I noticed a strange object hanging from a tree. It was tied with a rope coated in some unknown substance. As I approached, Souza warned me to stay back. When I asked why, he looked grim and said it was considered an evil object—a bad omen.

I pressed for more, and he whispered its name: a cabeça satânica—the demon head.

It was the first time I had heard of it. I had encountered many superstitions in my travels, but something about this one was different. Souza told me only in vague terms that it was cursed—and that releasing it would bring misfortune. The only way to rid oneself of the curse, he said, was through a novena or a form of exorcism.

The pygmies, he claimed, had captured the evil spirit and imprisoned it in that effigy. It resembled a carved doll, motionless, yet its beady, devilish eyes chilled me to the bone. There was something mesmerizing—almost hypnotic—about it.

The air grew still as we approached. Professor Souza urged me not to touch the object, but I was drawn to the obsidian statue at the altar: the demon head itself.

It was heavy and unnaturally cold, even in the steaming heat of the jungle. I only brushed it with my fingers, yet I felt something crawl up my spine—a whisper of language I did not recognize, seeping into my mind.

That night, I dreamed of the head floating in midair, its eyes wide open, its voice deep and rasping: "You are mine now." I awoke drenched in sweat, convinced it had been a hallucination. The pygmies were gone the next morning, without explanation. Professor Souza looked pale, muttering about omens. When we returned to the altar, the head was gone.

Next mourning when the time came to leave, something compelled me. I cannot explain the impulse, only that it overcame me. I snatched the effigy, wrapped it in cloth, and hid it. No one saw me—not Souza, not the pygmies.

I had committed the gravest error of my life.

Even now, I shudder to think of it. My damnable curiosity—my human weakness—unleashed a horror I could never have anticipated. I had met evil in its purest form: the demon head. You may still think me mad. But if I were truly insane, could I recount these events with such clarity?

Back in Manaus, Souza suggested we document our findings. He considered publishing them—but refrained, not wanting to exploit the pygmies or endanger their secluded life. I agreed.

What happened afterward—the dreams, the visions, the apparitions—I will share in due time.

But know this: madness is not always born of delusion. Sometimes, it is the price of truth.

As an anthropologist, I concurred with his observation. We were not keeping a secret—we were preserving an ancient race of people. The ramifications of our actions would be recorded in the annals of history. After that night, the pygmies would no longer linger in my thoughts. Instead, I would be forced to confront a surreptitious horror that would forever alter my life. Yes, the demon head would begin its inescapable reign of terror over me. I tried to resist its powerful spell, but it was futile. Its incessant torment was unlike anything I had ever encountered.

In the privacy of my room at Professor Souza's house, I unwrapped the demon head doll to examine it closely. Like in the pygmy village, it remained still. It merely stared at me with wicked intent. At the time, I didn’t fully understand why it was considered evil, aside from the menacing guise it bore. I wrapped it again and placed it in a box destined for my home in the States.

The next time I saw the demon head’s face was at my home. That night, I had spent with Professor Souza. He had invited me to visit Manaus, and I accepted his cordial invitation. The rainforest impressed me deeply. Its nature and wildlife were truly remarkable. Brazil was vast and rising, but I had only glimpsed a small portion of its grandeur. It would be the last time I ever set foot there.

Within a week, I returned to the soothing solace of the forest near my home. I was grateful, feeling I had fulfilled my purpose. The irony of that belief would soon haunt me.

After awakening the evil soul within the demon head, I would never again know the gaiety of life. Professor Souza would earn acclaim for his work with the pygmies, while I would fade into obscurity—a forgotten footnote in history. I would not forget the pygmies, but I desperately wanted to forget the demon head I had brought with me.

No one seeks danger by choice—danger finds those who dare to seek. Some say the weaker the mind, the more susceptible the soul. How far does the mind go before yielding to the inevitability of insanity?

Perhaps I’ll never know. I can only offer myself as an example of a mind presumed non compos mentis. I lived alone, but friends and relatives visited me often. I had what most would consider a normal life—if such a thing could be truly defined.

On one special occasion, I invited several friends over for the night. My work in anthropology consumed most of my time, leaving little room for social gatherings. I rarely regretted much in life, but that night, I regretted inviting them. It was around eleven o’clock when fatigue overtook me. I excused myself and offered them the option to stay the night. That would be the last time I ever saw them alive.

What I discovered the next morning was both shocking and horrifying. My world changed forever. The evil I had brought from Brazil had awakened—and murdered them. In the aftermath, I became the prime suspect.

That morning, I awoke to find my friends lying dead on the floor, drenched in blood. The sight was not only horrifying but incriminating. I was speechless, unable to believe what I saw.

In a panic, I searched for answers. Who had done this? How? My mind reeled. There were no wounds—except for strange marks around their necks. I was paralyzed with fear and confusion. I scoured the house and surrounding area for clues or a culprit. I found nothing of significance. Finally, I called the police.

They took my statement and began their investigation. After examining the scene and taking the bodies to the morgue, they asked me to stay elsewhere for the night. I complied. But before I left, I noticed something chilling—the demon head was gone.

Someone had taken it. But who? Could an intruder have entered my home to steal the doll and kill my friends? If so, why? And why spare me?

Nothing made sense. I feared the worst—that I would be blamed. But soon, I would have answers. The demon head would return.

It found me. This time, it was no longer a dormant relic. It was alive. The terror that Professor Souza and the pygmies had warned me about had finally awakened.

I was staying at a friend’s house. That night, I was pacing nervously in the living room when I heard a strange giggling and shallow murmuring. At first, I dismissed it. Then I heard glass shatter in the kitchen. Alarmed, I turned down the TV volume to listen more closely.

I approached the kitchen cautiously, only to find broken glass on the floor. No one was there. I searched the house thoroughly but found no signs of an intruder.

Then I returned to the kitchen—and saw it. The demon head stood on the floor, staring at me. Alive. It grinned and laughed maniacally, then uttered my name. I don’t know how it knew it—but it did.

I questioned my sanity. Was I hallucinating? When I tried to step on it, it rolled aside. When I tried to grab it, it leapt to the counter. It was swift and intelligent—impossibly so.

I threw a dish at it, but it dodged. It disappeared into a cupboard. When I opened it, it attacked—leaping at my neck and biting fiercely. Despite its size, it was shockingly strong. I struggled, finally prying it off. Then it vanished again.

I searched room to room, but it was always one step ahead. In the living room, it appeared on the television screen, staring and laughing. I grabbed a broom and tried to strike it, but it escaped—jumping onto the curtains, then back onto my neck. I threw it off again.

It became a battle—my will against its malice. It darted back to the kitchen. Anticipating another ambush, I stood by the refrigerator. Just as expected, it lunged again. I threw it off once more, but the chase continued.

Eventually, it vanished entirely. The front door was ajar. I believed it had fled into the forest—vast and impossible to search at night.

Still, I searched. Desperately. But it was gone.

The chaos and noise drew the attention of a neighbor, who called the police. Soon, they arrived and began questioning me. I looked paranoid. I was shaken; beyond anything they could understand.

This intrigued them and prompted questions about my state of mind. I was escorted to the police station, where the interrogation continued. They asked all sorts of questions, but their primary concern was what had transpired at my friend’s house.

Why had I been screaming and behaving so erratically? I composed myself before answering. I knew that if I told them everything—the truth—they would think I had lost my mind.

Perhaps I was going mad, and the demon head, along with everything that occurred, was merely a figment of my imagination. Regardless, I couldn’t reveal the truth. I fabricated a lie, claiming that a wild animal had entered the house and attacked me. While plausible, it wasn’t convincing to the officers.

Eventually, I was allowed to leave of my own volition. But guilt weighed heavily on me—for withholding the truth, for surviving. My behavior raised suspicions, and the police slowly began to suspect that I might be the murderer.

This didn't escape my notice. That night, I decided to stay at a hotel just around the corner from my house. Unbeknownst to me, the police were tracking my every move following my release. In the hotel room, memories of what I had been told about the curse of the demon head returned.

I was far from Brazil, but I thought about Professor Souza and the pygmies. A new thought gnawed at me: how could I rid myself of the demon head? I even considered leaving the area, but that would only increase the police’s suspicion.

I decided to remain. A foolish decision I would come to regret.

My anxiety returned, soon transforming into fear. Would the demon head finally come to kill me? Would the police find evidence linking me to the murders? Was I going insane?

I poured a glass of wine to steady my nerves. The pressure to act was overwhelming. I turned on the television for distraction, but I knew the demon head would come for me that night. I had no protection, save a fork I kept near the table. The tension grew with every passing minute. I began biting my nails, pacing back and forth, desperate to calm myself. But the fear was relentless.

I forced myself to stay composed, though my hands trembled violently. I sat down briefly—long enough for the demon head to leap onto my neck. I wrestled with it, finally puncturing its right eye. The eyeball popped from its socket.

But it wasn’t deterred. Calmly, it picked up the eye and placed it back into the socket. I was horrified. It laughed as it darted around the room. The noise I made drew the attention of hotel staff, and someone knocked on my door.

When I opened it, drenched in sweat, the man asked if I was all right. I lied—again—saying everything was fine.

I couldn’t reveal the truth. I was trapped between the demon head and the police. How long could I endure this spiraling madness? After the man left, I closed the door and searched for the demon head. It had vanished. Exhausted, I collapsed into sleep.

In the morning, I awoke to another knock—this time from the police. They came to arrest me for the murders of my friends. They claimed to have discovered new evidence implicating me, though they never revealed what it was.

Back at the station, the interrogation resumed—this time, more aggressively. They wanted a confession. I was mentally and emotionally drained from my encounters with the demon head. Finally, I confessed—not to the murders, but to what I had been hiding: the existence of a demonic being.

Yes, it was foolish. But I felt I had no other choice. That confession sealed my fate and sentenced me to the lonely walls of an asylum. I told them everything—every detail.

I never expected them to believe me. Deep down, I knew they had already marked me as the killer. Once I told them the truth, they dismissed it outright, demanding a motive for the murders.

I didn’t change my story. I gave them nothing more than the truth. But to them, I was just a madman, unworthy of belief. There was nothing more I could say. Nothing I could provide to prove my innocence.

All I could do was warn them: the demon head was still coming. It had to be destroyed.

Now I sit here, bound in a straitjacket, surrounded by the bleak darkness of these asylum walls. I may never see beyond the flickering lights of this place again. But I know—the demon head is still out there. Waiting. Watching. It’s not a question of if, but when. It is far too clever to be stopped by these thick walls.

Since my incarceration, sleep no longer offers rest. That night, as the moonlight trickled past the barred windows, I drifted into a nightmare so vivid it clawed at my sanity.

I was back at my friend’s house. But instead of life, it was filled with silence and dried blood. I walked down the hallway and saw them—my friends—one by one, each seated around a table, their eyes wide open and mouths agape in frozen screams.

The demon head floated above them like a grotesque chandelier, whispering names: “Daniel... Claire... Marcus…” And then, slowly, it turned toward me.

“You,” it hissed, “you let me in.”

I screamed as I ran to escape, but the walls kept shifting, trapping me in a loop of terror. Each room I entered showed the same vision—my friends dying again, in new, unspeakable ways. And each time, I stood there helpless.

I looked at my hands. Blood. So much blood.

I turned around and the demon head lunged at me, its teeth gnashing, biting into my shoulder. I fell, and the last thing I heard was laughter—hideous, distorted laughter that echoed in my skull.

I awoke thrashing in my cot, screaming until the nurses came in and sedated me. Even then, the image lingered—was the head manipulating my dreams? Or was my mind finally splintering?

The next morning, Dr. Helen Carter sat across from me in the cold, bright room with her notepad in hand. She was calm, unreadable. I hated that. Her eyes betrayed neither pity nor judgment—just endless analysis.

“I want you to tell me again,” she said, voice steady, “about the demon head.”

I obliged. I told her everything—from the jungle altar to the hotel room. Every grotesque detail. Every scream. Every moment of panic and dread. I expected her to interrupt, but she didn’t.

“So, the head speaks to you?”

“Yes.”

“Has anyone else seen it?”

“No. It hides when others are near.”

“Do you think it’s possible,” she said slowly, “that the demon head is a metaphor for something else? Your guilt, perhaps?”

“No!” I slammed my fist on the table, startling her. “It’s real. It has a mind, a will—it torments me. I didn’t kill them. It did.”

Her pen scratched across the paper. “But you were the only survivor.”

I wanted to scream, to cry, but instead I leaned forward and whispered, “It wanted me to survive...so I would suffer.”

She studied me with scientific detachment. “Do you believe you are insane?”

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “Sometimes I think I am. But then I see it, hear it—how could madness be so... consistent?”

She said nothing. But I saw the doubt in her eyes. I saw the pity, and the fear.

A week passed before Dr. Reyes returned to my cell with a worn, leather-bound book in her hand.

“Is this Professor Souza’s journal?” I asked, sitting up.

“It was mailed anonymously to the station,” she said. “Inside are sketches...notes. Mentions of a cursed artifact matching your description.”

She opened the book. There it was—a drawing of the demon head, its grotesque features unmistakable.

‘Subject is linked to rituals of possession. Victims report auditory hallucinations and uncontrollable rage. Believed to be caused by evil influences.”

Dr. Carter closed the journal.

“This doesn’t prove your innocence,” she said carefully, “but it complicates your case.”

Hope flickered in my chest. “You believe me?”

“I believe,” she said, “that something is happening to you. Whether it's external or a construct of your trauma... I can’t say. But I no longer think you’re simply lying.”

I wept. For the first time since the murders, I felt less alone. But the victory was brief.

That night, the demon head returned. It hovered in the shadows of my room, its one eye glinting in the dark.

It started with whispers—soft and fragmented, crawling into the ears of every inmate in the west wing. One of the nurses was the first to speak of it. During her rounds, she claimed to hear voices from the vents: laughter, muttering, sometimes weeping. She brushed it off until she saw me staring at her from across the hallway—except she said I hadn’t moved from my cell in hours.

She quit two days later.

But then it escalated.

Lights began to flicker. Cold spots formed in rooms that had no access to windows. One of the guards, claimed he saw a dark figure float above the rec room, with a head too large for any human body. His colleagues mocked him—until the next night, when he vanished during rounds. They found his flashlight and half-burnt uniform near the generator.

Dr. Carter came to me, her composure finally shaken.

“This isn’t coincidence,” she said. “I read more of Souza’s notes. The head...it attaches to people. It spreads like a parasite.”

I leaned forward, exhausted and hollow. “Then why am I still alive?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe because you were its first conduit. Maybe it’s not done with you yet.”

That night, the asylum descended into chaos.

Screams rang out from the east wing. Alarms blared. Doors locked and unlocked seemingly at random. I crouched in the corner of my cell, knees to my chest, trying not to look at the far wall—because I knew what was waiting there.

The demon head hovered, silent and grinning.

“You can't escape me,” it whispered. “Your fear strengthens me.”

The door to my cell creaked open by itself.

I didn’t run. I couldn’t. I just watched it float closer and closer until it melted into the air—like it was never there at all.

They later called it a “security malfunction.” Seven staff members resigned. Two patients died—one of a heart attack, the other after bashing his skull against the wall repeatedly, screaming about “the face in the lights.”

But of course, they kept me here.

Where else would they keep the prophet of madness?

Months passed. The world outside forgot about me. But inside these walls, the visions only grew more potent. More precise.

Then, one night, I saw it. A map, etched in blood on the floor of my dream, leading back to the jungle. Back to the altar where it all began.

When Dr. Carter found me in a catatonic state the next morning, I told her everything.

“Let me go back,” I begged. “Let me finish what I started.”

To my astonishment, she agreed. Perhaps out of scientific curiosity—or desperation.

They transferred me under guard to Brazil, with Dr. Carter overseeing every step. We hired new guides—ones who didn’t ask questions—and trekked into the thick green lung of the forest.

It took six days to reach the altar again. Time had not been kind to it. Vines wrapped the structure like veins choking a heart. The statue was gone—just an empty pedestal remained. But something called to me.

“There’s more,” I whispered.

And we found it—behind the altar, under thick moss and roots, was a trapdoor carved into the earth. I don’t know how I knew it was there. I just knew.

We pried it open, revealing stone steps that spiraled down into darkness. The air grew thick and fetid, laced with the scent of decay and iron.

We descended in silence.

At the bottom was a chamber, impossibly vast. Walls covered in murals—some depicting men worshiping the demon head, others showing their punishment: flayed souls, hollow-eyed husks, and priests being devoured by a great floating head surrounded by fire.

In the center of the chamber was a pool of still, black water. And above it hovered the demon head, larger than I had ever seen it. Its mouth moved, but no sound came.

Reyes stared in awe. “My god...”

I stepped forward.

“I brought it here. But now... I can end it.”

She tried to stop me, but I had already entered the water. I felt it pulling at my legs, whispering every mistake, every regret, every sin I had committed. But I kept walking—toward the head.

It opened its mouth.

“You cannot kill me,” it said. “You are me.”

“No,” I said, trembling, “I am the last of you.”

And I plunged a jagged obsidian shard—taken from the altar ruins—into the reflection of the head in the water.

A shockwave split the chamber.

The head screamed—not in sound, but in thought. The walls cracked. The pool boiled. I felt myself being ripped apart—not my body, but my self.

Then, darkness.

I awoke in a hospital in São Paulo. Dr. Carter was gone. The head was gone. And they said I had been found in the jungle alone, unconscious, babbling in an unknown tongue.

No one believed my story.

But I’ve felt peace since.

A quiet mind.

For now.

After São Paulo, they released me into supervised care.

I was placed in a coastal town called Paraty, tucked between sea and jungle, where the locals were kind and indifferent in equal measure—perfect for someone trying to forget they once invited an ancient demon into the world.

My days were simple. I painted landscapes with cheap brushes. I read dusty philosophy books. I drank herbal tea I didn’t understand. And I smiled, because everyone expected me to.

But at night, the calm peeled back like rotten wallpaper.

It began with the mirror.

I had placed it by the window for sunlight. One evening, as I brushed my teeth, I noticed something wrong—not with the reflection, but with its timing. I moved, and the mirror lagged behind. My hand lifted, but the reflection was slow, like syrup dragging across glass.

I blinked.

There, in the corner of the mirror, was a sliver of shadow shaped like a crescent smile.

I threw a towel over it and didn’t look again for days.

Then the dreams returned—not of the jungle or the head, but of a child. A boy no older than eight, standing by a lake, his face half in shadow. He would speak, but no sound came. Only the bubbling croak of something ancient, deep below the surface.

One night, I found the boy.

He was barefoot, eyes completely black.

“You think it’s over,” he said in perfect clarity, “but you only tore off the mask. The face still breathes.”

I lunged at him, but my hands passed through smoke. He vanished, leaving the air chilled and tasting faintly of blood.

I stopped sleeping after that.

I walked the town at night, barefoot like the boy, murmuring to the trees. They whispered back. Sometimes they told me stories. Sometimes they screamed.

The mirror, still covered, began to rattle. Not shake—rattle. As though something inside it wanted out. I nailed the towel to the frame, but it still trembled whenever I stepped too close.

On the seventh night, I found writing on the inside of the mirror cloth.

A single phrase, scrawled in what looked like ink—or something darker:

“Your mind is only borrowed.”

I tried to burn the mirror. It wouldn’t catch. I buried it in the sand at low tide. The next morning, it was back on the wall.

I thought the demon wasn’t gone. I thought I only displaced it—like shooing a wasp from one room to another.

But I also believed that I was not alone. I saw others like me—on the streets, in cafes, muttering to their coffee cups or sketching shapes in condensation on glass.

I know—someday soon—the head will find a new face to manifest its evil presence.

Maybe yours. Who is to say that evil does not choose who to control?

Now that you've heard my account, do you still think I'm mad?

If my words haven’t changed your mind, then you've condemned me to bear the guilt of a crime I did not commit. Can you not see the torment behind my eyes? I am but a lost soul, wrongly accused. Has my tale of the demon head not convinced you? What more must I say?

Let me make one final admission—one I’ve never dared speak aloud.

I don’t know if I am truly insane. I remember the demon head. I remember the terror. But I cannot clearly recall the timeline or details of the murders. If you choose to believe I’m a killer, then stop reading now.

Whatever else I recount in this story cannot be taken as sane or rational. In the end, perhaps the demon head is not just mine to bear. Perhaps it exists in the minds of all of us—fragile humans, vulnerable to the shadows of our inner darkness and hidden secrets.

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