This is for people who smoke marijuana recreationally or medicinally. If you do not condone such activities, please do not read any further.
Have you guys ever heard of the strain ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp”?
Probably not.
It looks like any other sativa, with its tall and thin morphology. Sometimes it has purple hairs, sometimes it has orange hairs. The only difference is that Will-o’-the-Wisp is said to have magical properties. Those who smoke it are able to communicate with the dead.
The Native Americans were the first to cultivate Will-o’-the-Wisp. They used it in their ritual ceremonies, as participants took hits of it from a long wooden pipe. The Natives would then speak with their dead ancestors, asking them for advice. The spirits would also show them where to find plants with healing properties, such as witch hazel against rashes or jewelweed against poison ivy. The Natives would inquire about the future of their tribe, and to conclude the ceremony they would join the spirits in dancing and merrymaking.
Will-o’-the-wisp was grown near the Native’s burial grounds, which was what fueled its mystical power. The hallowed soil would seep into the seeds, and anyone who smoked the plant would become one with the spirit world.
One day, I stumbled upon this rare strain. My buddy said that it had been discovered near Lincoln, New Hampshire, on top of Mt. Pemigewasset. Eager to see if the myths were true, I smoked it one night. I was alone in my apartment.
Looking back on it, I wish I hadn’t.
The strain looked like any other sativa-this one had orange hairs. The terpenes gave off a sweet, skunky aroma. The leaves were a bit dry as I rolled them around in my fingers and packed them into my glass pipe.
I torched the bowl, and the smoke felt like a hefty bur was rolling down my throat, tearing up the tissue as it went. I coughed in a series of raspy, sputtering noises that sounded like I had emphysema. My eyes welled up with an opaque layer of water.
At first I felt nothing, just some lightheadedness as the THC flowed through my veins. My throat felt better, but it felt lumpy and numb. I checked the time. Twenty minutes had passed. Maybe I had received a lemon, and somewhere someone was laughing at the easy money they were making off of suckers like me.
I relaxed in my bed and stared at the ceiling. Oh well, I mused to myself. C’est la vie.
Then, it hit me. It wasn’t a steady ascend. It came like a high-speed elevator that shot me straight to the heavens. I sat upright. My heart rate spiked and my pupils dilated. It felt like my mind had separated from my body and I was floating. I lost track of time.
Time is a funny thing. It may feel constant, thanks to clocks and calendars, but it isn’t. When you’re put in a dangerous situation, like a car accident, your adrenal glands dump epinephrine into your bloodstream and your perceptions are altered. Time seems to slow down to a crawl, and your eyes become high-speed lenses that sends millions of frames to your brain through neurons that have been kicked into overdrive. Your brain processes these frames one at a time, which make the situation go by slower. Five seconds can feel like five minutes. It feels like you are in a jail cell with no clocks and no windows. You don’t know what time it is, whether it is night or day, or how long you’ve been there. Its just you and your mind, and nothing else, and you feel alone. That loneliness feels like eternity.
I did not know how long my night lasted. I do not recall when I fell asleep, but I assume I passed out from terror because I woke up on my couch this morning, shivering from the cold.
But back to when I was in bed. I was sitting there. I started to become anxious and sweaty. I rubbed my collarbone nervously. The strain must have been laced with something dangerous. I had never felt like this before.
Then I heard a creak. It was coming from the other side of my door. I played it off as if it were my imagination when I heard another one, and another one. It sounded like someone was standing there, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. Someone was in my house. I rose to my feet and crept over to my door, trying to stay as quiet as a cathedral mouse. I listened intently with one ear on my door. I was greeted by silence.
Cautiously, I swung open my door and peered into my dark hallway.
“H-hello?” I called out softly, hoping that no one would answer. There was more silence.
I tip-toed into my kitchen and flicked the light switch. The light splashed onto the walls, as well as the open cabinets, the open refrigerator door, and the chairs that now stood on top of my kitchen table. The hair stood on the back of my neck. Someone had opened all the drawers and cabinets, exposing silverware, dishes, and groceries. My fridge door was opened also, showing me its contents of dairy and frozen foods. The chairs were stacked on top of the table.
I should have just ran, crashed at a buddy’s house. But my mind at the time was not functioning properly, so I called out again,
“Is anyone here?” More silence. I shuddered. I had just realized how cold my apartment was.
I carefully walked into my bathroom and was greeted by more open drawers. My mirror was swung open to reveal various orange pill bottles. As I locked the mirror into place, the shower suddenly turned on. I yelped and wheeled around, expecting to see some insidious figure standing beside me. Slightly relieved that there was no such phantom, I turned to face the mirror again. I looked at my reflection. A bloodshot, gaunt figure returned my stare. My eyes were buggy and glossy. I shivered again, turned off the shower, and returned to my bedroom.
I pondered for a moment as to what to do next. There was a spirit lingering here, that much I was sure of. However, I couldn’t communicate with it. An idea came into my head. I went to my kitchen.
I dumped two cans of baked beans into a bowl and cleaned out their insides. Once the bean gunk had been washed away from the tin interior I found a string of yarn. I tied the two twins together and made a makeshift telephone.
I had read about this on the Internet. It was a creepypasta game that described how to communicate to the dead through astral projection. I went to my bedroom closet, threw one of the cans in, and closed it. Next I sat down next to the other can and eyed the string that disappeared behind the closet door.
“Let’s hope this works,” I murmured as I brought the speaker to my lips.
“Is anyone there?” I whispered. My mouth felt like cotton. I warily raised the can to my ears. I closed my eyes. I listened carefully.
Almost immediately, there was a guttural chuckle. In surprise, I yanked the receiver away from my ear and suppressed a scream. I knew what I had signed up for. Now was no time to be a coward. I put the phone back to my lips.
“Can you hear me? Can you say anything?” I asked. My stomach felt knotted and I was on the verge of vomiting.
“Yes… I can,” a small voice croaked. It sounded like a boy who had fallen seriously ill. “I’m so cold… and lonely… will you play with me?”
My flesh erupted into goosebumps. I remained silent, too scared to say anything.
“Hello? Are you still there? Can I come out?” the voice asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Sam… I used to live here… with mommy and daddy.”
“What happened Sam? Where’s mommy and daddy?”
Suddenly there was a shriek of anguish and my closet started to vibrate. It sounded like someone was in there thrashing about, having a fit. I could have sworn I heard the sound of splashing water. There was more screaming that was suddenly cut out. Then more silence.
“It’s.. time to… play… now,” the voice said eerily. It annunciated every syllable. I dropped the tin can I was holding as the closet door slowly swung open. Two shimmering eyeballs that had no face greeted me… and that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up on the couch and tried to piece together last night’s events. My closet was in disarray, as if a small creature had gotten in and had breakdown. The clothes that were hung up now lay on the floor, some were ripped. One pile of clothes were damp, as if they had been drenched in water and left out. There was a moldy smell to them.
I still have some Will-o’-the-Wisp left. I think I should try to communicate with this spirit and find out what it wants.
Submitted June 07, 2017 at 01:19AM by ZedBelinsky http://ift.tt/2rIWttu nosleep
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