Strange Strangers: The night things changed.

In the quiet, inky blackness of early morning, I awoke with a start. The room was shrouded in darkness, the kind that seemed to swallow up even the faintest hope of light. My young mind, perhaps no older than five or six, instinctively knew the hour. Just past 3 a.m., that liminal time when the world teeters on the edge of something otherworldly. Anxiety bubbled up within me, a nameless fear that I couldn't yet articulate, but it was there, as real as the walls of the ranch-style house in Chino, California, where I lived.

I can still trace the layout of that house in my mind, every corner, every shadowed hallway. Even then, I had an intimate knowledge of its contours, perhaps because there were times, just before dawn, when I would find myself in different parts of the house, far from the safety of my bed. The clock ticked toward 5 a.m., the hour when my father would rise, a man of little patience. His wrath was a thing to be avoided at all costs. The thought of flipping on a hall light in the dark, only to be caught in the glare of his temper, filled me with dread.

Yet, there was something else. Something I couldn't explain then and struggle to comprehend even now. My room was a void of black, but in those strange, dislocated moments, I could see as if bathed in a faint, unearthly glow. There was no discernible source of light, but I moved through the room as if guided by an unseen hand. The air around me felt thick, oppressive, and the atmosphere crackled with an eerie energy, like the prelude to a storm.

It was as if, on some invisible cue, my consciousness shifted, not unlike the sensation I would later experience during spiritist sessions as I honed my abilities as a medium. There, in those darkened hours, I felt a disassociation, as if my mind was slipping from the driver's seat to the back, becoming a mere observer to something much larger, much more terrifying. My surroundings lost their meaning, the once-familiar objects in my room faded into a gray, lifeless haze. I felt like a marionette, suspended by invisible strings, manipulated by forces I could not see but could sense with every fiber of my being.

And then, the moment of pure horror—a realization that hit with the force of a tidal wave. I had been here before, trapped in this nightmarish sequence more times than I could count. My eyes, wide with terror, were drawn inexorably to the closet door. Slowly, agonizingly, it began to slide open, revealing the abyss within. I wanted to scream, to cry out, but my voice was stolen by the same force that puppeteered my body. I was powerless, held captive by the darkness and the unfathomable presence lurking just beyond that door.

The beings—or perhaps worse, the multitude of them—that slithered out from the shadows were the very essence of terror. In the primal depths of my mind, I knew them as evil, twisted mockeries of life, their forms like grotesque gingerbread men, pale and soft, with faces that bore the sinister scowls of fish. Their eyes, if you could call them that, held a vacant, cold malevolence that made my skin crawl. They would creep from the darkness, their movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring the fear they evoked.

But there was one among them that I dreaded above all others, a being whose presence filled me with a suffocating sense of despair. Its face, unlike the others, was more defined, more human in shape, yet still bearing that dreadful ichthyoid quality, as if it were some unholy fusion of man and fish. The head was grotesquely large like a hideous balloon almost floating above the smaller entities, its eyes fixed on me with a malevolent intelligence. An elongated neck stretched back into the depths of the closet, disappearing into the shadowy recesses where its body lurked—if indeed it had a body at all. I could never be sure, and that uncertainty gnawed at my sanity. The thought of what might be lurking just beyond the veil of darkness, connected to that nightmarish head, was almost too much to bear.

These encounters were not just moments of fear but of absolute terror, the kind that reaches deep into the soul and leaves scars that never fully heal. The beings were more than just nightmares; they were something far worse, something that defied all logic and reason, leaving me in a state of paralyzed horror as they emerged, again and again, from the shadows.

People often ask me if these entities resembled the so-called "grey aliens" that have seeped into our collective consciousness over the past seventy years—a steady drip of imagery and lore shaping our understanding of the unknown. But in 1983 or 1984, when these encounters first haunted my nights, I had no frame of reference for aliens or UFOs. My world was still untouched by the notion of extraterrestrials. It wasn't until I was nine or ten that I even became aware of the concept of grey aliens or the chilling accounts of abduction phenomena that would later permeate pop culture.

The question lingers in my mind: Were these early experiences truly extraterrestrial? Or could they have been something far stranger, interdimensional perhaps, slipping through the cracks of reality as we know it? If that’s the case, how do we even begin to judge the similarities or differences between the violations imposed by these different realms? The cold, clinical examination of a grey alien or the incomprehensible probing of an interdimensional entity—does it matter which one holds the scalpel if the end result is the same?

The lines blur, and the distinction becomes meaningless when you're the one under the knife. Whether they hailed from a distant star or a parallel dimension, the terror they invoked was all too real, and the scars they left behind are just as deep. These experiences defy easy classification, existing somewhere beyond the bounds of what we can comfortably label or understand. In the end, it’s not the origin that haunts me but the violation itself, the feeling of being utterly powerless against forces that exist beyond our comprehension.

One night, something went terribly wrong. Even now, I’m still piecing together the hows and whys of it, though certain suspicions have taken root deeper than others. This time, only one of those fish-faced beings stepped out of the closet. I can’t say I felt much relief—it was still a horror to behold—but something inside me felt bolder than before, a faint spark of defiance ignited by who knows what. 

In the past, they had always come at me rough, their cold, clammy hands grabbing and jostling me with a force that was sometimes merely uncomfortable, and other times agonizingly painful. My young mind didn’t have the luxury of framing these experiences in terms of medical examinations or scientific research. I wasn’t some lab rat under their scrutiny; this was a primal fear, the kind that claws at the back of your throat and whispers that you’re about to be devoured, or worse, taken away to some unspeakable fate. To me, they weren’t aliens—they were monsters, goblins, or ghouls, the stuff of nightmares made flesh. What they wanted from me, I couldn’t begin to comprehend, and I certainly had no means of pleading my case or striking any kind of bargain. 

As always, the crushing weight of terror, combined with the hypnotic pull of their presence, would drag me into unconsciousness. It was as if my body couldn’t take the strain and simply shut down, leaving me vulnerable to whatever they intended. They must have taken me somewhere, led me away, because when I awoke, I was often far from my bed. I’d find myself lying on the cold kitchen floor, or curled up in the garage, or even out in the backyard under the indifferent stars. The disorientation was absolute, but the fear—oh, the fear—was all too familiar.

I’ve come to suspect that whatever compulsion these entities had over me had begun to wane, their grip on my mind weakening as time went on. My mental defenses had grown stronger, more resistant to their influence. That night, something shifted—I didn’t feel the usual paralysis that had kept me bound in terror for so long. I could move, and more astonishingly, I could speak. It was a revelation that came only when the creature reached out to grab me, its grip tight and painfully real.

Instinctively, I jerked back, expecting to be frozen in place as always. But this time, to my shock—and clearly to the creature’s as well—I could move. The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning, and in that moment of clarity, I fought back. I struck out, hitting and kicking with every ounce of strength I had. 

And that’s when the true horror set in: whatever it was, whatever they were, they had substance. They were not mere phantoms or figments of a fevered imagination. They had a material presence, something solid and real that responded to my blows. This wasn’t a nightmare I could dismiss upon waking; this was something tangible, something that could be fought—and perhaps, something that could be hurt.

The story of how traveling circuses break the spirit of baby elephants resonates deeply with my own experience. When an elephant is young, they shackle its leg with a heavy chain, anchoring it to a deep stake driven into the ground. The baby elephant struggles, pulling with all its might, but the chain is too strong, the stake too deep. It learns that escape is impossible. Years pass, and the elephant grows massive, its strength far surpassing the chain's restraint. Yet, by then, the keepers need only to loop a simple leather tether around its leg, pegging it to the ground with a small wooden stake. The elephant, conditioned by years of futility, doesn’t even try to break free. It has become a slave not to the chain but to its own perception of powerlessness.

I’ve come to believe that these beings may have used a similar tactic on me—binding me early with a metaphorical leather tether, conditioning my mind to believe in the futility of resistance. But something shifted that night. Perhaps I grew stronger, or perhaps the tether had simply worn thin. Whatever the reason, I broke free. And in that moment of defiance, I shattered the illusion they had crafted, realizing that the restraints holding me weren’t nearly as powerful as they seemed. I had been a slave to my own perceptions, but now, with that first step of rebellion, I knew I had the strength to fight back.

So I did. 

A cascade of events erupted all at once, like a chain reaction set off by my desperate retaliation. As my fists and feet connected with the creature, whatever mechanism had allowed me to see in the dark was suddenly cut off, plunging me into a terrifying abyss of blackness. The immediate shock of it sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through me. Now, I was not only fighting a nightmare made flesh but doing so blind.

I could hear it retreating, its footsteps heavy and real, a stark reminder that I was no longer trapped in some hazy fog, no longer a passenger in the backseat of my own mind. I was fully conscious, fully aware, and the thing that had invaded my room still existed, still posed a threat. I felt it moving away, the distance between us growing, and then—the sound that nearly stopped my heart—my closet door slamming shut with such force it rattled the windows and shook the very walls around me.

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that makes you hold your breath, waiting for the next horror to unfold. But the horror that came was all too familiar. The door to my room flew open, and my dad stormed in, the light switch flicking on to reveal his face, twisted with rage. Whatever I might have tried to explain was lost in the moment. If I even attempted to speak, I couldn’t get many words out—my throat constricted by fear and confusion.

My dad, never one for patience or understanding, didn’t need an explanation. He was a man whose discipline was meted out with his fists and feet. Before I could react, he soccer-kicked me in the stomach, the pain blooming through me like fire, driving the air from my lungs. His voice was a growl of venom as he told me to shut the fuck up and get back to bed, or he’d beat the shit out of me.

There was no room for protest, no space to articulate the terror I’d just experienced. In that moment, the threat of my father eclipsed even the monstrous intruder that had just fled. I crawled back to my bed, curling up in the darkness, knowing that whatever else happened, I was utterly alone in this nightmare—fighting demons, both human and non-human.

The nature of these nocturnal visitations began to shift, taking on a more insidious and unpredictable form. The fear didn’t fade—it remained a constant, a dark companion—but the fears themselves started to change, cycling through different shapes and forms, each one as terrifying as the last but in its own unique way.

No longer was it just the fish-faced creature stepping from the shadows, but a rotating cast of horrors that would emerge from the darkness, each bringing a new kind of dread. Some nights, it was the suffocating fear of being physically overpowered, like that first encounter. Other nights, it was the dread of something unseen, a presence lurking just out of sight, waiting for the moment I let my guard down. The patterns of terror became less predictable, more varied, as if these entities—or whatever they were—had evolved their tactics, testing new ways to break me down.

The rhythm of these visitations changed as well. There was no longer a set time, no rhythm to anticipate. They came at random intervals, sometimes night after night, other times with gaps long enough to make me question if they’d ever return, only for them to strike again when I least expected it. The unpredictability became its own form of torment, the anxiety of not knowing when they would come, or what new nightmare they would bring with them, gnawing at me even during the daylight hours.

And so, the cycle of fear continued, each turn of the wheel bringing a different kind of horror, a new test of my resolve. I was trapped in a game I didn’t understand, played by rules that changed with each passing night.

-Kevin Wikse

Thank you for visiting my page. I am the only medium, remote viewer, and occultist who, with frightening and stunning accuracy, foresaw the COVID-19 pandemic/hoax and its sinister connections to China. Masks, weaponized and experimental vaccines, mandatory compliance, medical tracking on smartphones, the debacle of the 2020 election, the border crisis, the ILLEGAL migrant and CCP invasion, the specter of World War III, and the looming Magnetic Pole Reversal Global Cataclysm—I predicted it all. VAIDS (Vaccine Acquired Immunological Deficiency Syndrome) and even Dr. Fauci himself, all in my sights as early as 2014. Don’t believe it? See the complete, time-stamped, and documented evidence HERE. 

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