“It started when I saw the stars”
It started when I saw stars.
Tiny points of light, like diamonds, appearing not in the sky but inside my consciousness. They didn’t rush in—they revealed themselves slowly, as if they had always been there and I was only just noticing them. Time felt wrong from the beginning. Not broken—just irrelevant.
At some point, without a clear transition, I was standing in front of a house in a town that looked a lot like my own. Familiar streets, familiar scale, but not quite right. I was being shown the house by a realtor—an actress, I think—but I never asked her name. It didn’t feel important.
Patton Oswalt was there. He said, very matter-of-factly, “The kitchen can’t have plastic in it.” He picked up the silverware, looked at it, and tossed it away like it didn’t belong. Then suddenly we were in a bedroom—one of many—inside this huge house filled with vacant rooms and scattered furniture. Patton fell onto the bed and said, “Take this. You’ll need it.” His wallet fell to the floor. I picked it up, said “Thanks,” and handed it back to him. He spoke in a strange, exaggerated voice, mimicking an accent that felt intentionally wrong, like he wasn’t really himself.
When I left the room, more people were moving into the house. I asked one of them, “How many people live here?” A woman’s voice—African American—answered simply, “A lot.”
Outside, I started walking. The physics of this world were strange. If I jumped, I didn’t come down right away. I could float. Almost fly. People around me were realizing the same thing, laughing, trying to stay in the air. I knew then that if I really tried, I could fly—but I didn’t. It wasn’t the point.
That’s when I realized where I was.
I was in what I later called The World of Lost Souls.
I saw Seymour Philip Hoffman, and I was overwhelmed with happiness. He did that thing actors do—half hiding his face, half acknowledging he’d been recognized. It felt joyful. Familiar. Right.
At first, though, I had felt trapped there. Then I let go of control and understood I hadn’t died. I was somewhere else.
I came across a church that looked like St. Andrew’s, where I had been an altar boy. I looked again and realized it wasn’t the same church. Familiar, but wrong. Like a memory rearranged.
As I walked through streets and buildings, I heard about a place others called “the bad place”—or “the really fucking bad place.” I was curious and went inside.
I understood why immediately.
There were people there who had done terrible things. A man who had beaten his child’s head in with a bat. I became furious and demanded he leave, but other souls told me he couldn’t. Some people appeared decomposed, as if their souls had taken on the form of how they died. Others looked normal—until you saw them from another angle. One attractive woman turned her head and half her face was gone. It was gory, but after a moment, I got used to it.
Then came the seducers.
Souls trying to pull me into sex, drugs, bad things. A Spanish guy offered me crystal meth. I’d never done it and wasn’t interested. People were shooting up, nodding out, lost in highs. In one room, two men and three women were having sex. I was extremely turned on to be honest. A prostitute without eyes started to seduce me and others watched. I was pulled in one direction then another toward more women, fag hags and transversaria. I watched and was being watched.I felt a horror like no other ever in my life.A thousand murdered men, women, babies without brains,junkies, whores,and bastards of satiation.An unbeknownst beauty was visible briefly and moved on.
I left the bad place.
Outside, I entered an area with scattered trees where something like a paintball game was happening—but more advanced. You could shoot someone and they’d be out, but no one ever truly died. I played. It was fun. I killed nine souls, but they kept coming back. Death didn’t stick here.It was like the future of gaming winking at me.
After that, I entered a large building—like City Hall, or Social Security, or a warehouse. There were lines of people going in and out. Someone told me, “You need to go in there.”
Inside, I was given rations of ice cream. A woman told me, “Before you leave, you have to try the spaghetti. It’s amazing. You get a free plate when you leave.” I really wanted that spaghetti.
This place felt like rehab. Or a mental health facility. People cared if you were okay. Everyone looked like they did in real life—young people, older people, wounded people, people frozen in the moment they died. Even the disturbing ones weren’t scary. One girl had her legs cut off, and it didn’t feel wrong or shocking. It just was.
One man guarding the rations pulled out a knife when I reached too soon and said angrily, “Wait your turn, mang.”
I saw a Peter Dinklage look-alike carrying a red BC Rich Warlock guitar.
Then, suddenly, when I fully understood I was in the World of Lost Souls, the first person I wanted to find was my wife.
She was there.
She was looking for me.
She looked horrible—pale, in pain—but also beautiful. Her scars and her beauty merged into something perfect and unbearable. I cried harder than I ever have in my life. A cry that felt ancient, bottomless, and clean all at once.
And then the world disappeared.
I woke up at 6 a.m., excited to write it all down before it faded.
Story by Alister Crowley
