And so that is how I’ve lived my life. I wake up every morning and hear the hysterical screaming from unseen voices and unseen sources. Looking back at my childhood, I wonder how I maintained my sanity. If I could only remember what I did to hold it together – what mental trick I performed – then perhaps I could do it again.

Of course, if I could, I most certainly would’ve done so by now. My low tolerance for annoyance hasn’t improved since childhood. I see only one solution to my dilemma, a permanent answer from which there is no turning back. Those who read this can’t understand what I’ve gone through for the last 15 years. That’s OK; they don’t have to.

I’ve sought counseling and therapy. I’ve tried a variety of drugs – some legal, some not. I’ve underwent hypnotherapy, sensory deprivation and numerous experimental procedures. I even experimented with witchcraft, spells, potions and even séances – all to no effect.

Just when I began to consider having myself committed to a mental institution, I tried one last thing. A psychic channeler agreed to sit with me in isolation, hoping to discover the source of screaming which had constantly plagued me since childhood.

There was a breakthrough – if you can call it that. The psychic went into some sort of trance, holding my hand in his. After half an hour of complete silence, he said that he could hear it. He could hear the screaming. He asked me to describe it in my own words, just to see if my experience matched up with his own. And so I did.

Despite my sightless eyes, I can see shadowy faces contorted in agony – thousands of them, maybe even millions. A counselor once told me that they weren’t real, that I was simply putting features together in my imagination. Who am I to argue with him? I’m in no position to debate on the soundness of my sanity – or lack thereof.

Those faces didn’t bother me as much as the sounds of agonized screaming. The voices had many qualities that the faces lacked – definition, clarity, substance and realism. The screeching was like a physical thing, lacking only a physical mouth from which it should originate.

How can I adequately describe the intensity of horror present in the multitude of screams? In the beginning it was an ocean, rising and falling like waves on the seashore. The magnitude of screaming ebbed back and forth, reciprocating highs and lows as though a volume knob was being turned up and down.

The brief down times are no more. There is only the constant presence of the screams, haunting my sightless world with the patient persistence of time itself. As I’ve grown older, things have only become worse. The screaming is becoming louder, relentlessly pounding like a blacksmith hammers tools on an anvil.

I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night, unable to distinguish the screams in my head from the screaming I produce myself. It’s impossible to hold a normal conversation with anyone. I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few moments.

With no better explanation available – besides insanity – I have come to the realization that there is only one likely source for the nightmarish collection of macabre voices bearing down on my mind. What I experience is nothing less than the tortured voices of the damned.

Of course, the intellectual minds of modern day science will simply dismiss the very possibility of Hell. I no longer deny its existence. I have, in fact, accepted my fate. I know that I will soon join the ranks of a demonic choir. For all eternity, I’ll sing the tortured songs of death, accompanied by the black music of the fiery abyss. I am beyond saving; I know that now.

I refuse to live any longer with this burden. I can no longer hear the voices of friends and family. I am alone in my misery. No one can share my burden. No one can endure what I have. Even the psychic channeler refuses to come near me.