The transmissions were not stories. They were warnings, passed down in the hushed, static-filled hours between midnight and dawn. My mother’s voice, a low tremor, was my first introduction to the truth.

She spoke of the demons who look like men. They walk among us, their faces a mask of flesh, their handshakes firm and cold. But she saw the glitch. In the dead of winter, under a moon that looked like a frosted eye, she watched one step off a country road, and walk out into a field and disappear. And when she dared to check at first light… nothing. No footprints in the pristine snow. As if the world itself had been edited to remove the evidence.

Ephesians 6:12: because we have a struggle, not against blood and flesh, but against the governments, against the authorities, against the world rulers of this darkness, against the wicked spirit forces in the heavenly places.

This was not a random haunting. It is systemic. The governments of man are not merely corrupt; they are occupied territories of demons. The marble pillars of their capitals are not stone, but fossilized bone. The ink in their treaties is a fluid darkness, and their laws are spells that bind us in ignorance. They are the architects of the coming convergence, a silent war fought not for land, but for lives.

The “terrible time” she said is not coming. It is already here. We are living in the quiet part of the storm, the end, the controlled descent. They never disappeared after those winter-night manifestations. They went to ground, into the halls of power, into the blue light of our screens, into the very data-streams of our reality.

They are here. Right now. The man who smiles just a second too long. The official who speaks in perfect, soulless circles. The shadow that doesn’t quite match the shape that casts it.

My mother wasn’t telling me stories. She was giving me the key to see through the veil.