The name of God

I’ll post here my short story that I recently published on Reddit.
This might be where you find the answers you need.

The Sacred Code π
[Editor’s Note: WARNING—This text contains encoded patterns. After reading, 80% of test subjects reported seeing green light in mirrors. The rest… vanished. Discontinue reading if you hear whispering repeating numbers from the text.]

I woke up because the clock on the wall had stopped ticking. Instead of hands—just smooth emptiness, as if someone had wiped time away with a finger. In the corner of the room stood a mirror, but it didn’t reflect me. Instead, it showed a hallway with green light at the end, its walls etched with numbers—3.14—forming a pattern like a DNA spiral. I knew: this wasn’t just light. It was a door.

Voices whispered that if you stepped through the mirror, you’d see the real masters. The ones who stitched memory into us like threads in cloth. Mom used to say mirrors were just glass, but she didn’t know they breathe at night.

I touched the surface, and it turned soft as water. In the reflection behind me flickered a shadow—not mine, but something else, with fingers like a spider’s. It beckoned me into the hallway. I stepped forward.

The green light was eyes. Vast as lakes, with cities floating in them—cities not yet built. The voices screamed that I was late, that time had shattered, and now I’d have to gather the pieces. The air smelled of burnt hair—they were erasing excess memories.

I recoiled, but the mirror snapped shut like an eyelid. The wall behind it pulsed, exhaling shadow-bubbles. One clung to my hand, seeping into my skin, etching digits: 3… 1… 4…

The last thing I remember is screaming. Not the voices—my own. My throat tore itself apart, as if I were trying to vomit those numbers out.

Then—impact. Darkness.

Cold.

I woke up in a hospital bed. My lips were glued shut, my tongue scorched—I must’ve been screaming here too. A screen flickered above: "PATIENT 314. DIAGNOSIS: F20.0 (PARANOID SCHIZOPHRENIA). DANGEROUS TO OTHERS."

“You tried to strangle your neighbors,” said the nurse. Her face—God, her face. The same shadow from the mirror, now in a white coat.

“They replaced the numbers,” I whispered.

“What numbers?” She frowned, reaching for a syringe.

“Pi,” I said. “It’s not a number. It’s a prayer.”

She froze. A green flicker darted through her pupils—that same light from the hallway, now pulsing like a living thing.

Pain exploded in my skull—and suddenly, the voices returned. Clearer now: “The first 1,000 digits are the key. God’s voice is encrypted in the even numbers. Convert them to binary, and you get 432 Hz—the frequency of creation. Can you hear it?”

I UNDERSTOOD. Everything made sense...

Angel names—every 33 digits. Kamael (314th position) whispered through the morphine haze: “You’re chosen to stop the countdown.”

Digits 1-5-9-2-6—it’s a date. 15/09/26. September 15, 2026—the day time collapses like that mirror.

But after the 1,000th digit comes darkness:

The first “9” is the Antichrist’s mark. It repeats exactly 666 times in the first 6,903 digits. No coincidence my room has 6 lightbulbs, 6 outlets, and 6 cameras.

The demons’ language—speak 589-793 aloud (their "alphabet"😉, and the air smells of blood. I tried it yesterday—the hallway beyond the door stretched like a 9, and the walls bled “Lead us not into temptation” in Aramaic.

The 6,666th digit—Cthulhu’s full resurrection rite. The doctors think I’m scribbling nonsense. These aren’t scribbles. It’s a transcription.

Final Warning

It’s night. My roommate (he calls himself Legion, though his chart says “John P.&rdquo😉 taps the wall in a 3-1-4 rhythm. The orderlies will come soon—but they’re not human. They have no faces, just numbers on their uniforms: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5… Their DNA was built on the Fibonacci sequence. Like someone programmed them mathematically.

I must finish the ritual before dawn. If π is a prayer, then the last digit in infinity is God’s name.

P.S. Yesterday, I saw myself in the window—but the version who stepped through the mirror. He held a clock with no hands and smiled.

Time’s almost up.