My son and I see the departed. Over the years, we’ve faced many uncanny happenings. I’ve glimpsed angels, even demons, and more than once, the Grim Reaper has visited my dreams. I’ve never worshipped such things, never bowed to them.
My boy sees spirits too. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he claims to wander heaven itself, standing before God and Christ. He recounts every detail upon waking, as if he’d truly walked among them. We’ve witnessed so much, lived through so much, that folk no longer believe us. They say we fabricate tales, that we embellish. But it isn’t so. Wherever we go—be it a house or a lane—we hear things, see things. Always.
It seems we’re seers of a sort, though I’ll have none of it. I want no part of this gift. Once, a woman who smelled of herbs and old secrets spoke to me of it. She said I carried a powerful gift, that I could hone it further if I wished. But I refused. It frightens me. My son, perhaps, may embrace it one day. He fears them not. When he sees the spectres, he speaks to them, even follows.
Not I. I tell them plain—I cannot help, leave me be. And so they linger… there, at my chamber door, watching in the dead of night. Sometimes they stay for days. Sometimes they vanish in moments. But they always return.
And all I wish is to sleep in peace.
