My son and I see the dead. Over the years, we’ve had countless paranormal encounters. I’ve glimpsed angels, demons, even the Grim Reaper haunting my dreams. I’ve never worshipped it, never given it a second thought—yet there it lingers.
My son sees them too. Sometimes, while he sleeps, he claims he visits heaven, speaks to God and Jesus. When he wakes, he recounts every detail as though he’d truly walked among them. We’ve witnessed so much, lived through so many horrors, that people no longer believe us. They say we’re liars, attention-seekers. But we aren’t. Everywhere we go—houses, streets, quiet corners—we hear whispers, catch shadows flickering in the dark. Always.
Some might call us mediums, but I refuse the title. I don’t want this curse. Once, a woman—pale as bone, sharp as a knife—told me I carried a powerful gift, that I could hone it if I chose. But I won’t. It terrifies me. My son, though… perhaps he’ll embrace it one day. He doesn’t fear them. When spirits appear, he talks to them, follows them.
Not me. I tell them I can’t help, beg them to leave me be. Yet they linger—hovering in my doorway, watching me through the small hours. Some stay for days. Others fade in moments. But they always return.
And all I want is to sleep in peace.
