My son and I see the dead. Over the years, we’ve experienced countless strange and unsettling things. I’ve glimpsed angels and demons, and in dreams, the Grim Reaper has appeared to me more than once. I’ve never worshipped it—never even considered it.
My son sees ghosts too. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he claims to visit heaven, where he meets God and Jesus. When he wakes, he recounts every detail as if he’s truly been there. We’ve witnessed so much that people no longer believe us. They say we’re making it up, exaggerating. But we aren’t. Everywhere we go—whether a house or a street—we hear or see something. Always.
It’s as though we’re mediums, though I refuse to accept it. I don’t want this gift. Once, a woman who seemed like a witch spoke to me about it. She said I had a powerful gift, that I could develop it further if I chose. But I won’t. It terrifies me. My son, though—he might embrace it one day. He isn’t afraid. When he sees spirits, he talks to them, even follows them.
Not me. I just tell them I can’t help, to leave me alone. And then they linger—there, in my bedroom doorway, watching me in the dead of night. Sometimes they stay for days. Other times they vanish in minutes. But they always return.
And all I want is to sleep in peace.
