My son and I see the dead. Over the years, we’ve experienced countless supernatural encounters. I’ve glimpsed angels and demons, and on more than one occasion, the Grim Reaper has visited me in my dreams. I’ve never worshipped him—never even considered it.
My son sees spirits too. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he claims to visit heaven, where he speaks to God and Jesus. When he wakes, he recounts every detail as if he’d truly been there. We’ve witnessed so much that people no longer believe us. They say we’re making it up or exaggerating. But we’re not. Wherever we go—a house, a street—we hear or see something. Always.
It’s as if we’re clairvoyants, though I refuse to accept it. I don’t want this gift. Once, a woman who seemed like a witch told me about it. She said I had a strong ability and could develop it further—if I wanted. But I don’t. It terrifies me. My son, though, might embrace it someday. He isn’t afraid. When he encounters spirits, he speaks to them, even follows them.
Not me. I just tell them I can’t help, to leave me alone. And then they linger… right there, at my bedroom door, 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.
