My son and I see the dead. Over the years, we’ve had countless paranormal experiences. I’ve seen angels, demons, and even the Grim Reaper appearing in my dreams. I’ve never worshipped it, never even considered it.
My son sees ghosts too. Sometimes, when he sleeps, he claims to visit heaven and speaks of meeting God and Jesus. He recounts everything in vivid detail upon waking, 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, that we’re exaggerating. But we’re not. Everywhere we go—whether it’s a house or a street—we hear or see things. Always.
It’s as if we’re seers or something of the sort, but I refuse to accept it. I don’t want this gift. Once, a woman who seemed like a witch mentioned it to me. She said I had a strong gift, that I could develop it further if I chose. But I don’t want to. It terrifies me. My son, though—perhaps he’ll 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, at my bedroom door, watching me in the dead of night. Sometimes they stay for days. Sometimes they vanish in minutes. But they always return.
And all I want is to sleep in peace.
