Chapter One: When I Was Eight
When I was eight, the room went cold.
Not aircon-cold. Not rainy-day-cold. But funeral-cold. Still. Heavy. Like the air itself had stopped breathing.
I didn’t see anything. Not then. Not at first.
But I knew someone was watching.
The corner of my room—where the light didn’t quite reach—felt like it had eyes. And my chest, small and soft and still unscarred by the world, felt tight, as if something wanted to press down and stay there.
I told my mother. She said it was just my imagination. That children dreamed things sometimes, especially when they were too tired. Especially when they were too quiet. Especially when they were alone.
But it wasn’t a dream.
Because it happened again.
And again.
Until I stopped telling anyone.
They call it a gift.
Sixth sense. Sensitivity. Spiritual sight. The ability to feel what others cannot.
But when you're a child, it doesn’t feel like a gift.
It feels like being haunted by things you can’t explain.
It feels like being cursed with a secret everyone will call weird.
Because what child tells their friends, "I saw someone in the mirror who wasn't me" and gets invited to play again the next day?
What child says, "The hallway smells like roses but no one's there," and doesn’t end up being laughed at?
So I kept quiet.
I learned to shrink my truths into stories. Ghosts became shadows. Strange voices became dreams. The scent of flowers before someone died? Coincidence.
I became a good liar. Not because I wanted to lie—but because the truth made people afraid.
Of me.
It started when I was eight.
But it didn’t stop there.
The cold came more often. And then came the shapes.
Black outlines. Peripheral glances. Never fully seen, but never quite gone either. They stood behind open doors. They passed in mirrors. They stood at the foot of my bed and watched.
Sometimes, they spoke. Not with mouths. But with feelings. With knowing.
"You’ll hear bad news tomorrow," one of them said, clear as day in my head. The next morning, my uncle had a stroke.
It didn’t make sense. It never did. But it kept happening.
By the time I was ten, I had stopped asking if anyone else felt it. Because I already knew the answer.
I was the only one who did.
And this is how it begins.
Not with magic. Not with a prophecy.
But with silence.
A silence so deep, it becomes the only thing louder than the voices in the dark.
This is my story. The one I never meant to share.
The one that begins… with Sixth.
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Chapter Two: The Night Death Knocked22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSuBrCu8d9u
There are moments that stay with you—not like memories, but like bruises on the soul.
For me, one of those was the night I saw Death.
Not a skeleton. Not a figure in a cloak.
Just a tall, unmoving shadow. Like a man made of stillness and dread.
I called him "Godfather Death." Not because he was kind, or familiar. But because I had no other name for him.
He didn't speak. He never moved. But I knew what he was.
It was around 3 AM.
I woke up with a strange feeling in my chest, like the air itself had changed. He was there again, in the hallway just outside my bedroom. Watching.
And the smell hit me—roses. Heavy, ghostly. Beautiful, but wrong. Always wrong.
That scent always came before the loss.
"Someone close," I whispered to myself, trembling. "Someone close is going to die."
That night, I couldn’t sleep again. I kept staring at the shape in the hall until dawn. It never moved.
And the next morning, we got the call.
"Kuya Allan passed away in his sleep."
My brother's friend. My godfather figure. One of the few adults who ever treated me like I was just a kid—not some broken mirror of things they couldn't understand.
Heart attack.
Just like that.
And the shadow? Gone. As if it had done what it came to do.
That was the night I realized Death had a face.
Not one I'd ever forget.
And somehow, it knew mine too.
I never told my brother. I didn’t know how. How do you tell someone, "I saw Death last night. He came for your friend."
I carried it instead. Tucked it in with the others. Another scar. Another secret.
I stopped wishing the sixth sense would go away.
I started fearing what it would show me next.
Chapter Three: Lucky Numbers22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRdXPadtWxA
My Uncle Rick said I was lucky.
He meant it literally.
He had this thing he loved—Keno. A numbers game. You pick six numbers. If they match, you win big. He didn’t have much luck before.
Until he started asking me for numbers.
"Just give me six digits," he’d say, grinning.
I never really understood how it worked. I’d just close my eyes and speak whatever popped into my head.
He’d write them down. Bet. And every time, he’d win second place. Not once. Not twice. Every single time.
Five out of six.
It became a pattern. A secret between us. He thought I was gifted. Special. Blessed.
But every time I gave him numbers… I’d get sick.
Not pretend-sick. Not nervous. Really sick.
Fever. Nosebleeds. Vomiting. Exhaustion that felt like my bones were hollowed out.
And the worst part?
I knew it would happen.
As soon as I opened my mouth and said those numbers, something would twist inside me. Like I’d just opened a door I wasn’t meant to touch.
Sometimes I’d try to resist. Say, "I don’t know any numbers today." But he’d laugh.
"C’mon. Just try. Your lucky gift’s our secret weapon."
I didn’t want to disappoint him.
I didn’t know how to explain that it didn’t feel like my gift at all.
It felt like something else was whispering to me. Pouring numbers into my head. Using me like a channel.
And every time it did, it took something from me.
Eventually, I stopped giving him numbers.
I told him the luck had run out. He shrugged, smiled, said, "Ah, well. Fun while it lasted."
But I never told him the truth.
That every winning bet was paid with a piece of me.
And deep down, I feared one day… it wouldn’t just be a fever.
It would be something I couldn’t get back.
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Chapter Four: The Water Curse22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAfXmki03dg
I was maybe five when I first heard them whisper it.
"Bantayan niyo 'yan. Huwag hayaang mapalapit sa tubig."
The elders—my grandparents, old neighbors, even strangers—looked at me like I was already a tragedy waiting to happen. They said a manghuhula once read my fate.
"The child will die by water," the fortune-teller said. "She is marked."
They weren’t speaking metaphorically.
They were dead serious.
And that mark they spoke of? It was the birthmark on my left thigh. Shaped like something uncanny. A cluster of islands.
"Parang mapa ng Pilipinas," my lola used to say, eyes wide with both awe and fear.
That was the sign, they claimed.
The proof of my drowning.
From then on, I was never allowed to learn how to swim.
No beach trips. No pool days. No rivers. Not even bathtubs if they could help it.
Whenever there was a family outing near the water, I stayed behind. With lola. Or with a book. Or by the window, watching everyone else laugh in the sun.
I didn’t complain.
But deep inside me, something started to twist—this quiet resentment. Because how could you be scared of something that hadn’t even happened yet?
I didn’t feel sick near water. I didn’t feel cursed.
But they did.
And they believed so deeply in it, I started to fear it too.
I’d stare at swimming pools and feel like they were waiting for me.
Like someday, the ocean would open its arms—not to embrace me, but to claim me.
So I stayed dry.
Stayed safe.
Stayed scared.
Even now, I sometimes wonder—what if the water still wants me?
And what if all that fear… was the very thing that’s been keeping me alive?
Chapter Five: The Secret in the Shelves22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUwZewdL46n
It was in the library.
That quiet, air-conditioned refuge that always smelled like old paper and forgotten stories.
I was whispering to someone. Someone I couldn’t see. Someone who wasn’t really there. At least, not to anyone else.
Behind the tall bookshelves at the back, near the world history section—that’s where it happened.
I was talking to the boy in the corner. The one with shadows for eyes and dust in his voice.
I wasn’t scared of him. Not really. He was just… there. He said he didn’t know where his mother went. He said the lights were too bright now. He asked if I could tell him what year it was.
So I did.
Softly. Kindly. Like he was real.
That’s when I felt it—the shift.
Someone watching.
I turned.
And there he was.
Not the ghost.
But a classmate.
Wide-eyed. Frozen. Half-hiding behind the bookshelf but very much real. He had seen me. Heard me.
And I had no excuse.
Just me.
Talking to nothing.
"Don’t tell anyone," I said quickly, stepping toward him before he could bolt.
He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or run.
"Please. Don’t. They’ll think I’m crazy."
And I meant it. I had worked so hard to blend in. To seem normal. To pass. This wasn’t some cute game of pretend.
It was survival.
He hesitated. Then nodded. Slowly.
"Okay," he said. "I won’t."
We never became friends. Not really.
But every time we crossed paths in the hallway, he’d glance at me with this strange look—like he wasn’t sure if I was cursed or just special.
And I never knew if I could trust him.
But he never told.
And sometimes, silence… was the kindest gift of all.
Chapter Six: My Burning Hands22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJTlcexl858
It always starts in my palm.
A prickling. Then an itch. Then this unbearable sting that feels like my skin is tearing open from the inside out.
Sometimes it feels hot, like a coal was pressed into my flesh. Sometimes it burns cold, like winter wind sneaking under bone.
But it always ends the same:
A wound.
Invisible, but real.
There were days I’d scratch at it. Rub it raw, trying to get whatever-it-was out of me. But nothing helped. Because it wasn’t something on the surface.
It was something passing through.
And I learned, without fail—every time that pain came—I would see something.
Sometimes it was a ghost.
A woman in white, barefoot and weeping. A man by the gate, smoking a cigarette that never burned down. A child in my classroom, sitting in a seat no one else noticed.
Sometimes it wasn’t human.
A rustle by the trees. A large shadow watching from the canopy—a kapre, maybe.
Or small figures darting behind rocks in the garden, leaving trails of laughter too high-pitched to be from anything natural—duwende, I think. Curious. Not always kind.
Once, by the river, I swear I saw hair in the water. Long. Flowing. Moving against the current. A voice singing just beneath the surface, even though no mouth broke through. Sirena.
Beautiful. Deadly.
I didn’t stay long.
The pattern was terrifyingly consistent.
Pain. Then presence.
Sometimes they ignored me. Sometimes they didn’t.
But the burn in my palm never lied. It was like… a signal. A warning. A curse. A compass.
Whatever it was, it didn’t come from me.
But it knew how to find me.
And no matter how far I ran, or how hard I tried to forget—it always did.
I started keeping ointment in my bag.
Band-aids too, though they never helped.
And when the burning began, I’d excuse myself. Bathroom. Clinic. Anywhere I could hide.
But I couldn’t hide from them.
Because when the veil thinned, when the air grew thick and strange and my hand felt like it would split open—I knew:
Something was near.
And sometimes, it was already watching.
Chapter Seven: Echoes of Me22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcMDwJ6Tw4k
As I grew older, things started to fade.
The visions, the voices, the weight in the air—they all stopped.
No more cold spots in the room. No more eyes from the dark. No more burning hands.
I thought it was over. That maybe puberty had reset whatever curse lived inside me. That maybe all those old stories were finally choosing to leave me alone.
And God, I was thankful.
I could breathe again. Laugh without caution. Sleep without fear. I wasn’t haunted anymore.
Until she started hearing them.
My half-sister was the next in line.
She was only a few years younger than me, but we were close enough in age that we shared stories, clothes, secrets. I thought maybe she'd be spared.
But one night, I heard her.
Screaming. Arguing with someone.
But the room was empty.
"Ano ba! Ayoko nga! Sabi nang ayoko!" she yelled.
My mom ran to her room. I followed.
She was sitting up in bed, clutching her ears. Crying.
"Ayaw ko siyang marinig. Ayoko!"
There was no one near her. No one speaking. Nothing on her phone.
Just silence… and her terror.
She wouldn’t tell us what she heard. She just kept repeating that it was loud. That it wouldn’t leave her alone.
And in that moment, I felt it—that old cold creeping back into the room. Not from her, but around her.
The same stillness I had once known.
I didn’t say anything at first. How could I?
Would she believe me if I told her I’d seen worse? Would she hate me for passing this down—whatever this was?
I stared at her as she cried, and a deep, sick feeling settled in my chest:
She was becoming like me.
And I had no idea how to protect her from it.
Later that night, I sat beside her bed while she slept.
She twitched in her dreams. Whimpered. Whispered words I couldn’t hear.
I reached out and held her hand.
It was cold.
Like mine used to be.
Like the night it all began.
And I realized…
The silence had never meant it was over.
It was just waiting for someone new to hear it.
Chapter Eight: Mother's Silence22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqmqSOvgwM0
After that night, things shifted.
Not just between me and my sister—but with our mother.
She started to watch us differently. Not with confusion or pity… but with recognition.
One morning, over breakfast, she asked quietly, “Does it happen often?”
I froze. My sister looked down at her plate.
Neither of us answered.
But she nodded anyway. Like she already knew.
Later that night, she told us a story.
Not one from a book. Not one from the old family legends.
Her own.
“When I was your age,” she began, “I used to dream about people dying. And then they would.”
She spoke softly, like each word carried weight. Like each memory was something she had buried deep and was now reluctantly digging up.
“There was a man in our town who drowned in the river. I dreamed it two nights before. Same spot. Same clothes. I never told anyone.”
She told us of whispers in the hallway that no one else heard. Of shadows that moved on their own. Of lights that flickered only when she cried.
“I thought I was going crazy,” she said.
We didn’t speak.
We just listened.
And slowly, we began to understand:
It didn’t start with us.
It started with her.
She admitted she had spent most of her life pretending it wasn’t real. Pushing it down. Telling herself she was just sensitive. Tired. Paranoid.
Because if she told the truth… who would believe her?
She never meant to pass it on. She never wanted this life for us.
But blood remembers. And some things, no matter how hard you bury them, find their way back.
That night, my sister and I stayed up, talking.
About what we’d seen. What we’d felt. What we now knew we had inherited.
We were two children of a woman who spent her life afraid of her own gift. And now, we were trying to survive it together.
For the first time, we didn’t feel alone.
Not because the hauntings stopped. Not because the voices disappeared.
But because we had each other.
And we had her.
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Chapter Nine: The One That Followed Me22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnKSgkDbWMR
It didn’t come all at once.
No lightning bolt. No whisper in the dark. No dramatic possession. Just… a sense.
A feeling that something had decided it liked staying near me.
It began with a shadow at the edge of my vision—always there, always just slightly out of focus. At first I thought I was imagining it. Maybe I was tired. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks.
But it stayed.
At school, I’d feel it behind me when I bent to tie my shoelaces. At home, I’d feel it when I brushed my teeth, like something stood behind the curtain. Even in church—especially in church—I’d feel it pacing behind the pews while everyone else bowed their heads.
I didn’t see it clearly, but I felt it. Like a fingerprint against my soul. Like static in the air around me.
And worse than the fear… was the familiarity.
It wasn’t threatening. Not at first.
It just watched.
Then came the dreams.
Not nightmares, exactly. More like… invasions. I’d wake up gasping, heart pounding, certain that someone had just whispered in my ear—but there was no one in the room.
I started avoiding mirrors at night. I stopped turning off the lights. I stopped walking alone down hallways, even in my own house.
Something was following me.
And it wasn’t just in my head.
There was one night I’ll never forget. I was alone in the living room, trying to finish a project. The TV was off. The lights were dim.
And suddenly, I felt it. Heavy. Present. Watching.
My left palm began to sting—the way it always did when something unnatural was near. A sharp itch followed by burning, tearing heat. I looked at my hand, expecting to see blood.
But there was nothing.
Just the pain.
And then the room grew cold.
Not aircon-cold. Not storm-cold.
But the kind of cold I’d known since I was eight.
And I knew it was there.
I whispered aloud without meaning to: "What do you want?"
No answer.
But the pressure in the air deepened. Like it was leaning closer.
I grabbed my things and ran upstairs, heart thudding, skin crawling. I didn’t sleep that night.
It didn’t hurt me.
Not once.
But it never left.
It lingered like perfume on a pillow. Like a song stuck in your head. Like a name you don’t remember learning, but somehow know.
I started wondering if maybe it had been with me for a long time. Since childhood, even. Maybe it had waited. Maybe it had grown, just like I had.
And maybe now, it didn’t want to leave.
My sister noticed it too.
She didn’t say anything directly, but one evening, as I walked past her room, she asked:
“Do you… ever feel like someone’s walking right behind you?”
I stopped.
“Like… it wants something. But won’t say what.”
I turned to look at her.
She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink.
She just knew.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t just a haunting.
It was a presence.
A companion, perhaps.
Or a parasite.
And in the silence between us, in the cold that seemed to cling even when the sun was out, I realized something I never wanted to admit:
Some spirits don’t just pass by.
Some stay.
And some…
Follow.
Chapter Ten: The Doppelgänger22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVXSB9gd4ej
The first time I saw a doppelgänger, I thought I was just tired.
It had been a long night. I was on the night shift again, and all I wanted was to get a few hours of sleep before heading to work. My half-sister—my dad’s daughter from another relationship—had just arrived from a shift herself. She’s a doctor, the kind that rarely gets any rest.
We were both staying in our apartment in Pampanga, a two-floor space that had started to feel eerie in ways I couldn’t fully explain. But that day? That day was the first time it felt… broken.
I told her not to go downstairs anymore. She was already in her room, tired and quiet, half-answering emails while curled up in bed. I remember her sighing, saying she didn’t even want to go on duty.
“I don’t feel like going,” she said. “I’m too lazy to even move.”
I nodded, already stepping out of the room. I told her to rest, that I was heading down to the bathroom before sleeping myself.
But when I reached the ground floor, I stopped cold.
There she was.
Ironing her uniform.
Back turned. White coat hung over the nearby chair. Hair tied the same way. The way she always wore it for duty. Steam rising softly from the iron as she carefully pressed a blouse.
I blinked.
I stared.
“Uy,” I called gently. “Kala ko ayaw mo na pumasok?”
She didn’t answer.
No movement. No sign she even heard me.
I felt a sudden chill crawl up my spine. My fingers tingled. Something was… off. The air had that weight again. That quiet wrongness I’d learned never to ignore.
I didn’t say anything else.
I just turned and walked away. Slowly. Deliberately.
My feet dragged up the stairs.
And the moment I stepped back into our shared room, my breath caught in my throat.
She was still there.
Curled up. Laptop open. Answering emails.
Exactly as I’d left her.
She looked up at me. “Bakit?”
I stared at her. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
“Bumaba ka ba?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
She frowned. “Hindi ah. Tinamad nga ako eh. Bakit?”
I sat down, suddenly cold all over. “Kasi… nakita kita sa baba. Nagpaplantsa. Suot mo pa yung coat mo.”
She laughed awkwardly, but her face didn’t match the sound. Her smile faltered. “Hindi ako bumaba. Promise. Anong… nakita mo talaga?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because I didn’t know what I saw.
But I knew what it wasn’t.
It wasn’t her.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Every creak of the floorboards made my heart jump.
Every whisper of wind outside the window sounded like footsteps on the stairs.
I kept glancing at her while she worked, half-expecting her to split in two, to blink out of sync, to reveal herself to be… whatever it was I saw downstairs.
But nothing happened.
Not that night.
And yet, something changed between us. We didn’t talk about it. But she started locking the door at night. Started leaving more lights on. Started glancing behind her when brushing her hair by the mirror.
Because something was there.
It wore her face.
It wore her uniform.
And for one terrifying moment… it fooled me.
Chapter Eleven: The Six Dreams of Death22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7XTPVhBOYb
I was never the type to talk about my dreams.
But during the time I was with my first boyfriend, my dreams started speaking louder than I could ever ignore.
Six times.
Six deaths.
All connected to him.
It began with a dream that felt more like a warning than a memory. I saw an older woman in a hospital bed—pale, fragile, surrounded by silence. She was gasping, eyes wide, her body giving up. I woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding.
The next day, he told me his lola passed away.
I didn’t tell him about the dream.
But I should have.
Because it didn’t stop there.
One by one, his cousins began dying.
Five of them.
Each time, I would dream it days before. Sometimes it was unclear—just shadows and cries and a sense of dread. Sometimes, it was sharp: a name, a location, the method of death.
And each time, it came true.
There was one I couldn’t forget—Estong.
In the dream, he was crying. Alone. On a rooftop. He looked at me with such hopelessness. Then he jumped. But in the real world, he didn’t die that way.
He died of what they called bangungot. He went to sleep and never woke up.
But in my dream, it wasn’t peaceful.
It felt like a scream swallowed by the night.
I started fearing sleep.
Started dreading my own mind.
Because every time I closed my eyes, I wondered who was next.
My boyfriend didn’t know what was happening—at least not fully. I told him bits and pieces. He said it was a coincidence. Bad luck. Tragedy.
But how do you explain six deaths in one bloodline… all dreamt of before they happened?
He started to change. Grow colder. More distant.
I don’t blame him.
How could he sleep beside someone who saw death coming—but couldn’t stop it?
How could he love someone whose dreams brought coffins?
That relationship didn’t last.
But the memories did.
The guilt never left me.
Even now, when I dream of people I know, I sometimes wake up in a panic. I check on them. Message them. Pray.
Because I still don’t know if it was me… or something using me.
But I do know this:
Some people dream in color.
I dream in warnings.
And sometimes… those warnings come true.
Chapter Twelve: The Smile Before the Storm22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqnCUmn2RNy
Some dreams come like shadows. Some like screams.
But this one came with a smile.
I remember it clearly—how peaceful it looked. One of those rare dreams that didn’t feel like a warning. My friend was laughing, dancing. There were lights in the background, music playing, like a fiesta. She looked so full of life.
When I woke up, I smiled too.
It was rare to have a dream like that. It gave me a strange sense of comfort. I remember thinking, She looks happy. Safe. Light.
I didn’t message her. Didn’t say anything. Just tucked the dream in the back of my mind, thankful it wasn’t one of those dreams.
But by noon, my phone buzzed.
Facebook.
I saw her name.
And a candle emoji beside it.
She was gone.
The post said she had just come from a fiesta. That she was electrocuted by a loose wire while walking past one of the makeshift booths. The current had been strong. There was no saving her.
She died just hours after I saw her alive and laughing in my dream.
I couldn’t believe it.
Not again.
Not another one.
For days, I didn’t talk.
I kept replaying the image in my head—her dancing, her joy, the way her eyes shone like she was finally at peace. Was that her way of saying goodbye? Was the dream a gift or a warning I didn’t know how to read?
Or had I only seen what she wanted me to see—the calm before the chaos?
My heart ached in a way words couldn’t fix.
Because there’s a special kind of grief in knowing someone died, and you had already seen their smile for the last time—in a dream.
I started keeping a journal.
Writing down every dream.
Not because I wanted to chase answers… but because I was afraid not to.
Afraid I’d miss another sign.
Afraid I’d let someone go without realizing they were already on their way out.
Because the line between sleep and goodbye is thinner than we think.
And sometimes, the last thing they give you… is a smile.
Chapter Thirteen: The Man in the Mango Tree22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSRwkYZmHPw
There was a mango tree that stood at the edge of our backyard, towering over the fence, its thick branches dipping just enough to shade the old swing hanging from its trunk.
It was beautiful.
And terrifying.
Because from the time I was a child, I never once sat on that swing without feeling watched.
It wasn’t just imagination. It wasn’t just a child’s wild thoughts.
There was someone up there.
I never saw him clearly. But I always felt him.
A man. Tall. Dark. With glowing eyes that sometimes blinked from between the leaves. He never spoke. Never moved. But he was always there.
Watching.
Waiting.
My lola told me not to go near the tree after 5PM. "May bantay diyan," she said once, while slicing mangga hilaw in the kitchen. “Huwag kang tatambay d’yan kung ayaw mong mapasukan.”
I believed her.
Because the fear wasn’t hers alone—it was mine, too.
Sometimes I’d see offerings under the tree—a small glass of water, a piece of candy, a shot of gin. Offerings left by neighbors, especially after someone in the street fell ill or got into an accident. As if they were paying tribute to something they couldn’t see… but knew was there.
I never questioned it. I knew better than to laugh.
Because I’d seen him.
Or… what my eyes thought was a man.
One afternoon, I got curious.
I was about twelve. Old enough to want answers, young enough to still be reckless.
I climbed the low cement wall to peer into the higher branches of the tree.
And I saw him.
Not just the outline. Not just a blur.
I saw his face.
Eyes like burning embers. Skin like bark. Fingers too long, wrapped around the branch as if they’d grown into it.
And he smiled.
I fell off the wall and scraped my knee, but I didn’t cry.
I ran.
From that day on, no one in the house let me near the mango tree again.
I didn’t tell them what I saw.
But maybe I didn’t have to.
Because that night, my mom placed a salt circle near the backdoor. My lola muttered prayers. And the next morning, the swing was gone.
Chopped off. The rope burned. Like it was never meant to be there in the first place.
We never spoke of the man again.
But the tree still stands.
And sometimes, when I go home and look out the window after dark… I swear I still see him there.
Smiling.
As if waiting for me to remember.
22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRiqlHIEyWV
Chapter Fourteen: The Whisper Beneath My Pillow22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRedtqvmx67
It began as a whisper.
Soft. Gentle. Almost comforting—until I realized it wasn't coming from outside. It wasn't from a neighbor or the television downstairs. It wasn't even from my dreams.
It was coming from under my pillow.
It called my name.
At first, I thought it was sleep paralysis. I'd wake up frozen, heart pounding, and I'd hear it again—"Hey... hey... wake up." Always in a voice I recognized. Sometimes my sister's. Sometimes my mom's.
But they were asleep. Or away.
And the whispers... they started sounding wrong.
Too slow. Too careful. Like someone trying to imitate someone I loved.
One night, I woke up to a humming sound. Familiar—but too low. It was a lullaby my grandmother used to sing.
Only she'd been dead for years.
I looked around. Nothing. No light outside. No one in the hallway.
But when I laid back down, I felt it.
Breath.
On the back of my neck.
I screamed.
Everyone in the house came running, but of course... there was nothing there.
That night, I didn't sleep.
The next day, I burned sage around the bed. Placed salt at each corner. Even tucked a rosary beneath the pillow. I told myself it was enough.
But the whispers didn't stop.
They just changed.
They stopped using names.
They started asking questions.
"Can I come in?"
"Why did you run?"
"Don't you remember me?"
I stopped responding.
Because I had a terrible feeling that if I ever answered... that voice would no longer need permission to stay.
And it already knew the way to my dreams.
Chapter Fifteen: Not the End22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfPFYtkUVnN
I don’t want to end this story.
Because the truth is—it hasn’t ended yet.
There are still things I see. Things I feel. Things I hear when the world gets too quiet. Glimpses of figures that don’t belong to waking life, and voices that still call my name when no one else is home.
There are still dreams I haven’t shared—some too vivid, too strange, too raw to write down. There are rooms I don’t enter alone anymore. Corners of the house I avoid at certain hours. And that feeling—always that feeling—that something is near, just behind the veil, just beyond the curtain of reality.
Some people call this a gift. Others call it a curse. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s neither.
What I do know is this: no matter how far I go, the stories follow. The visions come. The warnings linger. I’ve simply learned to live with them—to coexist with things most people pretend not to see.
Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why I wrote all of this down. Not to scare. Not even to explain. But to connect. To reach the ones who’ve been too afraid to speak up. To whisper back to those who’ve been whispered to.
Because I know I’m not the only one.
If you’re holding this book and your chest tightened because something felt familiar—if your childhood was shaped by shadows, by silent glances, by things your family never spoke of—
Then maybe this was for you.
You’re not crazy. You’re not imagining it. You’re not broken.
And most importantly: you are not alone.
We are many. Scattered, quiet, maybe even hiding—but we exist.
I may pause this story here. But it isn’t over. Not for me. Not for you. Not for any of us who’ve ever lived between two worlds.
There will be more dreams. More signs. More voices that will beg to be heard.
And maybe someday, I’ll return to this book—to tell you what came next. But until then… thank you for walking through my shadows with me.
Thank you for seeing what others couldn’t.
We’ll meet again.
In silence. In dream. In truth.
