Growing in a sense of faceless fears. I know I'm scared but I don't know of who or what. It's directed at images and sounds that flicker in the front screen of my brain.

"Did you call my name?"

My parents answer no. Must be hearing things again. Not to be worried about an overly active imagination of a child. Things are perceived as supernatural when it's just the wind, at that age anyways. My sisters seem to know but never confess. They hear and feel the same kind of distress that I do. Try to find an answer. I don't want to be alone.

Share a room
Sister cries
In her sleep
The room is ice
But there's summer heat
Right outside
Too afraid to pull open my eyes.
Maybe I'm just dreaming lies.

This house is out to get a thrill. Making noises and causing chills. Causing the animals outside to shrill in screams and wild panic. Don't get me started on the upstairs attic. Sounds like something is always making a racket.

Pillows at every corner of my face
Trying to hide
Under cotton and lace
Pretend that I'm soundly asleep
And then...I hear the whispering creep.

My mother's childhood was a tragic one. Mental instability within her family had run.
Her father a ******
And not the comical sort
Took her innocence
And she lost her family support.
She prayed that it would stop completely
Better be specific with the prayers Gods receiving
He made it stop
To say the least
Her father was caught under an assembly belt
And his body was creased.

There are different kinds of dead that still linger with life. The guardians, the demons and those who believe themselves to still be alive. And guess which category in which my mother's father qualifies? He haunted us and took delight. We had the face of our mother in our youth alike. I saw him multiple times at the foot of my bed at night. That's how I knew of my sudden gift...can't be that close to death and not expect to recognize it after seeing it.

He saw me look
He knew I saw
That's what targeted
My nightly trauma
I'd awaken with a gasp to find out next
His idea of fingers were wrapped around my neck
And with that touch I found in me
I could see his history.
Like a flip book of pages constantly moving.
He jumped off bridges
Did magic tricks with cards
Read the bible like a saint
Before taking in charge
Of my mothers virtue at large.
He was good with a joke
Looked like Fred Astaire
With his widened forehead
And his crisp red hair
I saw his death the quickest of all
It was apart of his life
But the part in which he was in denial.
Racing my heart and seeing his smile
Convinced me there's nothing wrong with staying up late for awhile.

I confessed to my parents of who I had seen. Unknowing at that time of whom I was describing. My mother looked sick and wide eyed with doubt. What the hell is coming out of her child's mouth? Who would have told me? How did I know? I must have been snooping and in fear threw her stones. Making me sleep all alone. No sisters to crawl in bed with when he came around.

"If you ever speak of this again,
You be sleeping in an asylum and not a bed."
So I silenced my voice and quietly went
Into my room but never slept.