My son died shortly after we moved into our dream house. It shattered us, and we will never be the same.
Losing a child is like losing a limb, and being haunted by your dead child is a living hell.
I think he enjoys being dead. It gives him the freedom to do everything he’s ever wanted. He’s always loved to play tricks, and in death, he is a magician.
It started pretty innocuously at first. He moved objects and hid our belongings. He turned the lights on before his mother walked into a room. He made shadow puppets on the walls for his baby sister.
In our grief, her giggles coming from her bedroom brought us comfort.
We wanted him to move on and find peace, but I would be lying if I said we didn’t want him to stay.
I feel we cursed ourselves because now I wish my son had left us and gone to hell, where he belongs.
I’ve learned since his death that change is not gradual. It’s sudden and often devastating.
Everything happened so quickly.
His pranks weren’t harmless anymore. He hid my medication until I would cry and beg in desperation.
He terrorized his mom.
He didn’t turn the lights on for her anymore; instead, he extinguished them, plunging her into darkness. More than once, she fell down the stairs, and she swore that he had pushed her.
The worst, though, were the shadow puppets. He didn’t delight his sister; instead, he punished her.
He crept into her mind and stole her nightmares. He recreated them to envelop her in shadow and fear.
My daughter grew terrified of day and night. She hated being alone and glued herself to her mother and me.
Tonight was the catalyst.
Yesterday, my wife told me she had seen him. He frequently visited her, she admitted. He loved to tear at her skin and scar her. He loved to hurt her.
When I came home from work, I found her at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were filmed over with blood, and her neck was broken.
My daughter stood at the top of the stairs, and next to her was my son. He looked just as he had in life. His expression didn’t change as he pushed his sister down the stairs. He laughed.
I have never been more afraid in my life. I forgot to breathe. She fell in a heap beside her mother, and when she screamed, I screamed too.
Instead, I grabbed her and raced to the car. As I pulled away, my son stood in the doorway. He smiled at us and waved.
We’re at the hospital now. My daughter has a concussion, and her leg is broken.
The cops are also here. I told them everything that had happened. Of course, they don’t believe me.
They think I hurt my daughter and accuse me of killing my wife.
“It’s my son,” I told them. “It was our son. I would never hurt them.”
My son’s death didn’t just break us. It destroyed everything.
They took my daughter away, and they will bury my wife without me.
I’m still at the hospital but I know that soon, the cops are going to take me in for questioning.
I am not alone though.
My son is here, and he’s smiling at me. He says he loves me, and he tells me he has a plan.
He tells me about the shadows, the sounds, and the endless night. He shows me the most beautiful colors, some I have never seen before.
He conjures his mother, and she is beautifully broken. She stiffly smiles at me.
And he promises me we will find Dena, my daughter, the baby of the family. She will join us.
I cannot lie; I am terrified, but I am also relieved.
I want to see my family again, and I want us to be together.
If that means we will live as ghosts in a world far from heaven and too close to hell, then fine.
At least I know it is for eternity, and forever is all I have ever wanted.
Wish me luck.