They have been around since I was a little girl. They were always there. I would scream when I dream of the murders they committed. I would scream even louder when I would find the strangers standing over my bed. My parents then would rush in
It was always the same thing every time,
“Oh honey it was only a nightmare,” my mother would say. “It was only a bad dream.”
She meant good . I know she meant well. She tried to comfort me telling me that there were no monsters. She told me that I shouldn’t be afraid of the dark. Yet she couldn’t understand what I was afraid of. It was the creepy set of strangers standing in the room with us. These people, neither my mother or father could see.
My father often times would show me that the closet is empty, even though he can’t see the creep who may or may not be standing there at the time. A cut up woman would sit there crying and he would smile thinking he ad just proved a point.
My parents never helps. They only made things worse. I would just lay down on the bed again and cry. I would cry because no one believed me. They thought that I was just like all the other kids. They thought I was afraid of the invisible man created by my imagination.
The strangers kept on talking to me. They curse, yelled , scream and some cried at me for help. It was something I couldn’t do. I couldn’t help. I only could pull the blanket over my head, and cover my ears hoping that they would be gone when I wake up.
I never had good dreams Nightmares were all that there ever were. They gave them to me. With a very touch, I would only dream of bloodshed through the night,
They thought it was a fad. A little childlike issue. Mornings that I would wake up bleeding from scratches all, doctors explained as rashes that I had to stop scratching at. Yet that never got better. Ever.
By this point. I had given up on my parents. The strange people I saw. I stopped talking about. I stopped screaming at night.
Friends were hard to keep. Dates were harder. Guy don’t like exactly like girls who become afraid of people who are not there. As a teenager, it was counselors at school who always wanted to pull me to the side, and talk to me. I was always stressed and scared. They thought I was abused child I let them believe that. I couldn’t tell them the truth because no one believed it.
The creeps sometime looked normal, but usually ghoulish. They always knew that I could see them and wouldn’t leave Then sometimes they would stay for weeks but eventually they could be taken away. These hideous corpses would come and drag them away. The men would be screaming , mauled and dragged away.
They were dragged away. I seen they were sometimes taken to these portals shinning a red light.
It wasn’t until age of fourteen that I was able to do the math. I’m not crazy. I’m seeing ghosts. The dead who were trapped on Earth were on the run from hell. There was a balance to things and I was able to see this Now as I lay in the bed trying to fall asleep at night, I know not to listen to these criminals because talking to me was not going to help the fact that their souls were damned. I slept at night, having become used to the thoughts they put in my head. As long as they weren’t my own, I assumed I would be fine.
Ignore them became my rule. After all their killers and rapists. They are wanted by hell and belong on the list. They are all bad people. All of them except for one.
It was particular ghost who only truing to his sister and fell into a mess that could of brought about the revelations. He was a innocent man. His name is Leon Diaz. A man who was rejected by heaven and wrongfully put on hell’s list. Now let me tell you his story, because he did come to me for help too, and I couldn’t shoo him away.
Read Leon’s story in the supernatural thriller Netherworld by Samie Foster. Now available at Lelue’s Realm.
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