The first house my parents ever owned was haunted. They lived there for a year then moved before I was born. Whenever we drove past the house (a two story derelict Victorian), my mom would point it out and say, “That’s our old house. It’s haunted.”
She knows this because every night she lived there she dreamed of an old woman who beckoned her from the bottom of the stairs.
Follow me, the woman commanded. Follow me.
It took her entire strength of will for my mom to resist, clinging with all her might to the bannister even as she felt herself irrevocably pulled towards the woman. It happened every night. Every night, the struggle, the temptation.
Sometimes my mom is convinced that it wasn’t a dream, though she never doubts that the ghost was there, real as anything.
Lesson: Better safe than ever sorry.
Sorry, not sorry.paranormal,paranormal,paranormal