My best friend died in a car crash. A week or two after the funeral, I started having intense dreams. One night, I dreamed I was outside my house with a terrible feeling. In the dream, I ran to the door and slammed it open—just as my real door burst open in the middle of the night. My heart pounded. I lived alone, so I grabbed a bat and turned on every light. In the entrance, I froze: dozens of snowy or salty footprints covered the floors, circling every room. No one else was home. I spent an hour mopping. Maybe I was sleepwalking—but it terrified me.
When I was about 12, drifting off to sleep, I heard a baby laugh for a couple of seconds. I assumed it was my imagination. The next morning, my sister said a baby’s crying woke her up. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I can’t explain it.
After my dad died, I moved home to support my mom. One morning at 4 a.m., as I passed through the dark living room, I suddenly felt his presence in his favorite chair. My hair stood on end. I whispered, “Love you, Dad,” and left.
Right before my husband died, I heard a female voice say, “Take a good look at him. It’s the last time you’ll ever see him alive.” I can still hear it.
