Can a Dead Spirit of a Loved One Come and Talk to You
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| When the Dead Speak The Terrifying Return of a Loved One |
Yes. They can. Or at least, something can. I didn’t believe in ghosts, not really, not until last winter. People always say you hear things when you’re grieving, see things that aren’t there. I told myself the same thing that first night. But now… I’m not so sure anymore.
The Night It Started
It was three nights after my brother, Michael, died. The house was
dead quiet, no TV, no traffic, just the freezing wind outside whistling through the windows. I’d fallen asleep on the couch with his sweater in my hands. It still smelled a little like his cologne, that cheap peppery one he wore all the time. I woke up to him calling my name. I swear I wasn’t dreaming. The sound was too close. It came from the hallway, not inside my head. “Anna,” he whispered. “I’m cold.” I remember just sitting there, not breathing. I tried to laugh it off, thinking maybe I was half-asleep, but the voice came again, louder this time, right by the doorway. And when I looked up... he was standing there. Not solid, not see-through, but somewhere in between. His eyes caught the light from the TV, shining faintly, like the reflection in glass. “It’s so cold,” he said again. “Let me in.”
The Shape That Shouldn’t Have Been There
I should’ve screamed, or run, or done something normal. But instead, I whispered, “Michael... what do you want?” His mouth twitched into this tiny, weird smile. Too wide, too forced. “You have something of mine,” he said. That’s when I looked down and realized my hands were wet. The sweater was soaked clammy and dark. It had been dry when I fell asleep. The air started to smell like the river where he’d died mud, ice, and that sharp, metallic sting of water that’s been sitting too long. My throat tightened. I blinked, and he was gone.
The Cold That Wouldn’t Leave
After that, the cold never really went away. No matter how high I turned up the heat, the air felt heavy, damp. Every night, I heard slow footsteps in the hall. Always stopping just outside my door. Once, I tried to open it fast, to catch whatever it was. Nothing there. But the floorboards were wet. I remember wiping them with a towel, hands shaking, smelling that same weird river smell again. Everyone told me I was exhausted or losing it. Maybe I was. But if that were true, why did the frost keep forming on the walls of one single hallway? Just that one?
Searching for Answers
I got desperate. I stayed up late reading about spirits, hauntings, after-death communication stuff I’d laughed at before. Some people said the
dead come to say goodbye. Others warned that sometimes, what visits you isn’t them at all. One post stuck with me. It said never answer more than once. The first time invites their voice. The second invites them in. I’d already done both. That night, I set up my phone on the coffee table. I turned off the lights and hit record. For a long time, nothing happened. Then, at 11:32 p.m., I heard that same whisper. “Anna... look at me.” I didn’t move. My skin prickled, muscles locked in place. I could hear the floor creak softly behind me, each step pressing down slower than the last. No wind, no draft just weight moving toward me. When everything went silent, I turned the phone light on. No one there. But the camera was still filming something... dark shadows shifting across the wall, like ripples under water.
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The Recording
In the morning, I finally checked the footage. About twelve minutes in, there was this static shimmer, and then I saw him. Michael. Or something that looked like him. His skin was pale, almost gray, eyes sunken deep as if the sockets were hollow. When he spoke, the sound wasn’t like before it was warped, underwater almost. “You should have let me stay,” it said. And right after that, the video glitched, then cut to black. Every time I tried to play it again, it froze. Then the file corrupted completely. The phone died a few hours later. I haven’t been able to get it working since.
The Visit
I thought that maybe deleting everything, throwing away the sweater, would make it stop. But you can’t undo a door once it’s open. The house felt wrong after that too quiet, too still. The night before the frostbite incident, I woke to a sound I’ll never forget. Someone was crying at the foot of my bed. Very soft at first, then louder, sharper. I sat up and saw a dark shape kneeling there, its shoulders jerking, hands pressed to its face. “Anna,” it said, muffled. Then it lifted its head. And I swear, just before blacking out, I saw Michael’s face but not alive. Bloated. Ice blue. “Come see what it’s like,” he said. Then everything went dark.
What I Know Now
When I woke up, I was in the hospital. They said my mother found me near the window, barefoot, lips blue, fingers numb. They blamed it on sleepwalking in the cold. But when we went back home the next day, the inside of that window was cracked from the inside tiny lines splitting out like something had tried to drag me through. People still ask if I believe in
ghosts. I tell them yes, but not the comforting kind. They don’t come to
talk. They come because you listen. Because once you answer, once you make the mistake of saying their name back... They never stop calling.
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