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| Narrated By Mrs. C.B |
My father passed away just a few weeks ago. It hasn’t been easy. He used to live upstairs on the second floor of our old family home in Latakia. And yet, even after his death, we still hear his footsteps, the same familiar sounds we were so accustomed to while he was alive.
One night, around 4 a.m., in the bitter cold, something even stranger happened: the fireplace upstairs, which had been out of fuel and inactive for days, suddenly ignited by itself.
As much as I loved and cherished my father, my husband and I found ourselves avoiding the second floor after sunset. There was something in the atmosphere that went beyond mere memories. A heavy, uneasy feeling would settle over the place, blending with our grief and turning into daily fear.
It wasn’t just my father’s presence we felt. My mother, who had passed away four years earlier, sometimes called out my name—loud enough for both me and my husband to hear. Was it just echoes of our memories? Or were their spirits truly still dwelling in the house?
Our home, built in 1925, had always carried a strange energy. It was never hostile, but definitely... different. We would often catch glimpses of moving shadows, and our pets, dogs and cats alike, behaved oddly, staring at unseen presences. Even my son, when he was very young, would sometimes talk about seeing things that we couldn't.
A friend of mine who studies energy fields once told me that my parents’ spirits had not crossed over. They were stuck in a liminal realm, what she called "the borderland." She advised us never to go upstairs after dark.
Four days before my mother passed, I had a dream: a butterfly appeared, whispering to me that her death was near. At first, I brushed it off as a mere dream. But when she died exactly as the butterfly had foretold, I realized it had been something more, some kind of message from beyond.
Even now, that butterfly still appears to me from time to time, as if sending me subtle signs from another world.
Three months after my mother’s death, I dreamed of her again.
In the dream, she took me to a strange place called "the cliff."
We stood under an enormous, ancient tree, bathed in warm sunlight. I sobbed and asked her if she was proud of me and my husband. She lifted her hands to the sky and blessed us three times, saying:
"May God be pleased with you and grant you success."
I woke up screaming, with my husband shaking me gently to calm me down.
This wasn't the first time I had sensed death before it happened.
When I was 19 years old, my cousin Samia, a vibrant woman in her thirties died suddenly in a tragic accident. My family, worried about how I'd handle it, forbade me from attending her funeral.
A few days later, I had a dream that I will never forget.
In the dream, I left my bed and walked toward our garden. A thick mist enveloped everything. There, through the fog, I saw Samia, lying peacefully in an ornate navy-blue coffin covered with flowers. She stood up and embraced me, but her hug felt cold, weightless, like hugging air.
Terrified, I stepped back. She looked at me sadly and said,
"You feared me. I won't visit you again."
The next morning, I told my mother about the dream. She turned pale and said,
"Oh my God... Samia was buried in the navy-blue dress she had sewn for Eid—but she died before she ever got to wear it."
Was it just a dream? Or had Samia really come to say her final goodbye?
The house doesn't just feel inhabited by my parents' spirits. There are other presences too,beings that seem to have lived here long before us. But they never harmed us. If anything, sometimes it feels like they protect us.
One unforgettable incident happened about ten years ago. A friend came to visit, bringing his dog along.
My father, who was alive back then, never liked animals.
When the dog caught sight of an old photograph of my father hanging on the wall, it went berserk, barking uncontrollably. We turned the photo around to face the wall, and the dog immediately calmed down.
When we turned it back, the barking resumed, even more hysterical than before.
Even after my father's death, animals still behave strangely around his belongings.
Our cats insist on sleeping on his bed, and one of our dogs often sits by the door to his old bedroom, howling into the empty air—as if seeing something we cannot.
Despite everything, we have not left the house.
This is our family home.
I moved here when I was nine years old. Even my husband - who still feels uneasy living here - couldn’t convince me to abandon it.
After a brief evacuation during recent political turmoil, we returned.
This house holds our history, our memories, our roots.
I don’t fully understand the nature of these phenomena.
Are they just echoes from the past?
Or are there truly unseen worlds intertwining with our own, hidden just beyond the veil of what we perceive?
Maybe the answer lies somewhere in between.
Maybe it doesn't matter.
We live with them now - past, present, and unseen.
Narrated by Mrs. K.B. (41 years old) - Syria
Also Read...
- True Tales: My grandfather’s haunted house
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