My Grandmother's Death nosleep

It took me a long time to decide to try to post something here. At the moment other than a strange dream, I am not sure why I was motivated to do so. Saying that, I realize that it was the connection between two dreams that made me wonder if some of my stories would be worth reading.

I have to be careful. I can not let my identity be known, but at the same time I am not terribly clever with internet things. I'm not that young, and though I've lurked on Reddit for a long time I have not written anything for a sub before. I think I will start with a mild story, one about my grandmother. She died recently. There are bad things in my family, from the past and in the present, and since there is a chance a family member could see this I have to be careful. But writing about the truth would be very freeing for me too, so I'm willing to take the risk.

A few things about me that are perhaps relevant to the story: I'm not a writer, though I perhaps could better tell some of my most frightening or sad experiences by making them sound like fiction. I have a history of connection with the dead. There are several stories here. I have accurately predicted deaths and accurately known the place of them without knowledge. I have seen and witnessed things so horrible, both in real life and through these things. For years I was a strict atheist, believing in none of that nonsense, but I think that was a coping mechanism. As a child I was constantly taken to doctors, not for psychosis though as I never had signs of delusions, and oddly enough my insights were almost always true. Nevertheless I learned to suppress this part of myself.

Still, for example, when my grandfather died, he was not a nice man. He had treated people horribly. Perhaps he was a true psychopath, that wouldn't be the first actual dangerous psychopath or sociopath in my life or in my family.

Yet I kept traditions and duty, so while I was attending University I sent him birthday cards and the like. That year his birthday was coming near. I was shopping and passed the card isle, thinking that perhaps I should get a card. Clearly, calmly, and without even a moment of consideration my mind had a whole thought so pristine it almost could have come from outside of me.

"There is no point in buying a card, he won't live to his next birthday"

I did not buy the card but felt very bad about the thought. It was true though. My grandfather had not been particularly ill. He had a sudden heart attack in the night soon after and died. He, indeed, did not live to his birthday.

Another example that comes to mind revolves around an auto mechanic. I did not know him well, but he was a decent mechanic. When I was paying for some work he did on my car something felt off, I couldn't place it. He didn't seem dangerous, but rather I felt like he was in danger. I had his card on my refrigerator, held by a magnet. Later I was needing some car work done. I passed the card and thought about it and again the clear still thought came whole and complete into my head "If you want him to work on your car you should call soon before he dies."

I thought this was a horrible morbid thing to think. I had long learned to fear and hate this part of myself as well as keep it secret. The strange thing is though that a day or so later I heard my partner on the phone discussing something grave with a friend. I could not make the conversation. I asked what it had been and before they could answer I followed with "Was it Jim (I'm changing any names I mention)? Did he have a heart attack?"

My partner looked at me dumbfounded. Jim had had an aneurysm burst. It was sudden and completely unexpected. No one knew he had it. Except I kind of did. I felt bad, but I reasoned there was little I could have said.

There are many small stories like this from my life going back to early childhood. Some are very dark. Some I likely cannot talk about for fear my family might find them unless I can convincingly make them sound like creative stories and not reality.

I don't dare betray my family while they live. However it may also be useful to know that I am a practicing Demonolator. I am not affiliated with any of the well known groups or authors. People like me seldom admit anything, and are often solitary. I will clarify one thing though, what we call Daemons (Demons) are not the same thing that most people mean usually. They are better seen as Heathenish. Most of the experiences people call demonic are not. They are either hysteria, lies, or they are other entities than Daemons.

That being said, working with them can be hard. It's dangerous, and if they come to you in the beginning (my path is one that chooses you not the other way around) it is not always nice. Often one finds that the thing they most need to face is the thing that also terrifies them. It grows in strength from that fear. The more one avoids it, the more fierce it becomes.

And so most of my life went this way until I accepted things. After hearing these things you may write me off as mentally ill, and that is fine with me. From my perspective everything I write here is true, I really have no need for writing fiction at this point in my life. However, you are free to disbelieve me. It doesn't impact my life much either way. I would ask though that people not stalk me. I don't work for money doing anything but my normal career. I'm a reader, but I do not do readings for people. I do not accept money for anything related to these things. I also do not wish these things to be common knowledge about me. There are many who claim these things with whom I do not want to be associated.

I'm sharing this only because the perspective may be relevant. So with that I'll share a brief story. It's difficult but there is a lot of trauma and sadness in my family, a lot of abuse, a lot of illness. As a child I often stayed with my paternal grandparents. They had been abusive to their children, but they were oddly lenient with me. My grandfather, the one I wrote of earlier, thought I had some strange power. That grandmother died recently, and the story behind her death is filled with sadness and tragedy, but that is not the story. The story is just the moment before her death. The day before it more accurately.

She had taken a turn for the worse, and had been taken to hospice, but it was unclear how long she would live. I don't know why I did not go. I had gone to see her before, but when that time was coming I did not go. However the night before her death I dreamed of her.

She was frail, so frail... and I was walking along a subway platform. It was bustling with activity. I saw my grandfather there, dressed sharply but in clothes from the 1940's which would have been appropriate really. He was in a hurry to get on one of the subways. It was something shady I could tell. I asked him about my grandmother (his wife) but he said she could not come with him and that he had work to do. With that he hurried off to board a train.

I found my grandmother, frail, wracked by dementia, sitting on a bench in the subway. She was crying like a child, covering her face, not wanting me to see. I told her meekly she could stay with me, but I knew it would not be possible. I looked at the rushing trains. She cried.

I saw then something I would like to be able to talk about but as it concerns family members I'd rather not chance finding me I'll simply say I confronted some one who made both of our lives more sad. My grandmother was gone.

The next night she died.

I believe I saw her passing as it truly happened. I had sworn to protect her and I tried and did for so long, but I failed in the end. Which makes it odd that I saw her in my dreams again. She was young, younger than me, and she looked very different. She had blonde hair rather than black. She had very different facial features. She remarked that she looked young enough to be my daughter. The rest of the dream perhaps pertains to something more personal, involving the house they used to live in which was very darkly populated. The darkness was theirs though. What they carried came with them. I don't know what they did but it was bad.

There were many odd things about that house, from a secret trap door beneath the master bedroom closet that my grandmother fiercely protected. I once dreamed a boy was trapped down there. When I told my mother (I was a child at this time) she told me that my father used to dream there was a train station down there, one that went to hell. So he was frightened of the door. In truth I know that my grandmother hid money from her daycare there from her husband, an alcoholic who spent carelessly and was notoriously greedy. He was greedy to the point of sheer cruelty. Her money came from a daycare that was so terrible people have a support group about it. Apparently my grandmother took the poorest rural kids, and apparently she and perhaps other members of my family were violent and cruel to the children.

The sign stood with her name on it in the city we lived in for years. The building is being used for something else now. I cannot give the name, but I used to pass it from time to time and wonder.

I live in another city now. I won't go back there again, not even to visit graves. I believe I'm done with that part of my life.

At any rate one can see how in such a place it could be easy to find such things. There were other horrors, more of the human kind, I could perhaps tell one of those stories. I could fictionalize that one more, but the truth is scarier. Anyway, I'll leave that rather short account of my grandmother's death and surrounding information.

If people like my stories I'll share more of them. Certainly I have a lot.

Submitted June 21, 2016 at 03:56PM by blueelm http://ift.tt/28KCUXR nosleep