I never had a problem with ghosts, with anything paranormal. It’s part of the teen angst that frames my life. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not hung up on some romantic gothic cliché. I’m not even trying to say I have supernatural powers. I just see what you can’t. Hear what you can’t.
My truth? It’s easier to believe in the dead, trapped by demons and freed by angels, than the fantasy of ordinary life circling in loops of routine as the one and only reality.
There’s a war of survival lurking in the unseen. Some of it’s internal, some isn’t.
When I understood darkness was feeding on those trapped, I had a moral hitch. Was it survival of the fittest, or the beginning of the end?
Standing up for the wretched cost me everything.
My story begins now.