After Dad’s funeral, we figured the hardest part was behind us. The dirt was patted down, folks hugged us goodbye and headed home, and we hoped for some quiet to heal. But back at our place, that calm never showed up, like an old friend who’d ghosted us for good. It kicked off that same dusk, right as the sky turned inky. Out of the blue, a swarm of jet-black crows swooped in, wheeling over his fresh grave. Their harsh caws echoed as they hunkered down on the branches, stubborn as mules. Mom peered out, her voice a whisper: “Kids, the situation isn’t right.
” We chuckled it off at first, but a chill had already settled in our bones. Weeks blurred by, and the weirdness piled on. Night after night, we’d jolt awake from the same haunting dream: Dad by the front gate, weary-eyed, murmuring, “I’m starving.” My little sis once bolted up hollering, swearing she saw him clutching an empty bowl. We chalked it up to heartache, our brains clinging too tight, but those visions sharpened, pulling us deeper each time. Then my big bro, the rock who’d orchestrated the whole send-off, started fading fast.
Fevers scorched him after dark; he’d mutter about a voice hissing his name in empty rooms. Docs poked and prodded, but the scans screamed, “All clear.” He withered before our eyes, skin ashen, spirit flickering out. The air at home thickened like fog. Mom tossed sleeplessly, we’d catch phantom steps crunching gravel at midnight, and our pup would lose it, snarling at the mound. Even drop-ins shivered, saying the vibe felt loaded and oppressive. Continue Reading https://drbokko.com/?p=34165