Saying I was raised a "witch" is a little misleading, I'll admit. My family never used words like "witches" or "magic" or even "special." It was just sort of "this is how it is."
I grew up mixed-race - Hispanic and Asian. Both families were technically Christian (something I no longer subscribe to myself), and I used to attend church every Sunday with my paternal grandmother in the summer months because they chose the house directly across the street from church.
Just because they were Christian doesn't mean they had the same beliefs, of course. My father's side was very by-the-book Catholic, and my mother's side was something a little different.
I was told, from a young age, that my maternal grandfather, whom I never met, was a witchdoctor. I didn't know what this meant, of course, but we were very superstitious and I was warned very young to be careful because my life would be different.
I don't necessarily think my life is different from most people's, but I do have some weird stories. Most of them involved shadow-like figures, or knowing things I shouldn't know or at least having a strong hunch I couldn't place. Some of them involve what I would describe as ghosts.
My earliest of these weird memories that I can place was when I awoke in the middle of the night when I was in 4th grade, I think it was. I'm basing this on where we lived at the time, so I must have been 8 or 9. We had just moved into a 2 story, brand-new suburban home, and I have this wonderful pink room with trim that had kittens and puppies playing in ribbons. There were gold stars painted above the doorways, and my mom got me the pretty day-bed and canopy I'd begged for.
One night, I went to sleep like any other night. I'm a heavy sleeper - the sound of tornado sirens and thunderstorms are a lullaby that keeps me in that slumber. But I remember waking up because I heard a soft, familiar sound. I was tired, of course, but I opened my eyes and listened. The sound was of pages being turned.
I sat up on my elbows and looked to the foot of the bed, where my bookshelf was.
And there was a woman there, reading a book.
"Mom?" I asked. The canopy made it hard to see in the dark.
The woman slowly turned her head to look at me - she wasn't quite my mother though. She looked similar to her, but her skin was even lighter than my mom's, and her hair was red.
I felt dread fill me.
There was something wrong about this woman - the light didn't reflect off of her eyes from the street lamps outside of my window, and she seemed weighed down.
The woman opened her mouth and instead of a mouth there was this strange void that I can't describe to this day - it wasn't darkness, but it was something other - a combinations of colours that unnerved me and made me feel like I was looking too deeply into something.
Terrified, I threw the covers over my head and counted down from 10, because my tiny child brain decided that was a good idea.
And on 1, without even a glance at the foot of my bed, I darted from my room hearing a small "clunk" as I left, crossed the hall, and burst into my parents' room, crying and babbling about the lady in my room.
My dad, who was a cop back then, immediately grabbed his pistol from the safe in the closet and went to check my room. He was gone for ages.
My mom tried to comfort me, asking me what I saw - I told her that someone that looked like her was reading in my room at the foot of my bed. A lady like her, with red hair. My dad checked the house - he checked on my brother, on the windows, the doors. There was no one.
I slept in my parents' room that night.
The next morning, my mom took me back to my room to show me everything was okay.
And on the floor, at the foot of my bed, was my little pink Bible.
A few days later, my mom came to show me some pictures of her mother. I knew what her mother, my Abuela, looked like from pictured. But only when she was old, and her hair was white. She died when my mom was a teenager. She showed me a picture of a woman standing in a garden.
Young. A woman that looked like my mom, but with red hair.
I have more of these stories, but I do worry about getting into them too quickly. I find that the more that I acknowledge this part of my life, the more things start happening again. I'm older now, of course, and I know how to protect my space from the shadows and spirits, but I still need to be careful about letting too much in at once.
If you want more stories, I have them.
EDIT: I realize I didn't really explain the shadows much or the "witch" aspect, so I do plan on explaining some of that more. I was originally planning on a super long post but realized it might be too long, so I cut it off after the story of my ambulances ghost since it's the first paranormal encounter I'd had that I can remember. I have lots of stories - my own, and some that my family has told me - that I'm willing to share over time. Thanks for reading.
Posted by u/briarihallow