7 Terrifying Signs the Dead Are Still With You

I never used to look over my shoulder when I was alone.

The dead were buried. Gone. Memories. Nothing more.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Then my grandmother died… and six months later, Edgar Cayce’s forgotten teachings—and seven very specific signs—forced me to admit a terrifying, beautiful truth:

The dead are not gone.

They’re still here.

They’re still watching.

And some of them are desperate for you to notice.

It started the night I opened the box.

My grandmother had been gone half a year, and I still hadn’t touched most of her things. Her bedroom looked like she’d only stepped out for a walk—her hairbrush on the dresser, her glasses on the nightstand, slippers neatly beside the bed.

Grief has a way of freezing time like that.

You tell yourself you’re “not ready” to go through their belongings, but the truth is simpler: you’re afraid of the finality in every drawer. You’re afraid that once you disturb these little shrines, they’ll really be gone.

That night, the house was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like a presence.

I found the box at the back of her closet. Old, dented, tied with a pale blue ribbon that had lost its color decades ago. She’d written one word on the lid in her looping cursive:

“Mama.”

Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Yellowed paper, ink fading, all addressed to her mother—my great‑grandmother—who had died long before I was born.

One envelope caught my eye.

Dated 1952.

I carefully unfolded the letter, expecting stories about laundry and ration cards and bad weather.

What I found instead made my skin go cold.

“I know you think I’m crazy,” my grandmother had written, “but Mama comes to visit me. Not in dreams. In real life. She moves things in the kitchen. She turns on the radio to our favorite song. Yesterday, I smelled her perfume so strong that I turned around expecting to see her standing there.”

I read that paragraph three times.

The room seemed to tilt.

I wasn’t alone in my house. I knew that suddenly with the kind of certainty that doesn’t come from logic, but from something older and deeper. The hair rose on the back of my neck, and every instinct in me screamed: Get out.

I closed the box. I shoved it back into the closet. I tried to laugh it off.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

Because as much as I wanted to dismiss what I’d read, something else had been happening. Something I’d been explaining away as “stress” and “grief” and “my mind playing tricks on me.”

Things like:

The radio in the kitchen turning itself on at 3 a.m. to an old jazz station my grandmother loved.
Her coffee mug clinking once on the counter when no one was nearby.
The smell—God, the smell—of her powdery rose perfume blooming in the hallway for a few seconds and then vanishing, leaving my heart hammering and my logic scrambling to catch up.

I’d brushed it all off.

Until I read that letter.

And realized that whatever was happening to me… had happened to her, too.

I didn’t hear about Edgar Cayce from a New Age blog or a TikTok video.

I found him in the place I go when I feel my sanity slipping: the library.

For three days straight, I devoured books on grief, haunting, afterlife research—anything that might tell me I wasn’t losing my mind. His name kept appearing, buried in footnotes and obscure references: