The Messenger

I’ve never liked the term *ghost whisperer*. It sounds like some gimmick you see on late-night TV—fog rolling in, someone murmuring to shadows. That ain’t me. I’m Serenity Black, and my gift? It’s raw, unfiltered, and doesn’t care who you are or how long I’ve known you. Whether I met you ten minutes ago or twenty years back, if the dead need to reach you, I’m their voice.

Part 1: Origins

I was five when it started.
Playing in the backyard under a sky thick with summer humidity, I was pouring pretend tea for my dolls. Then suddenly, she was there—my grandmother, Loretta. She had been gone for ten years by then. Ten years, and yet there she was, sitting right across from me like no time had passed. She wore her favorite purple dress, the one with the tiny white flowers, and smiled that warm smile that used to make me feel safe.

We talked like she never left. She told me to stop worrying about the bad dreams, that my mama was too hard on me sometimes, and to keep my head up through the storms. She held my hand, kissed my forehead, and vanished.

I ran inside, breathless, telling my mom. She went pale, her hand shaking as she dropped the glass of sweet tea on the floor. I had no idea why she looked like she’d seen a ghost. But I *had*.

From that day, I knew the world was different than everyone else’s. The living weren’t the only company I kept.

School was hell after that. Kids called me weird, told me I was lying about Grandma. My teachers didn’t believe me either. But the spirits didn’t care. They came with messages—sometimes comforting, sometimes terrifying.

One day, my best friend, Jasmine, came over crying. I told her a secret: her uncle, who’d been gone for years, wanted her to know he loved her and to stop blaming herself. Jasmine’s mom called my mom afterward, thanking her for letting me talk to Jasmine. They didn’t know I wasn’t just making stuff up.

My gift was random. I could be sitting in church and suddenly see a face in the crowd that only I knew. Or I’d be walking down the street, and a voice would shout a name in my head.

Faces, places, dates—it all came with the messages.

But the gift wasn’t always kind. Sometimes, I’d see people who wouldn’t make it through the night. I’d warn them. Some listened. Some didn’t.

The burden of knowing who would live and who wouldn’t is heavy.

When I was thirteen, I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was all imagination. But then I had a nightmare so vivid I woke with bruises on my arms. It was a warning for my neighbor, Mr. Jenkins. That night, his roof caught fire. Everyone made it out, but the memory stuck with me.

I realized then I couldn’t run from this. Not if I wanted to save lives.

Growing up in a tight-knit African American community in New Orleans, I saw a lot of struggle. Death was around every corner—from gun violence to sickness. My gift became both a curse and a blessing. I could offer comfort. Or a warning.

Sometimes, the living wanted to hear the truth. Sometimes, they didn’t.

But the dead? They were relentless.


Part 2: Messages That Saved Lives

Over the years, I’ve had messages that brought peace, closure, and sometimes downright miracles.

Gloria was a young mother I met at a gas station on my way to New Orleans. Her eyes were red and swollen, clutching a photo of her missing son, Trey. Spirit of Trey was with her—angry, restless, crying for justice. Without even trying to tune in, his voice filled my head.

“He didn’t run away,” I said softly, staring into her tear-streaked face. “Your ex-husband killed him. Buried him under the old shed.”

Her purse dropped, and I gave her my number before driving off. A week later, police found Trey’s remains exactly where I said.

Mrs. Davis was another. I barely knew her, but one day I walked past her house and felt a weight pressing down on me so hard I had to lean on the mailbox. Her husband’s spirit was there, pacing, shouting: “Tell her to stop wearing my dog tags. She’s holding me back.”

I delivered the message. She was furious at first, but two days later, she brought me apple pie and cried on my porch for forty-five minutes before finally taking off the tags. He passed over that night.

There was also a teenage girl I met on the bus downtown. She was crying silently, clutching her phone. The spirit of her older sister stood behind her, begging me to tell her not to go to a party.

“She’s dead,” the girl said quietly. “Car accident last year.”

“I know,” I told her. “That’s why I’m telling you.”

She stayed home that night. The party house caught fire, and two people died.

Those moments made the burden worthwhile.


Part 3: Warnings Ignored
But not all heed the warnings. Some scoff, laugh, or simply refuse.

Marcus was one such soul.

One humid Saturday night, my boyfriend and I were out DoorDashing. We pulled up to a run-down apartment on the west side. A Black man opened the door—shirtless, tired, holding a toddler. Before handing him his food, I was hit by a wave—a violent, cold warning.

His name was Marcus’. His girlfriend, light-skinned and beautiful, had a dangerous rage swirling around her like a storm. I could *feel* the gun in her hand.

I blurted out, “You need to leave her. She’s gonna kill you.”

He laughed nervously. “Uh… what?”

“I don’t care if you believe me. Get out.”

He took the bag, hands shaking.

Two weeks later, the news flashed his face—shot three times, dead. He had called 911 that same night, scared for his life. But he stayed.

And then there was Jeremiah.

I met him during a church fundraiser. He was charming, well-dressed, a Black man in his early forties with a quick smile. But spirits kept circling him—his mother, long passed, sending me warnings.

“Tell him to stop,” she begged. “That woman will break him.”

I told Jeremiah, but he laughed off my words. Soon after, he was found unconscious after a beating by a jealous ex. He survived but never fully recovered.

And another time, a woman named Karen was warned to leave her abusive boyfriend. She didn’t. One night, he drove drunk and crashed, killing them both.

Those who ignore the spirits’ warnings pay the ultimate price.


Part 4: The Womanizer’s Reckoning

The most recent and haunting case is the one that still haunts me at night.

His name is Darius. A fifty-something Black man with four adult children. His baby mama passed a couple of years ago, leaving him with a complicated legacy.

His mother—passed for nearly a decade—came to me through the veil. She had a message for Darius. But the spirit wasn’t alone.

I felt the energy shift, pull me close, and whisper feelings that weren’t mine.

The entity made me *feel* something for Darius. It was a trick, a manipulation. But I couldn’t resist.

I got close, too close. We slept together quickly, and I saw the spell at work—his attention was mine, but it was a trap.

I tried to warn him. Tried to explain the message was urgent, that he needed to change. But he didn’t listen. His womanizing ways continued.

One by one, the pieces fell into place.

A text message spread through a secret group of women—all connected to him. Four years, three years, two years… and a slew of side pieces.

I had warned him to stay away from the women he hurt. But he didn’t listen.

Yes, I exposed him. But that man didn’t believe me. I told him to stay away from the women he hurt. He didn’t.

The end of that story was him being stabbed—in the face, and four times in the heart—by one of the women I warned him to stay away from.

I saw the whole thing unfold in spirit. The rage, the heartbreak, the violence.

He ignored the warnings. He paid the price. and his children will never receive the message

Part 5: Reflection

Every message I deliver is a thread between worlds, fragile and dangerous.

Sometimes, I am a blessing. Sometimes, a curse.

People call me crazy, a liar, or a fraud. But those who’ve received a true message? They know better.

The dead don’t play games. They don’t pick just anyone. And when they choose *me* to speak through, it’s because the stakes are high.

I carry their stories with me—some with gratitude, others with grief.

I don’t know how much longer I can do this. The burden is heavy. The line between this world and the next blurs.

But I keep walking, eyes open, heart ready, because if I don’t listen, who will?

And if you ever see me walking toward you, hands trembling, eyes glazed—you better listen.

Because sometimes, your life depends on it.