Some dreams are more than just dreams. They arrive quietly, wrapped in shadows and soaked in unease—not to frighten you, but to warn you.
In tonight’s haunting story, listener Kerrie shares an experience from her childhood that shook the foundation of everything she believed about reality, memory, and grief. At eleven years old, she woke from a dream so vivid, so specific, that it couldn’t possibly be coincidence. Hours later, the dream came true—down to the last detail.
This is a story about intuition, loss, and the thin line between sleep and something far more mysterious.
Hosted by Andy Airz, Paranormal Nightshift brings real stories from real people who’ve stepped into the strange and come back changed.
Subscribe now and never miss a story—new episodes drop weekly.
Visit ParanormalNightshift.com to grab your free eBook The Birth of Dimensional Desperado and get access to exclusive email-only stories that never make it to the podcast.
Have your own paranormal story?
Submit it directly through the site—because the weirdest ones always find a home here.
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There are dreams, and then there
are warnings wrapped in shadows,
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the kind you wake from not in
fear, but in knowing, like your
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soul caught wind of something
the world hadn’t said out loud
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yet.
Tonight’s story isn’t just
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eerie, it’s intimate.
It’s a moment where sleep peeled
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back the veil, where a dream
whispered the truth before it
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happened, and a young heart was
forced to carry knowledge it
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never asked for.
Welcome to Paranormal Night
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Shift, where your headlights
might light the way forward, but
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it’s what’s behind you, what’s
watching, that we talk about
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here.
I’m Andy, your guide through the
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strange, the spine tingling, and
the story’s too real to stay
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buried.
Now, before we step into
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tonight’s experience, I’ve got
something just for you.
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00:00:51,400 –> 00:00:54,600
If you haven’t already, head
over to paranormalnightshift.com
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00:00:54,600 –> 00:00:58,640
to grab your free copy of The
Birth of Dimensional Desperado,
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00:00:59,000 –> 00:01:02,480
the first ebook in our Time
Travelling Paranormal series.
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00:01:02,800 –> 00:01:05,480
And here’s the kicker,
subscribers on the e-mail list
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and our Patreon supporters will
get exclusive sneak peeks into
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00:01:09,560 –> 00:01:11,600
the second book before anyone
else.
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Plus, I’ve started sharing extra
stories that are too intense for
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the podcast straight to the
inbox, so if you want even more
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of what we can’t say out loud on
platforms, you know where to go.
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All right, time travellers,
let’s step into the dark.
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Tonight’s story is called The
Dream That Knew.
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It comes from one of our
listeners, Carrie, and it’s 1.
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You won’t forget.
Now let’s begin.
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I was 11 years old the morning
it happened.
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Old enough to stay up too late
reading under the covers.
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Old enough to ride my bike
farther than I was supposed to,
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but still young enough to
believe that bad things mostly
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happened in books and movies,
and that parents, especially
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your parents, the kind of people
who just stayed unshakeable,
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always coming home.
That morning started with a
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dream.
I don’t remember all of it, just
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flashes, but the part that
stayed with me, the part that
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never faded, was the ending.
In the dream, I saw my dad.
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He was in his truck, driving.
The sky was Gray, and I remember
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the feeling of dread washing
over me before anything even
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happened.
Then it did.
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A crash.
Quick, violent.
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Suddenly, the dream didn’t play
out like a movie.
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There was no dramatic explosion.
It was more like a memory that
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had been fast forwarded, chopped
into pieces, and stitched back
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together in a way that made no
sense but felt real.
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Too real.
I remember jolting awake,
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breathing hard, my chest tight,
and the thought that came next
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still echoes in my bones.
That could never happen, I
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whispered to myself.
It was just a dream.
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I got out of bed, still shaking
but trying to shake it off.
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Dreams don’t mean anything,
that’s what grown-ups always
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say.
So I told myself the same thing.
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Our house had that familiar
early morning quiet to it.
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No clatter of dishes yet, no TV,
no voices, just the kind of
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silence that feels heavier than
it should.
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I went downstairs, heading to
the kitchen to make breakfast.
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To get there, you had to walk
through the living room, and as
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I stepped into the room, I
stopped.
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My mom was sitting on the couch.
She wasn’t watching TV, she
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wasn’t sipping coffee.
She was just sitting there
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still.
Her eyes were red and glassy,
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like she’d been crying.
Her hands were folded in her
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lap, but they were clenched too
tight.
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I slowed down, confused, unsure
of what to say.
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Mom, I asked.
Are you OK?
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She looked up at me with a
strange expression, like she
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wanted to say something but
didn’t have the words.
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I’m fine, she said quietly.
Go ahead and make your
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breakfast.
I hesitated.
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Something in my gut twisted, but
I didn’t press.
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I nodded and walked past her
into the kitchen, made my
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cereal, poured my juice.
My hands felt robotic, like I
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was watching myself do it.
I carried it all back upstairs,
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trying to push away that
lingering, sinking feeling a few
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minutes past.
Then I heard her footsteps on
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the stairs.
She came into my room and told
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me gently come downstairs and
sit on the couch.
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There was something in her voice
I didn’t recognize.
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It was soft but serious.
It made the hairs on my arms
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stand up.
She walked to my sister’s room
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next and woke her up, asked her
to come downstairs too.
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I sat on the couch and waited.
My sister sat beside me, half
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asleep, not knowing what was
coming, and then my mom sat down
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across from us.
She was quiet for a long moment,
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as if bracing herself.
Then she looked up, and
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everything about her, the
tension in her shoulders, the
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trembling in her voice, told me
something was very, very wrong.
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I need to tell you both
something, she said.
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This morning, your dad was in a
car accident.
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The air left the room.
My stomach dropped and he didn’t
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make it.
I didn’t cry, not right away.
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I didn’t scream or shout or ask
why.
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I just sat there, frozen,
staring at the carpet, trying to
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make sense of how the words he
didn’t make it could be real,
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because I already knew.
I’d seen it hours before I heard
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it.
I felt it.
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That dream, the one I had
brushed off, the one I convinced
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myself was nothing.
It had been a warning or a
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message or something I’ll
probably never understand, but
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it wasn’t just a dream.
I told my mom about it later, in
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bits and pieces.
I don’t think she knew what to
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say.
Maybe she believed me, maybe she
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didn’t want to.
But I know what I saw.
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I remember it, and I carry it
with me.
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I still think about that morning
more than I admit.
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About the stillness of the
house, about my mom’s face,
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about the shape of the blanket
on the couch where I sat when my
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childhood ended.
Some people believe dreams can
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tap into something deeper, a
thread that connects us to each
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other, to the world, to moments
that haven’t even happened yet.
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I used to think that was just
wishful thinking, but now I’m
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not so sure.
Because when I was 11 years old,
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I saw something I shouldn’t
have.
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And no matter how much time
passes, I’ll never forget that
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dream or the day it came true.
Now let Carrie’s story be a
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reminder that not all hauntings
come from places.
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Some come from within, in
memories, in moments of loss,
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and in dreams that know more
than we do.
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And Carrie, thank you for
trusting us with your
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experience.
Your story will stay with me,
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and I know it will stay with
every time traveler listening
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tonight.
Now, if you’ve ever had a dream
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that didn’t feel like just a
dream, maybe it wasn’t.
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And if you’ve got a story of
your own, whether it happened
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last week or decades ago, I want
to hear it.
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Head over to
paranormalnightshift.com and
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submit your story.
Don’t overthink it, just tell it
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how it happened.
And while you’re there, make
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sure you’re signed up for the
e-mail list.
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That’s where I send exclusive
stories that never make it to
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the podcast.
You’ll also get your free copy
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of The Birth of Dimensional
Desperado and early access to
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Book 2, which I’m working on
right now.
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For those of you looking to go
even deeper, check out our
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Patreon.
There’s a vault of ad free
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episodes, early releases, and
stories that go places I can’t
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even hint at here.
Until next time, sleep with
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intention, trust your instincts,
and if a story’s been sitting on
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your chest, it might be time to
let it out.
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I’m Andy.
Thanks for being part of the
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night Shift.
We’ll see you soon and good
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night.