#souls — Public Fediverse posts on home.social

Lisa J. Warner / Lisa Luv @[email protected] · 2026-07-10 · 21:51 UTC

👁️👁️🤠💁🏿‍♀️*You Can Tell Someone Is An Old Soul By 9 Phrases They Say In Casual Conversation👉

9 Phrases Old Souls Say In Casual Conversation | YourTango
https://www.yourtango.com/self/phrases-old-souls-say-casual-conversation

#old #souls

lifeloveandstories @lifeloveandstories.wordpress.com@lifeloveandstories.wordpress.com · 2026-07-05 · 18:00 UTC

SHORT STORY: The Dance of the Lost Souls

“Some dances are meant for the living. Others are meant to remind the dead they are not alone.”

That was a saying children in my village learned long before they even knew what words were.

“When the wind begins to sing, go home.”

No one laughed at the warning.

No one questioned it.

As a young adult, I thought the adults were simply trying to frighten us into behaving. Every village had stories meant to keep curious children from wandering into rivers, climbing dangerous trees, or disappearing into the forest.

Ours simply happened to involve spirits.

Deep beyond the river, where the forest grew so thick that sunlight rarely reached it, stood an ancient silk-cotton tree. Its roots were as wide as houses, curling through the ground like enormous sleeping snakes.

No one went there. Not hunters. Not herbalists. Not even the oldest elders who claimed to fear nothing.

According to the stories, that was where the lost souls gathered every year on the Eve of Hallows.

Not to haunt.

Not to hunt.

To dance.

The dead, my grandmother used to say, were not always angry.

Sometimes… they were simply lonely.

My grandmother loved stories more than anyone I had ever known.

Every evening, after supper, she would spread an old woven mat and I would curl up beside her, resting my head against her lap. She always smelled of shea butter, and smoke from the kitchen fire.

She would tell me the story of “The Dancing Souls.” But whenever she was about to tell me that story, her voice became quieter.

The smile disappeared from her face.

“Grandma,” I once asked, “have you ever seen the dance?”

Instead of answering, she looked toward the forest.

For a very long time.

“I’ve seen enough.”

“Are they evil?” I asked

“No.”

“Then why can’t people watch them?”

“Because sorrow can be just as dangerous as evil.”

“I don’t understand.”

She placed a wrinkled finger against my forehead.

“One day you will.”

Another evening, I asked why everyone hurried home before eight.

Grandma looked around to make sure no one was listening.

Then she leaned close enough that I could hear the softness in her breathing.

“If anyone calls your name from the forest after sunset…”

“…don’t answer.”

“What if it’s you?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it sounds exactly like you?”

Her eyes met mine.

“Especially then.”

“What happens if someone answers?”

Grandma stared toward the forest again.

“The dead miss being alive.”

She said

“And sometimes…”

“They don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

I never forgot those words. I also never truly understood what she meant but they lingered on my mind even after we left the village, even after life changed.

My parents moved us to the city. They said there were better schools and better opportunities. I mean they weren’t wrong but moving to the city was quite stressful, it was loud, bright, and always awake. There were roads that stretched farther than I could see, buildings that touched the sky, and neighbours who barely knew each other’s names.

Life became busy. School became harder. Friends came and went.

The village slowly became something I remembered only in fragments. Then… Grandma died.

She passed peacefully in her sleep. I never got to say goodbye.

For months afterward, I would wake believing I had heard her calling my name.

“Mya.”

No one else called me that.

Only her.

I had always hated my middle name.

Grandma insisted it carried an ancient blessing.

I’d wish I could hear her say it just once more.

Years slipped by. Life became work. Work became routine. Routine became years.

The village slowly faded into memory. I had no one to tell me these stories and soon after I forgot about it all.

Until my father’s seventieth birthday.

“I’m celebrating at home,” he announced one Sunday over lunch.

My mother blinked.

“Here in the city?”

“No.”

“Our village.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then my father looked at me.

“You haven’t been back since your grandmother’s funeral.”

He was right.

I hadn’t.

The journey took nearly five hours from the city.

As we left the highways behind, smooth roads gave way to narrow dusty paths lined with towering palm trees and thick forests.

The air changed, it smelled of rain, fresh leaves, wood smoke, and rivers.

Almost nothing had changed.

Children still chased tyres down the road.

Women still sold roasted corn beneath umbrellas.

Old men still gathered beneath the giant iroko tree, arguing about politics no one intended to solve.

Only the houses looked different.

Many now had painted walls and metal gates instead of mud bricks and wooden fences.

Progress had found its way here, but not enough to erase the soul of the village.

Our family house stood exactly where I remembered. Not far from the river and during the evenings, the townspeople came out to the river to play.

That evening, while my parents had visitors already trooping in to visit, I wandered to the riverbank alone, and there it all started coming back to me.

I watched as children laughed as they splashed one another. Women washed clothes while humming songs. Everything felt beautifully ordinary, yet beneath that familiarity something felt missing.

My Grandma, she would have been sitting on her mat waiting for me. I knew I had to visit her the next day as it was already getting late and people had begun leaving the riverbank.

The next day, while my parents were out preparing for the birthday party, I decided to go visit Grandma’s grave. I sat there telling her stories about my life in the city and lost track of time. I had to rush back home, I knew my parents would been worried as there was no cellular network to reach me.

By the time I reached home, my parents were waiting outside.

“Mya!”

My mother rushed over.

“We’ve been worried sick.”

“You know there isn’t any phone signal,” my father added.

“I know, I’m sorry, I lost track of time.”

The following morning, the village buzzed with unusual excitement.

Young boys hurried through the streets handing out printed flyers.

Across the top, written in bold black letters, were the words: EVE OF THE HALLOWS

I immediately remembered when my grandma used to tell me stories about it, but I didn’t think they were real obviously I just thought they were meant to scare children.

I sneaked out of the house later that night, I found my way to the forest and the deeper I went the more I kept hearing strange music and it kept drawing me closer. It was like I was chasing something but couldn’t quite name it.

As the moon shined brighter as if directing my path, I soon reached the clearing, a place filled with mist over the ground, the moon shined brightly through it as if creating figures with it. It was silent and cold, yet I was anticipating as I walked through it and came to a big tree. That’s when I saw them, pale, translucent figures, floating through the mist past me toward the tree. Their faces were blurred, but between the mist they became figures.

My heart started racing as I had never seen anything like this. My feet rooted in place, I was both terrified and mesmerized. I wanted to turn back and run as I kept getting a feeling I wasn’t supposed to be there.

A voice, soft and familiar, whispered my name.

Not the name everyone knew.

The one only one person had ever used.

“Mya…”

Every hair on my arms stood upright.

My heart forgot how to beat.

Because I knew that voice.

I had known it since childhood.

It clicked in my head.

To Be Continued…

Thank you for reading!!!

Love,

Dupe Abiona

#books #dance #dancingsouls #eveofhallows #fiction #fictionalwriting #Magic #shortnovels #shortstories #souldance #souls #story

#books #dance #dancingsouls #eveofhallows #fiction #fictionalwriting