We hang skeletons in windows and call it Halloween.
But the real ghosts live in bloodlines.
I saw a picture once, a boy beside a devil.
The caption said: If you don’t face your demons, they’ll raise your child.
I never forgot it.
Demons don’t vanish.
From father to son, mother to daughter, disguised as temperament, tone, silence.
A fear unspoken becomes a rule.
A wound ignored becomes tradition.
A lie repeated becomes culture.
Every generation passes something down, not just love, but residue.
That’s how the curse keeps its passport stamped.
To break it, you don’t fight the devil outside.
You face the one that speaks with your own voice.
You look at it and say, It ends here.