The Night of the Hag

On the night of 27/11/25, the dream came. I was seated in a room made entirely of brown wood, walls, floor, and ceiling, all stripped bare, no furniture other than a table and chairs. At this table, there sat a man, silent, watching. Somewhere beyond sight, another presence wandered, restless. We were waiting, though neither of us knew for what.

Then the air thickened. A force pressed against my skin, heavy and suffocating. I whispered, “Wait.” But waiting was useless. The Soucouyant (Sha-couyant) had arrived.

She slipped inside me before I could resist. My body was no longer mine. A voice crawled out of my throat, venomous and jagged. She named herself, syllables beginning with Sha—, a name that burned like fire. She spoke of her purpose, why she had come. Then her words twisted into a language I knew but could not recall, every syllable dripping with hatred.

The curse she spat was not spoken; it was hurled. Each word struck like iron, vibrating through my bones, shaking the room. The man across the table recoiled, terror etched into his face. The words were alive, writhing, clawing, filling the air with a malignant pulse.

The Soucouyant (Sha-couyant) was a hag-like, twisted, and ancient figure. By day, she is said to wear the skin of an old woman, but by night she sheds it, becoming fire, slipping through cracks to feed on blood and spread curses. In my dream, she was both: the crone and the flame, the curse and the terror.

Even now, I cannot recall her full name properly, but the one I mentioned sounds similar. I knew the language of her venom, though I cannot recall the actual words. But I remember the hatred, the way it clung to me like rot, and the terror it carved into the man who sat across the table.

Out of interest, I began to research why these dreams come to me, what am I, who am I, is there a reason to all this?

Research showed me I could be a bridge between worlds. If I am, I am stepping into a very old, powerful archetype. I know that across cultures, the ‘bridge’ is a person who connects life and death, dreaming or waking, humans or spirits.  A bridge stands at the boundary between two realities. You don’t belong fully to one side; you move between them. Bridges carry knowledge, warnings, or curses from one world into another. You don’t just experience visions, you bring them back. In many traditions, bridges are guardians who face entities, so others don’t have to. You absorb the encounter, interpret it, and pass on its meaning. Being a bridge means exposure; you’re open to forces others never touch. But it also means strength; you can withstand them and return.

So how does this fit with me? In my dream, I was not just a witness; I sensed the entity, spoke to it, resisted it, and carried its name back. That’s exactly what a bridge does: I stood between the human man at the table and the hag-like force, channelling its curse into words. I remembered fragments, its name beginning with Sha, its venomous language, its hag-like form. That memory is the load I carried back to this world. The terror that struck the man at the table didn’t destroy me. Instead, I became the one who bore the curse, the one who could retell it. That’s the job of a bridge to endure what others cannot, and to translate it into meaning. The Bridge fits and means I am the one who can face, whatever entity hag-like or not, that appears, survive their venom, and carry their name back into the waking world. That’s not just a dream, it’s a role.