As a child, you were always convinced that something was just beyond your vision, lurking past a closed door or behind an opaque shower curtain.
“Why are you so afraid?” your mother asked, as you curled your feet away from the kitchen tablecloth that hung, suspiciously, to the floor. You could not explain.
You learned how to find out, though. You learned, in dreams and in waking, how to use your spirit. It tingled just below your breastbone, your spirit did, and when you probed it past where your senses could inform you of anything, it would listen and feel and tell you. And it never failed. You reached your child-spirit into the closed doors of your house, perceiving the jerky, angry movements of your parents, no one-eyed chimeras, the parlor curtains twisting in the breath of the wind, no translucent ghosts, your ancient Mastiff dead on his soft plaid pillow, no shambling zombies.
You were always right.
You ask now. You reach now. Your spirit probes the ether. God, it asks? God?
You feel nothing.