Our spine-tin­gling dreams that gave us a glimpse of the future

... from read­ers who wrote in with their as­ton­ish­ing sto­ries

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A FEW weeks ago we told the story of neu­ro­sci­en­tist Dr Ju­lia Moss­bridge, who has ex­pe­ri­enced ‘pre­cog­ni­tion’ — ac­cu­rate vi­sions of the future. Her ac­count prompted a flood of let­ters and emails from read­ers who be­lieve they too have re­ceived a warn­ing of future events. Here we share some of their un­nerv­ing ex­pe­ri­ences. So, are you con­vinced? A RUSH TO VISIT MUM — I KNEW THE END WAS NEAR

In AprIl 1987 I awoke with the ut­most cer­tainty that my fa­ther had ter­mi­nal can­cer. I tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t.

My fa­ther, then aged 70, was fit and well and thought me daft, but I in­sisted he see the Gp and even drove him there.

Within two weeks he was di­ag­nosed with pan­cre­atic can­cer and he passed away four weeks later.

A few months after that, I was stand­ing in the kitchen peel­ing pota­toes when I sud­denly knew my cousin’s hus­band would pass away shortly. I lit­er­ally dropped the knife and ran to phone her. A stranger an­swered, say­ing am­bu­lance­men were work­ing on her hus­band, who had col­lapsed.

I could hear my cousin screaming, so I said: ‘Tell her I will meet her in A&E.’

I reached hos­pi­tal just as my cousin was told he had died at 46, with no history of heart prob­lems.

In november 1994, I awoke know­ing my mother would pass away within seven days. She was 72 and had de­men­tia, but was oth­er­wise well and ac­tive. I vis­ited her care home that day and the man­ager re­as­sured me she was well, with no tem­per­a­ture and noth­ing to make staff con­cerned.

I went home, but became so un­easy I phoned an un­der­taker and went back to the home to leave in­struc­tions for when she passed away.

I think staff be­lieved I was hav­ing some sort of break­down. I even con­tacted friends and rel­a­tives sug­gest­ing they visit her. Most said they would ‘ leave it un­til the week­end’, oth­ers re­minded me how well she’d been.

After six days even I was be­gin­ning to think it must be in my imag­i­na­tion, but as I sat read­ing in bed with the clock ap­proach­ing mid­night, the phone rang. I started get­ting dressed — I knew who was calling be­fore my hus­band picked it up.

My mother had passed away in her sleep.

Have there been oth­ers? Yes: sometimes friends, sometimes strangers I have merely brushed against, in a su­per­mar­ket per­haps. Quite sud­denly I have been over­whelmed by a sense of the sad­ness about to de­scend upon them, or the emo­tional pain they will suf­fer for a rel­a­tive. I walk away, feel­ing I have in­truded into their life. This ‘aware­ness’ is not some­thing I asked for, nor is it a bless­ing. Mary Robert­son, Glas­gow.


THE night be­fore the 2011 tsunami in Japan, I had an in­cred­i­bly vivid dream that I was in a bus on a coastal road when a huge wave ap­peared.

The wa­ter en­gulfed the bus, rapidly ris­ing to the win­dows. I was ter­ri­fied and knew I wouldn’t es­cape. In the morn­ing I told my part­ner as I couldn’t shake off my ter­ror.

A few hours later, the news be­gan to break of the tsunami. One piece of footage showed the wave en­gulf­ing a bus on a coast road, ex­actly as I’d ‘ex­pe­ri­enced’. I went cold. I’ve never trav­elled to that part of the world, or even thought about it.

I’ve had other pre­cog­ni­tions and

they are not al­ways fore­telling tragedy — some are inane.

Like the time I was in a theatre per­for­mance. The night be­fore, I had a vivid dream that a child ac­tor was sick on stage and we had to stop the play. And that’s ex­actly what hap­pened. Geral­dine Cetin, Poole.


I Am 73 and through­out my life I’ve oc­ca­sion­ally heard a ‘voice’ — I can’t de­scribe it as a thought, it’s too pro­found for that.

my first ex­pe­ri­ence was wav­ing good­bye to my god­mother in my 20s. As I turned round for one last wave, I was ‘told’ I would never see her again. I re­mem­ber think­ing, ‘ how ridicu­lous’. She died sud­denly soon after.

Years later, my mum was ad­mit­ted to hos­pi­tal and told me she had been dis­cussing her fu­neral ser­vice with my sis­ter — just in case some­thing went wrong. I was hor­ri­fied, but my voice said: ‘Go on, say it to her.’

I found my­self telling my de­vout Chris­tian mum: ‘If you do go, please come back and give me a sign you are all right.’

Sadly, she died un­ex­pect­edly on the op­er­at­ing ta­ble. We were called to the hos­pi­tal, and I can only de­scribe what hap­pened as hear­ing her shout­ing at me from above: ‘ I’m all right, I’m all right.’ A week or so later, I was look­ing through sin­gles ads in the lo­cal pa­per with­out much hope — I was a sin­gle mum and long­ing for a part­ner, but had been un­suc­cess­ful with the ads be­fore — and the voice said: ‘Try it one more time.’

I did, and met my now hus­band six weeks after my mum died. Pam James, North Som­er­set.


One day, as I walked my dog, an old lady came out to her front gate to have a chat. Over time we became friends: Joan would look out for me and share her in­ter­est­ing life sto­ries. Sadly, I later heard from a neigh­bour that Joan had died sud­denly.

I asked if I had missed her fu­neral, but the neigh­bour had no in­for­ma­tion. I was up­set I had not had the chance to say good­bye. A few morn­ings later, a strong feel­ing came over me to put on a cer­tain lilac scarf — one I’d hardly worn — and walk past Joan’s house. As I reached her house, cars drew up and cou­ples got out. I called out: ‘Are you Joan’s rel­a­tives?’ They said: ‘Yes — are you com­ing to our mum’s fu­neral? It’s now and you’re wear­ing lilac like us, just as mum re­quested.’

With Joan’s fam­ily, I said my good­bye. Eileen Rowe, Cheshire.


When I re­ceived a letter giv­ing the date of my hys­terec­tomy I was glad, as I had been suf­fer­ing pain for some years.

how­ever as the weeks went past I started to feel real fear. I’d had pre­vi­ous op­er­a­tions, and never felt this way.

A huge, heavy dark cloud hung over me, and a cold sense of dread. each week made it worse. I told my hus­band I had a great fear of dy­ing and cried about not com­ing home for Christ­mas.

The morn­ing of the op, I dis­cussed my fear with the con­sul­tant. he took my hand and re­as­sured me that I was healthy and he had done thou­sands of hys­terec­tomies.

As I came round, I felt mar­vel­lous and some­what silly for wor­ry­ing. The re­lief was amaz­ing. Two days later I de­vel­oped sep­sis. I had an emer­gency op­er­a­tion to re­move 10cm of in­tes­tine and was given a 20 per cent chance of sur­vival. After 15 days in a coma I came round, caught pneu­mo­nia and spent seven weeks in hos­pi­tal — miss­ing Christ­mas at home.

Since then, my pre­cog­ni­tion has de­vel­oped. It’s not some­thing I can switch on and off at will, but I have come to trust what I see. In a strange added bonus, if I wake dur­ing the night I can see the time, writ­ten dig­i­tally in red, in my head. I am rarely more than a cou­ple of min­utes out. Liz Adams, New­cas­tle un­der Lyme.


On The morn­ing of Septem­ber 10, 2001, I woke up feel­ing very un­set­tled after a dream about a plane crash­ing into a building. I asked my hus­band if he had seen a plane crash on the news, but he hadn’t.

I told him about my dream of the crash and peo­ple fall­ing. I rarely dream, so some­thing this vivid quite up­set me.

It stayed with me all day — I felt un­easy, and men­tioned it to my work col­leagues. At the time I was a staff nurse in a day surgery unit.

The next day, Septem­ber 11, 2001, a col­league called me into a room where a TV was show­ing the hor­rific ter­ror­ist at­tacks on the Twin Tow­ers in new York. It took my breath away as it was my dream from the day be­fore.

my col­league said: ‘ Oh my good­ness, that’s what you were telling us yes­ter­day!’ I was glued to the TV like the rest of the world. I was quite shaken as it was so sim­i­lar. If I hadn’t told so many peo­ple about it the day be­fore, I don’t think I would have be­lieved it my­self. Heidi Nemeth


mAnY years ago I booked tick­ets to a Pink Floyd con­cert at Crys­tal Palace. Be­fore­hand, I dreamed about the event with dis­turb­ing ac­cu­racy, al­though I had no pre­vi­ous knowl­edge of the venue.

In my dream, the stage was fronted by a river with swirling mist. Pink Floyd were play­ing a song un­fa­mil­iar to me, but upon wak­ing, the tune stayed in my head.

Imag­ine my sur­prise when I reached the venue. There was no river, but there was a size­able lake by the stage. Dry ice blocks were thrown in, cre­at­ing mist.

When Pink Floyd struck up a new song, it was in­stantly recog­nis­able to me from my dream. It was only much later on that I learned it was called em­bryo.

It was not re­leased on a stu­dio al­bum un­til 1983, and the con­cert was in 1971! Over the years I’ve also dreamed cor­rectly about crash­ing my mo­tor­cy­cle, a re­mote un­cle turn­ing up lo­cally for a job in­ter­view and sud­den snow­fall after a hot Oc­to­ber day.

The dreams were ex­tremely vivid and so dif­fer­ent from the usual mud­dled stuff dreams are made of. I’m con­vinced some­thing we don’t fully un­der­stand really ex­ists.

But I have made con­scious ef­forts over the years to shut out my pre­cog­ni­tions, as they make me feel un­com­fort­able.

I’m now 67, and it is some­thing I had cast aside; un­til, that is, I read your re­cent ar­ti­cle and re­alised I was not alone. Thanks for shar­ing. Martin Red­wood, Gwent.


I WAS vis­it­ing a new cus­tomer, who lived in a bun­ga­low in Dorset. I walked in and bizarrely, the words ‘ sugared almonds and liquorice, mr Boakes’, just blurted out of me. mr Boakes said noth­ing, but walked into his kitchen and from a top shelf took down a Tup­per­ware con­tainer of sugared almonds and liquorice.

I closed my eyes and saw a short man, with a flat cap and round glasses and cov­ered in black dust. I re­lated this and mr Boakes was amazed — I had de­scribed his late fa­ther, a coal­man.

I have had hun­dreds of ex­pe­ri­ences like this. They tend to oc­cur in dreams, or when my mind is at rest. my wife is now never amazed! Wil­liam, Dorset.


mAnY years ago, on a visit to Lon­don I walked past a large de­part­ment store. Op­po­site was a pub play­ing loud Ir­ish mu­sic.

Sud­denly I felt an over­whelm­ing ir­ra­tional fear. I was im­me­di­ately drenched in sweat with my heart beat­ing fast and I knew I had to get away — fast.

When I turned the cor­ner my con­di­tion re­turned to nor­mal.

A week later, IRA ter­ror­ists ex­ploded a bomb at har­rods — the store I had rushed past. my ex­pe­ri­ence was a one- of f , thank­fully, as it was fright­en­ing. Tony Shar­man, Cam­bridge.

Pic­ture: GETTY

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