My Wife Returned. But Something’s Not Right.
I buried my wife, Sarah, on a cold Tuesday in March. Cancer took her, and the last thing she said was, “Don’t let me be alone.” I promised I wouldn’t. But death doesn’t care about promises.
Three days after the funeral, I woke up to the front door opening. I live alone. Or I did. I grabbed the bat under my bed and crept down the hall. The smell hit me first—her scent, honeysuckle and lavender. Then her voice: “James? Why is it so dark?”
She was standing in the living room, like she’d just gotten home from work. Same jeans, same flannel shirt, same smile. Except she’d been buried in a white dress. I chose it myself. Her favorite.
I couldn’t speak. I just dropped the bat. “Sarah?” I finally managed to whisper.
“Of course it’s me,” she laughed, but it sounded rehearsed. “What’s wrong, James?”
I lied. I told her I missed her, that I loved her. When she hugged me, her skin was cold. That night, she climbed into bed beside me, her breathing shallow and mechanical. Every once in a while, she’d whisper my name like she was practicing it. James. James. James.
Over the next few days, she acted like nothing had happened. Cooked dinner, watched reruns, but she didn’t eat, didn’t blink, and never left the house. Her grave was still undisturbed. The caretaker swore nobody had touched it.
Then I found the photo. It was on my phone, timestamped at 3:17 a.m., two nights ago. A picture of me sleeping. Her face barely visible in the mirror behind me, smiling, watching. I didn’t take that photo.
I confronted her. “Sarah, what is this?” I said, holding up the phone.
She looked at it like it was a foreign object. “Why would I take a picture of you sleeping?”
“Maybe you did,” she said, smiling. “People do strange things when they’re grieving.”
That night, I locked the bedroom door. At 2:00 a.m., I heard scratching. Not on the door. From inside the closet. I haven’t opened that closet since.
She’s still here, pretending. But there are cracks. Her smile stretches too wide now. Her voice sometimes echoes. She hums a lullaby we never knew, one that makes my nose bleed when she sings it too long.
Two nights ago, I found her in the basement, staring at the boiler, whispering to it. It whispered back.
I packed a bag the next day, told her I had a business trip. She smiled and said, “Don’t be gone long. I hate being alone.” The exact words she said before she died. Word for word.
But she never knew I lied to her. The last thing I ever said to her on her deathbed was, “You’ll be fine. I’ll see you again.” Not “Don’t let me be alone.” I never said that back.
So how did she remember it?
I’m writing this from a motel three towns over. I thought I was safe until I checked the mirror this morning. There was a handprint on the glass. On the inside.
She’s coming. And she remembers everything.
#NotMyWife #HauntedByLove
