"The dead never knock. They slither into your life through the cracks you didn't know existed, wearing the faces of those you loved or feared."
The knock came at noon.
Three sharp raps, too precise to be accidental. I froze halfway through scrubbing blood off the kitchen tiles, my hands raw and trembling. Aiden hadn't appeared since the glass shattered two nights ago, but his absence haunted every corner. The apartment reeked of iron and frost, the walls pockmarked with shadowy stains that spread like mold.
Another knock.
"Amara?" A woman's voice, smooth as oiled silk. "I know you're in there."
The floor creaked as I stood, my knees popping. Through the peephole, a stranger stared back mid-40s, sharp cheekbones, hair the color of burnt copper piled into a messy bun. She wore a tailored black coat and a smile that didn't touch her eyes.
"Eleanor," she said, though I hadn't asked. "We need to talk about your ghost."
I didn't open the door.
She sighed. "The one who leaves frost on your sheets? The one who's starting to… change?" Her gloved hand pressed against the wood. "Let me in, darling. Before it's too late."
The deadbolt clicked on its own.
She swept past me, trailing the scent of incense and something darker burnt hair, maybe. Her gaze raked the apartment: the shattered windows patched with cardboard, the claw marks on the walls, the couch slashed open, stuffing spilling like guts.
"Charming," she said, peeling off her gloves. "Though I'd have gone with a warmer palette. All this gray makes the negative energy pool."
"Who are you?"
"A friend." She paused. "Well, a professional. Medium, spiritual hygienist, exorcist pick whatever term makes you feel better." Her eyes landed on the bedroom door, still splintered from where Aiden had thrown me against it. "Ah. The epicenter."
I blocked her path. "Get out."
"Or what?" She arched a brow. "You'll sic your boyfriend on me?" She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "He can't hurt me, sweetheart. But he's doing a number on you, isn't he?"
My throat tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar." She flicked her wrist, and the bedroom door slammed open. Cold rushed out, carrying the sound of static no, whispers. Dozens of them, overlapping, hungry.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Eleanor clicked her tongue. "Oh, he's angry. What'd you do, forget your anniversary?"
"Get. Out."
"Make me." She strolled into the bedroom, unfazed by the shadows thrashing like caged animals. Her fingers brushed the headboard, and the wood blackened beneath her touch. "You've let this fester too long. It's not just him anymore, is it? There's something else here. Something… older."
The air thickened. My breath fogged.
Eleanor turned, her eyes pitch-black. "What did you promise it?"
"Nothing!"
"Liar," she hissed. "The dead don't stay for free. They feed on deals. On sacrifices. What did you give it?"
A memory flashed Aiden's lips on mine, his voice muffled by the dark. Let me in. Let me stay. Just one more night.
And mine, desperate: Yes.
Eleanor laughed. "Oh, you sweet little fool. You opened a door, and now the whole damn house is coming through."
She made tea.
I don't remember agreeing to it, but suddenly we were at the kitchen table, steam curling from chipped mugs as she dumped a flask of something into hers. The scent of whiskey filled the air.
"Here's the thing about ghosts," she said, stirring lazily. "They're addicts. Love, rage, grief they'll mainline whatever you've got. But eventually, your pain isn't enough. They need more. You need more." She sipped her tea, her gaze sharpening. "When's the last time you slept? Ate? Called your mother?"
I glared. "I'm fine."
"You're a corpse with a pulse." She leaned back. "He's draining you. And that *thing* he brought with him? It's just getting started."
The fridge door rattled. Eleanor flicked her fingers, and it stilled.
"What is it?" I asked, hating the tremor in my voice.
"A collector. They thrive on unresolved business unpaid debts, broken vows, unkept promises." Her mug clinked against the table. "What did your boyfriend leave unfinished?"
The letter.
It burned a hole in my nightstand drawer, its edges singed. Marry me, it began. Marry me, marry me, marry me.
But I didn't tell her that.
Eleanor sighed. "Fine. Play dumb. But know this: every second he stays, he rots. And when there's nothing left of the man you loved, that *thing* will turn on you." She slid a business card across the table. Black ink, red borders. Eleanor Voss. Spiritual Remediation. "When you're ready to stop romanticizing your own doom, call me."
She left the way she came without opening the door.
Midnight found me on the terrace, the proposal letter crumpled in my fist. The city lights blurred as tears welled.
Aiden, you bastard. You couldn't just leave.
The air prickled.
"Amara."
He stood in the doorway, barely solid, his edges bleeding into the dark. The scars had spread, consuming half his face, his left eye a void.
"You lied," I said. "You said you'd fight."
"I am fighting." His voice echoed, layered with whispers. "But I'm losing."
"Because of this?" I shook the letter. "You stayed to propose? To play house?"
"I stayed because I loved you!" Shadows lashed, cracking the concrete. "Because even death couldn't kill that!"
"This isn't love!" The paper tore as I hurled it at him. "This is greed. You're holding me hostage!"
He caught the fragments, his hands trembling. "You think I want this? To watch you waste away? To feel myself becoming… this?" He gestured to his corrupted body. "I'm trying to protect you!"
"From what?!"
"From me!"
The admission hung between us, raw and bleeding.
I stepped closer. "Then let go."
He backed away. "I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I'm scared!" The confession tore from him, ragged. "I don't know what's next. What if there's nothing? What if I'm just… gone?"
My anger crumbled. "What if you're not?"
We stood in silence, the wind carrying the scent of rain and decay.
"Stay with me," I whispered.
He closed his eyes. "Always."
Eleanor's card glowed in the dark, taunting me.
I tucked it under the mattress.
Just one more night.
"The living mourn the dead. The dead mourn the living. And somewhere in between, love becomes a funeral no one survives."