I Married A Ghost But Death Wants Him Back

“WHAT THE?”

I scrambled backward so fast I fell off the bed entirely. My elbow hit the floor, and my phone slipped out of my hand. For a second, all I could think about was not what was happening, but who was standing in the apartment my late grandmother had left me three months after her funeral.

The apartment I moved into was entirely for practical reasons. My lease had ended two weeks after Mei died, and this place had been empty anyway, bigger than my old apartment.

He stood near my window, arms at his sides, watching me as if I had personally offended him. I stared at him, taking in his appearance and what he was wearing.

He was tall, dressed as if he had stepped out of a 1940s photograph. Crisp white collared shirt, sleeves rolled once, dark trousers. His hair was coal-black, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. But the worst part? The curtain behind him was faintly visible through his left shoulder, rippling like he was made of smoke and bad decisions.

“You,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough, “are not Elara.”

The words slid down my spine like ice water. I snatched the only weapon within reach, my tangled phone charger, and thrust it forward like a pathetic sword.

He looked at it, then looked at me, and said calmly, “That will not help you.”

“Get. Out.” My voice cracked on the second word.

“I can’t.” He said it without menace, which somehow made it worse. “This is my home.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. “This is my apartment. I have a lease, a security deposit, and, newsflash, living tenants do not usually come with translucent husbands!”

“And I have been here since 1944.”

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. I could see my breath now.

I scrambled to my feet, back pressed against the wall. “You are a ghost?”

He looked down at his own hands as if confirming it for himself, then offered a small, bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It would appear so.”

My charger slipped from my fingers and hit the floor with a useless thunk.

“I am Ren,” he continued. “And you are my wife.”

I pinched my cheek hard, nails digging into skin. Wake up. If this was a dream, I’d better wake up right now. Sweat formed on my forehead even though there was no heat in the room at all. The sting burned, but nothing changed. The man stayed exactly where he was.

He tried to step closer. I immediately stretched out my palm. “Don’t come any closer.”

It was not a dream. It really was not a dream. I found my voice again and lifted my pale gaze at the man. He had folded his arms and stared at me like I was the one going crazy here.

“I am your what?”

“My wife,” he repeated like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started pacing the room, heart hammering against my ribs. “You know what? I don’t care if this is a dream or not, or even if I am actually losing my mind, but get the hell out of my room. I don’t know how you want to, either through the floor, window, air, whichever way you came in, get the hell out right now.”

I stretched my hand toward the door, hoping the motion would scare him away. He didn’t even flinch. He watched me, calm and unbothered, as if he had all the time in the world and I was the temporary guest in his haunted life.

He unfolded his arms slowly and said my name. “Luna.”

A violent shiver raced down my spine. My skin prickled as if invisible fingers had just brushed the back of my neck. How did he know my name? I had never told him. I had never said a single word about who I was.

“Your grandmother sent me here,” he continued. “Mei Sato. She made an arrangement before she passed. Why would you not believe me?”

I froze. The room disappeared for a second. I was back in the hospital again, the sharp smell of antiseptic burning my nose, the weak squeeze of her hand in mine, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Three months. It had been three months since she died, and I still didn’t know how to exist without her.

Tears spilled hot down my cheeks before I could stop them. I swiped at them angrily, but more came. Nothing made sense. None of this made any sense at all. A ghost in my bedroom. A dead man who knew my name. My grandmother arranging something from beyond the grave. My chest tightened until breathing hurt.

Ren tilted his head slightly. His voice stayed low and steady. “If you still doubt me, check the box your grandmother gave you before she died.”

The box.

The memory hit me like cold water. I had pushed it to the back of my mind for weeks. I dropped to my knees beside the bed and dragged the wooden box out from underneath. Dust clung to the lid. My name was written across the top in Mei’s elegant, careful handwriting.

I had not been ready to open it at first, which was just a kinder way of saying I was terrified of whatever final message she had left behind. But one sleepless night, I finally lifted the lid anyway.

Inside lay a photograph of a woman who looked so much like me that it made my skin crawl. Same wide eyes, same shape of the face, same slight tilt of the head when she smiled. Folded beneath it was dark fabric that still carried the faint scent of old smoke and incense.

Several brittle documents covered in illegible handwriting rested at the bottom. And tucked carefully beneath everything was a single card in my grandmother’s familiar script.

He has been waiting long enough. Be patient with him.

My stomach sank. The tears stopped, replaced by a deep, bone-chilling horror.

Slowly I lifted my eyes back to Ren. For the first time since he appeared, real terror settled deep in my chest.

“…You.”