Til Death Do Us Part

I buried my husband on a Tuesday, and by Wednesday morning, he was making coffee in our kitchen. It wasn’t a dream, I know what dreams feel like. Vague around the edges, smokey shapes, all that nonsense. But this was solid, tangible. The hiss of the kettle, the bitter smell of coffee grounds, and the low hum of his favorite record spinning in the background. James should’ve stayed dead. I made sure of it.

The police said it was an accident, a carbon monoxide leak from the garage. I nodded, cried at the acceptable times, wore black, and accepted casseroles. They never suspected that I had sealed the vents myself. He was never supposed to open his eyes again.

But there he was.

Wearing the same navy sweater he died in, still damp at the collar from where he always spilt his coffee. I stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding as he turned around with that charming crooked smile.

“Morning, Clara. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. He kissed my cheek, warm and alive, and walked past me, humming the same off-key tune.

The next morning, his body was gone from his casket. The funeral home apologized profusely and said there must’ve been a mix-up at the morgue. I nodded again. Cried again.

But by Friday, I wasn’t the only one who had seen him.

The neighbor’s dog wouldn’t stop barking at the fence. Mrs. Bronte swore she saw James at the post office, holding a red umbrella. My best friend Jenna stopped answering my calls after I tried to tell her what was happening, thinking I must be seeing things in my bereaved state.

So I did what any rational woman would do.

I tried to kill him again.

This time, I used poison. Laced his evening tea with enough insulin to drop a horse. I watched him sip it. Watched him choke, stagger, and collapse. I didn’t flinch.

I buried him in the woods that night, far away from the prying eyes of neighbors and anyone else who happened to wander by. No headstone. No funeral.

And yet, this morning, he was back again.

Wearing that same damn navy sweater.

“Morning, love,” he said, grinning wider than ever. “Rough night?”

Now I‘ve locked myself in the bathroom. He's knocking on the door. Soft, steady.

“If you’re not careful,” he calls, “you’ll make me do something we’ll both regret.”

I think I married the devil.

And worse—

I think he still loves me.