My Dead Husband Screams at 3 A.M. Every Night

I was so startled that I dropped my phone directly onto my plastered, broken leg. The noise next door stopped. All that remained was dead silence and my own heartbeat, hammering like it might burst out of my chest.

No way. It was absolutely impossible.

Zach, that mute bastard, had been dead for a month. I made sure his body was completely gone.

By now, it would have turned to mud. If he could talk, he would have been in heaven, screaming at me, not standing next door playing ghost.

I grabbed my phone. My fingers trembled as I tapped the screen. It was the audio file I had secretly recorded earlier.

Perhaps it was just my mind playing tricks on me, or just some hallucination brought on by painkillers.

I pressed play. The progress bar moved.

Only a harsh, static buzz came through. It sounded like a bad connection or some kind of interference. There was nothing else.

There was no man’s roar, no woman’s moan, not even that chilling curse—“Lindy, you’ll die for this.”

I turned the volume all the way up, pressing my ear almost against the speaker, but there was only that dead, electric hiss. What happened?

I bought this phone less than six months ago and spent over 3,000 dollars on it. It usually recorded with sounds that were crystal clear, so why did it fail at the worst possible moment?

I flung the phone onto the bed. The hiss seemed to crawl around in my brain.

This old apartment had walls thinner than paper. If someone really shouted my name next door, I would have heard it even without recording it.

I had to find out who was there.

Even if Zach did come back from the dead, I would kill him all over again.

I grabbed my crutch and, despite the stabbing pain in my leg, inched toward the door. The corridor outside was dark and narrow, crammed with the neighbors’ junk. It smelled of mold and rotting leftovers.

I pressed my ear to the door while holding my breath, straining to catch any sound from the apartment across the hall.

There was only silence. It was too quiet.

It was like that heart-wrenching scream from earlier had been swallowed by the iron door, leaving nothing behind. Perhaps I had just imagined it.

I had been taking a lot of painkillers for this leg. My brain was probably foggy. Zach had only recently died, so I might be scaring myself out of guilt.

I spat on the ground, silently calling myself a coward. There were no ghosts, only unpaid debts and insurance money yet to collect.

I turned around to head back to my bed. My crutch struck the floor with a sharp clack. Then, the shadow under the door shifted. Someone was standing on the other side.

I held my breath and peeked through the peephole.

The corridor’s motion-sensor lights had been broken for years. It was pitch-black, and there was only a sliver of light leaking past the door across the hall. In the weak glow, a pair of black shoes sat neatly on the concrete outside my door.

It was Zach’s favorite pair of shoes. The ones he wore the night he died. The same ones I had thrown into the fire for his damned parents.

Cold sweat soaked the back of my shirt. I stared at the shoes. My hands gripped the crutch until it was slick with sweat.

No.

If Zach had truly come back as a vengeful spirit, he would not leave the shoes at the door. He would have walked straight through the walls to strangle me.

Someone was playing tricks.

I yanked the door open, and the shoes continued to lie there. Their tips pointed at my threshold as though they were waiting to step inside.

I swung my crutch and sent them rolling into a pile of moldy boxes in the hallway.

“Who the hell is messing with me? Show yourself!”

I yelled down the empty corridor. My voice echoed, triggering the motion lights on the lower floor, but my level stayed pitch black.

The electric drill sound continued from next door. The iron door stayed shut, sealed like a coffin. There was no response.

A surge of anger rose in my chest. I pounded the door with my crutch.

“Anyone in there? Open up!”

The door rattled under my blows. My palms turned red, but no one answered.

Just then, the landlord, Mr. Wesley, came up the stairs carrying a birdcage. He froze for a moment when he saw me.

“Whoa, Lindy! Your leg’s broken and you’re still banging on doors? What’s going on?”

I shot a glance at Mr. Wesley and pointed at the door across the hall. “When was this apartment rented out? Who’s living there?”

Mr. Wesley shifted the birdcage behind his back. He was keeping it a secret from his wife, and I had even helped cover for him before.

“Just a couple of days ago. A blind woman. I felt sorry for her, so I gave her a discount.”

Blind woman?

I frowned. “Just a blind woman? No one else? No man?”

Mr. Wesley shook his head like a rattle. “Nope. Just her. Lindy, maybe you miss your husband too much? She’s disabled. What man would be with her?”

My ears rang, and my nerves screamed in protest.

Just a blind woman? There was no way a blind woman could handle carpentry!