Chapter 3: Ghost Bride

I had no choice. She sat in a chair, clutching her wound, and painfully asked, “Do you have any savings?”

She rocked, tears streaking her cheeks, her voice raw and pleading.

I said no.

My throat was dry. The word barely made it out.

She broke down, “I’m still short a few thousand. After I wired the money, he said there’s a penalty of five thousand to get my million out.”

She sobbed, hands shaking, bills falling from her grip. The weight of her choices finally seemed to settle on her.

At this, Mom lost it.

She tore at her hair, rocking in the chair. Her cries grew louder, words tumbling in a mess of grief and rage.

She staggered into the small room, straddled my sister’s corpse again, slapped her, and sobbed, “It’s all your fault, you bitch! If I get torn apart today, I’ll drag you out and whip your corpse—you won’t have it easy either!”

Her anger was wild, desperate—looking for anyone to blame. She spat the words as if they could hurt the dead.

I looked at my sister in the small room and felt a chill.

Her presence felt heavy, oppressive—like the room was holding its breath.

She’d been changed into a red wedding dress.

The dress gleamed in the dusty light, silk and lace where there should have been cotton and denim. It was beautiful and terrifying—like a flower blooming in a graveyard.

Everything the preacher said not to do, Mom did.

Every forbidden step echoed louder, daring fate. I felt the weight of every wrong choice pressing down on us.

Remembering the preacher’s warnings, I grew nervous and subconsciously lit a cigarette.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the lighter. I hadn’t smoked in months, but I needed something familiar.

But as soon as I took a puff, the cigarette burned my mouth.

A sharp pain made me jerk it away, coughing. The flavor was bitter, acrid—wrong.

Looking closer, the cigarette had burned to the end in a single drag.

Ash dropped to the floor. My hands trembled as I stared.

How was that possible?

I tried to reason it out, but nothing made sense. It was as if the laws of nature had just bent in front of me.

A cigarette should last at least two minutes—how could it burn up in one drag?

I lit another, not smoking this time, just staring at it.

The flame danced, the paper crinkled, and the cigarette withered, the ember racing to the filter as if sucked by an invisible mouth.

The cigarette burned rapidly, and the smoke drifted toward my sister.

I watched, frozen, as the thin line of smoke snaked across the room, heading straight for her face.

My sister wasn’t breathing.

She lay still, eyes closed, lips parted. No movement, but the smoke kept moving.

Yet the smoke drifted into her nose.

It was like watching a trick in reverse—a body that should have been empty pulling in something from the air.

Suddenly, a phrase popped into my mind, making my hair stand on end:

A ghost eats incense.

The words were old, half-remembered from childhood stories whispered during storms. My stomach clenched.

That’s what was happening to my sister.

All the warnings, all the signs—this was something beyond anything I’d seen or heard. My heart pounded as the realization hit.

The preacher was right. Something was terribly wrong with her.

The chill in the air deepened, and for the first time, I truly feared what might come next.

Mom was still focused on beating my sister, not noticing any of this. I hurried upstairs. The preacher saw my panic and asked what was wrong.

He stood by the banister, eyes sharp. "What happened?" he whispered.

I swallowed and asked, “Does a cigarette count as incense?”

My voice was barely a whisper, my hands shaking.

His eyes widened. “Has the ghost started eating incense?”

He took a step back, face pale. His words came out slow, heavy with dread.

I nodded frantically.

I could barely breathe, terror squeezing my chest.

The preacher shivered, then said, trembling, “It’s over. It’s all over. A ghost eating incense in broad daylight—your sister’s resentment is too strong. By midnight, you’ll all be dead.”

He ran his hands through his thinning hair, voice dropping. “We don’t have much time. Not anymore.”

I was desperate.

The world spun, the edges of my vision blurring. My options had shrunk to nothing.

All because of my mother—now both the living and the dead wanted us gone.

A sense of hopelessness settled in, cold and final. There was no one left to turn to.

I asked the preacher what to do. He thought for a long time, then a burst of angry voices floated up from the living room.

He pressed his lips together, mind racing, as relatives arrived.

The familiar, mournful chorus of family grief echoed through the house.

My sister had always been diligent and kind. Though Mom hated her, everyone else thought she’d done right back then.

Aunts and uncles remembered the girl who raked their yards, babysat their kids, brought casseroles to funerals. Their sorrow was genuine.

I looked out and saw Mom collecting condolence money from the relatives.

She hovered by the door, hands outstretched, murmuring thanks as her eyes darted from envelope to envelope.

She wanted to gather five thousand to wire to the scammer, still lost in her millionaire dream.

Each dollar was just another brick in her fantasy mansion.

The preacher seemed to have an idea. “We can’t fight it, but we can hide. Tell me, do you want to live?”

He leaned in, voice urgent. “There’s a way out, but it’s not what you’d expect.”

“Of course I want to live.”

I blurted it out. Survival was all I had left.

He grabbed my hand, took a paring knife from my drawer, and slashed my wrist.

Pain exploded in my arm. I gasped, blood welling up.

Blood spurted out.

My vision swam, the world tilting. The preacher’s hands were steady, his eyes determined.

I clutched my wrist. “What are you doing?”

My voice broke, panic flooding me. I searched for any sign this was just a nightmare.

He said, “Letting out your blood to weaken your energy—make you half dead. Come with me.”

He explained in a rush, dragging me toward the stairs as he wrapped my wrist in a dish towel.

He dragged me downstairs. Mom was too busy fighting with the relatives to notice.

The living room was chaos—voices raised, tempers flaring, nobody noticing the boy bleeding on the stairs.

She was collecting condolence and wedding gift money.

She hustled from group to group, always with an outstretched hand and a rehearsed smile. It was a grotesque performance, grief-for-hire.

The relatives saw my sister, dead just hours, dressed in a red wedding dress, and cursed my mother.

One cousin gasped, then shouted, “What kind of sick joke is this? She’s not a bride—she’s gone!”

A cousin couldn’t take it. She threw money in Mom’s face and shouted, “Keep this for your own grave! Screw you, you shameless old witch, dressing my dead cousin in red and painting her face!”

Bills fluttered to the ground. The room went silent for a moment, the insult hanging heavy.

That was the final break.

More relatives followed, all cursing Mom.

A chorus of angry voices rose, each one echoing the same bitter sentiment—grief twisted into rage.

But they all gave money anyway, because they pitied my sister and wanted her to rest in peace. They thought their money would give her a proper burial, not knowing it would all go to the scammer.

In the end, compassion overruled anger. They pressed bills into Mom’s hands, hoping it would buy peace, never suspecting it would only feed her greed.

Mom didn’t care about the insults. The relatives left quickly after coming.

She pocketed the cash, face set in a grim smile. As soon as the door shut, she forgot every angry word.

The once lively house soon grew cold and empty.

Without the noise, the silence returned, thick and suffocating. The house felt haunted by absence.

Mom counted the money happily, glanced at me and the preacher. I quickly hid my bleeding hand behind my back.

Her eyes lingered for a moment, but she was already thinking about the next step. I turned away, hoping she wouldn’t notice my pain.

Mom sneered at the preacher, “What good are you now? I’ve already collected the money. I don’t need your help.”

Her voice dripped with contempt. She’d always hated anyone she couldn’t control.

The preacher ignored her.

He busied himself checking the lock on the back door, eyes darting around as if expecting disaster.

Mom told me, “You’re pretty sensible, putting red makeup on your sister while I was busy. When I’m a millionaire, I’ll give you a million. It’s all for this family.”

Her words sounded hollow, a twisted echo of promises she’d made a thousand times. She never noticed the pain on my face, or the red-stained towel in my hand.

She kept saying it was for the family, not noticing her own son’s hand was bleeding.

I pressed my hand to my side, trying to stanch the flow. She never looked up, never saw the price I paid for her schemes.

But what shocked me was:

The thought hit me like a slap. I didn’t put red makeup on my sister. I thought Mom had done it.

My hands were busy cleaning and bleeding. I hadn’t touched her face since she died.

Because the richest man’s men were watching, Mom had to ask one of them to go to the bank with her to deposit the money.

She hustled out with one of the thugs, leaving us in the gloom.

The preacher saw no one was watching and quickly pulled me into the inner room.

He moved fast, voice low and urgent. “Come on, hurry—this is your only chance.”

I saw my sister’s corpse and felt even more creeped out.

Her body was still, but there was a sense of movement beneath the skin—a wrongness that sent shivers through me.

She was dead.

But her face was rosy, her lips red—not like a corpse at all.

It was as if someone had painted her alive, cheeks glowing, mouth smiling faintly. It was uncanny, almost beautiful—if you ignored the truth.

Red wedding dress, embroidered shoes, silver hairpin.

She was dressed for celebration, but the room felt colder than ever. The bright colors only made the darkness deeper.

These things on my sister gave off an unspeakable eeriness.

The hairpin glinted in the half-light, the shoes shone under the hem. Nothing felt right—every detail screamed of something unnatural.

The preacher muttered, “The most sinister thing in the world is a ghost bride. I hope I can save you tonight.”

He crossed himself, jaw set, fear and determination in his eyes.

He brought a rag for my hand, then told me to hide in the crawlspace—the old root cellar—under my sister’s body.

He pointed at the trapdoor in the floor, the one we used for potatoes and onions. My stomach twisted at the thought of crawling in there.

I asked why.

The question slipped out, dread making my voice small.

He said, “You’ve lost too much blood, your life force is weak. If you hide in the earth with a corpse above, your energy will be so low your sister will think you’re dead and won’t harm you. At midnight, no matter what happens, don’t make a sound.”

His voice was deadly serious, eyes never leaving mine. “Not a word, not a breath—no matter what you see or hear.”

He squatted, grabbed my shoulders, and said, “Remember, if you speak, your sister will know you’re alive.”

He shook me gently, drilling the warning in. “It’s your only shot. Don’t blow it.”

The root cellar wasn’t big, but I squeezed in, and the preacher shoved me the rest of the way.

It was musty and cold, the dirt floor pressing against my back. I curled in on myself, praying I could stay silent.

Hiding there, maybe I could also escape the richest man’s men.

I tried to convince myself this was all a nightmare. But the pain in my wrist told me it was real.

I told the preacher, “I don’t have much saved, but if I survive, it’s all yours.”

It was a desperate offer—one last attempt to bargain with fate.

He said excitedly, “I’m not doing this for money. Who could bear to see a young person die?”

His voice softened, a rare kindness shining through the fear. For a moment, I believed him.

My heart ached.

The pain was sharp, raw—grief and guilt tangled together. I pressed my head into my arms, trying to hold myself together.

Even a stranger knows a young person’s life is precious.

It was a truth I’d forgotten in this house, where hope had been traded for money long ago.

But my own mother could watch her own daughter die.

That was the hardest part to swallow—that the one who should have cared most was the first to betray.

The preacher suddenly asked, “Did you help your sister before and after she died?”

His question was soft, almost hesitant.

I shook my head. “I didn’t help.”

The words were heavy, full of regret.

He asked, “Why not?”

There was no judgment, only curiosity—a need to understand my silence.

I was silent.

The truth stuck in my throat. I had failed her, and nothing could change that now.

Before she died, my sister cried, ‘You gave birth to me. If I die, let this life be my repayment to you. With a mother like you, every day I live is disgusting.’

Her last words haunt me—resentment and resignation in every syllable. She’d given up hope long before her body gave out.

I knew what kind of life my sister had after the scam.

Every day was a struggle, a fight for dignity. She was a ghost long before she died, drifting through the house unseen.

There was no family, no mother.

She’d been orphaned by grief and neglect.

When my sister cooked, Mom would throw food in her face.

I remembered the splatter of mashed potatoes, the humiliation in her eyes.

When she slept, Mom would slap her in bed.

Night after night, I heard the crack of palm on skin, the muffled sobs.

Every day, Mom called her a murderer who killed Dad.

The words were poison, seeping into every moment.

Because of this life, my sister suffered severe depression.

I saw her withdraw, the light in her eyes flicker out. Some wounds never heal—they just fester in the dark.

She longed to return her life. Such a mother-daughter relationship made every day disgusting for her.

Her spirit was broken before her body ever gave up. The pain was written in every line of her face.

I had a ridiculous thought.

It flashed through my mind—selfish, stupid, cruel. But it was there.

I thought, since her life was so painful, maybe she shouldn’t live. So when Mom killed her, I didn’t help.

The guilt burns in my chest. I told myself it was mercy, but deep down I knew it was cowardice.

To this day, I don’t know if I was right or wrong.

Regret eats at me—a question I’ll carry until the day I die. I remembered once, years ago, when she shared her sandwich with me at school even though she was hungry herself. The memory twisted the knife deeper.

The preacher saw I didn’t answer, so he didn’t press further. He handed me a bag of white rice and said, “When your sister leaves, scatter the rice at the doors and windows. She won’t be able to come in. My grandma used to say ghosts can’t cross a line of rice—keeps their souls from following you. But be careful not to be seen by anyone. Ghosts can’t come in, but people can.”

He pressed the bag into my hand, eyes fierce. “It’s your only defense—don’t waste it.”

I reflexively said, “My sister is dead. Dead people don’t move. How could she leave?”

Even as I spoke, a chill crawled up my spine. I wanted to believe it was impossible, but nothing felt impossible anymore.

The preacher didn’t speak, just stared at me.

The silence stretched, heavy and final. I knew then I was truly alone.

He said if I made it past midnight, I’d be fine, and hurried away.

His footsteps faded, leaving me in darkness. I gripped the rice like a lifeline.

Not long after, the sun set.

The house grew colder, the sky outside turning indigo. Shadows gathered in every corner, pressing in.

Mom came back. I heard her in the yard, saying, “After midnight, my money will be unfrozen. Then I’ll be richer than your boss.”

She laughed, voice echoing through the window—hollow as the house itself.

I knew she’d wired another five thousand to the scammer.

There was no hope left—only her stubborn delusion, eating away at everything.

I hid in the root cellar, dizzy from blood loss.

The dirt was cold and damp against my cheek, and the earthy smell made me want to gag. The air was thick and musty, darkness absolute. I pressed my forehead to the dirt, trying to stay awake.

Sometimes I drifted off, sometimes I forced myself awake.

Every time my eyelids drooped, I jolted back—afraid of what might come if I let go.

Because the preacher said not to make a sound, I was afraid I’d snore in my sleep.

I pinched my arm, bit my lip—anything to stay quiet, to keep myself anchored.

Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat.

A cold dread washed over me. I held my breath, listening.

A pair of red shoes appeared before my eyes.

They hovered above the trapdoor—gleaming in the moonlight, impossibly bright.

My sister was moving.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping it was a trick. When I opened them, the shoes were still there.

Was it midnight already?

Time had lost all meaning. The world outside was silent, as if holding its breath.

Because I kept dozing off, I hadn’t realized how quickly time had passed.

Panic flared. I pressed my bleeding wrist to my chest, willing myself to stay still.

Those feet hovered over the opening.

They didn’t move or shake. She was floating, weightless.

I swallowed, covered my mouth, not daring to make a sound.

My breath came in shallow gasps, terror making my whole body tremble.

I watched as those feet touched the ground.

They landed with a soft thud, too quiet, too precise. I held my breath, every muscle tense.

My sister wore red shoes, her toes exaggeratedly pointed, supporting her whole body on just her big toes.

It was unnatural—her body balanced in a way no living person could manage. The sight made my stomach lurch.

Her way of walking was strange.

Each step was deliberate, almost ritualistic. The silence in the house pressed in, amplifying every sound.

Her knees didn’t bend. With each step, she tiptoed high, legs straight, heels never touching the floor.

She looked like a puppet on invisible strings, moving with a jerky grace that was mesmerizing and horrifying.

The world was silent—only my own breathing and heartbeat.

The night was absolute—no crickets, no wind, nothing but the slow drum of my pulse in my ears.

Even though Mom had lost her daughter, she wouldn’t check. She waited outside, dreaming of millions, oblivious to the nightmare inside.

She didn’t know there was a ghost bride in the house.

It was the kind of secret that would haunt us for generations, whispered in the dark but never spoken aloud.

My sister sat in front of the old vanity, picked up a comb, and gently combed her hair.

The vanity mirror caught the moonlight, reflecting her movements in eerie silence. She moved with the slow, practiced grace of a woman preparing for a night she’d never see.

I relaxed a little, because the mirror was in front of me, and my sister sat with her back to me, blocking me from the mirror. She should only see herself, not me.

I let out a shaky breath, praying I’d stay hidden, that the root cellar trick would work. My fingers tightened on the bag of rice.

But then, my sister suddenly turned her head.

The movement was slow, dreamlike. I froze, breath trapped in my chest.

I was frozen with terror.

For a moment, I thought my heart had stopped. Every muscle screamed to run, but I couldn’t move.

Her head twisted all the way around, staring straight at me.

Her eyes locked on mine, dark and bottomless, filled with a grief I’d never seen. The world shrank until it was just the two of us—sister and brother, living and dead.

At that moment, I looked at the mirror—and realized there was no reflection of her at all.

The mirror showed only an empty chair, the comb hovering in midair. My sister’s eyes met mine—and I realized I was already dead to her.