Chapter 4: Twenty Years With My Ghosts

“You’ve got that look—irritable, selfish, always gotta be in control.”

“Your wife’s family is well-off. You lured her into smoking, drinking, fighting, sleeping together. She broke with her parents for you, but you started suppressing her, manipulating her, telling her, ‘You had sex with me in the school bathroom—who else would want you?’”

I watched his face darken, anger flickering in his eyes. The chat was glued to every word.

“Shut up! She said her family was oppressive—I gave her freedom.”

He leaned forward, voice rising, trying to reclaim the narrative.

I smiled at the camera:

“What, showing your thug side so soon? Did you have this look when you hit her too?”

I let the words sink in, not breaking eye contact. The chat exploded with accusations and theories.

“From the face reading I guessed it was domestic violence.”

“So he really beat his wife to death? Did you call the police? If not, I will.”

“So it’s about matching social status.”

“Girls should never marry down—it’s not about vanity, but mindset. He married up, so to protect his ego, he has to suppress her.”

“Maybe his wife cheated! He seems to really love her—maybe she cheated and he couldn’t take it.”

...the chat kept going.

I quickly stopped the audience from calling the police.

“Hold up, everyone. This isn’t what you think.”

His wife, Clara, was indeed dead—but not killed by him.

I let the truth settle, watching his face crumble.

“Your wife’s disappearance has nothing to do with you directly. Even though you beat her and forced her to ask her family for money, she never thought of leaving you. Love-brain is a hard disease to cure.”

“She couldn’t understand why you were so gentle before marriage but changed after. She started to reflect—maybe she wasn’t good at managing men, maybe she did something wrong!”

The chat filled with heartbreak and frustration, some blaming her, others blaming him, a few just quietly mourning.

“Love-brain, love as painkiller.”

“That’s obvious—men act before marriage to get a wife.”

“Didn’t she break with her parents for him? How could she still ask for money?”

“Poor and abusive—disgusting. Who dates men like this!”

“Men are for filtering, not training. If training worked, his mom would’ve done it.”

...the chat kept going.

The chat got a bit nasty.

Mr. Lonely’s elegance vanished. His triangular eyes glared at the camera:

“You don’t understand. Poor couples have many woes. Clara is an only child—her parents’ things will be ours. I’m just helping her get them early. As for domestic violence—men working hard outside will lose their temper. What man doesn’t hit women? Hitting her doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

“I’ve searched and waited three years—what other man would do that?”

He spat the words out. Daring anyone to contradict him. The chat recoiled in disgust.

I mocked: “Your cheekbones are sunken, three whites above your eyes, thick lips, spring in your brows. From your face, you’re lustful, lack self-control, love to fool around—even after marriage you can’t settle, prone to cheating. In these three years, you haven’t lacked women, and with your ‘deep love’ act, plenty have thrown themselves at you.”

His face twisted. Lips curling.

“Shut up! Say one more word and I’ll rip your mouth off! One last time—where is my wife Clara?!”

His voice was raw, desperate, the mask slipping for good now.

“Streamer, stop dragging it out—is his wife dead or not? Where is she?”

“I think the truth is scarier than we think. If his wife has been missing for three years, and he’s made a fortune from his ‘deep love’ act, why does he insist on finding her even if his act collapses?”

“Maybe the streamer is wrong—Mr. Lonely really loves his wife?”

“Believe a man’s ‘I love you’ and you’ll divorce three times.”

...the chat kept going.

I took out the Mirror of Reminiscence: “You already know where your wife is, don’t you?”

The mirror rippled, showing the past.

Three years ago, on a dark, stormy night, Clara—pregnant—tried to stop Jared (Mr. Lonely) from gambling.

The scene was grainy, like an old home video. Thunder rattled the windows, the rain slashing at the glass. Clara’s voice was pleading, her hands on her belly.

But drunk, Jared, annoyed, kicked her out:

“Crying, crying—you ruined my luck.”

He slammed the door, leaving her in the hallway, alone and vulnerable.

Their apartment was in a city alley full of shady people.

It was the kind of place where bad things happened and nobody asked questions. The hallway was dim, the only light a flickering bulb overhead.

Beautiful, weak Clara was targeted, raped, killed, and her body destroyed.

The memory played out in gut-wrenching silence. The chat was stunned, horrified, some typing prayers, others too shocked to react.

Jared slept soundly inside, drunk.

He snored, oblivious, while the world outside shattered. The guilt on his face now was unmistakable.

Mr. Lonely’s face turned ashen, hope shattered, but he refused to believe it:

“Impossible! Her parents must have hidden her—you’re all lying. I want to see her dead or alive.”

He pounded the table, voice cracking. The chat watched, silent and uneasy.

I raised an eyebrow: “You’re a gambling addict, your debts have only grown these past three years. With her family’s money, they could have paid them off. Now that you know she’s dead, you’re unwilling to accept it? Do you know, Clara is also unwilling—she wants to stay with you even in death.”

I let the truth hang in the air, heavy as a storm.

After that, I opened his third eye.

With a whispered incantation, I let him see what I saw. The screen shimmered, and then—

Clara was clinging tightly to his right shoulder, her ghostly form as she died.

She looked just as she had in her final moments—dress soaked in blood, eyes wide with sorrow and love. The chat gasped as her form flickered into view.

Blood soaked her white dress. Still dripping.

It pooled at her feet, staining the floor. The air in his apartment turned icy.

She gazed at Jared with deep affection, but her face was smashed, brain matter oozing onto his arm.

It was a grotesque, heartbreaking sight—love and violence tangled together. Jared recoiled, screaming.

On screen, the man’s pupils shrank, his whole body shaking:

“G-g-g-ghost, ah… don’t come, don’t… streamer, master, save me, there’s a ghost…”

He flailed at the air, eyes wild with terror. Clara only held on tighter.

He waved his hands, but Clara clung to him, inescapable.

Her grip was gentle, but unbreakable. The chat watched, transfixed.

I smiled. But it was a curse. “Jared, you have twenty years left—may your family of three never part, and live happily.”

Yes! Behind him, unseen.

A purplish baby ghost clung to his back, strangling his neck, calling, “Daddy.”

The baby’s voice was thin, almost sweet, but the sight was chilling.

“Damn! The streamer’s saying his wife has been with him all along? Goosebumps.”

“This is loving even in death?”

“Damn, two lives lost—how desperate was she?”

“Thinking of the tears of the past, a ball in the tower for a good match.”

“My brain is fried—so Mr. Lonely is a gambling addict, looking for his wife to get her inheritance!”

...the chat kept going.

Work in the afterlife has hours. I told the audience I was logging off.

I stretched, rolling my shoulders. “Alright, babies, I’m clocking out—see you tomorrow at midnight.” (Yeah, I call my chat babies—don’t judge. It’s a thing.)

“Babies, I’m clocking out—see you tomorrow at midnight.”

I winked at the camera, letting the tension fade. The chat filled with goodnights and memes.

A private message popped up in the app:

“I’m Clara’s adoptive mother. We raised her for years, but she insisted on marrying that thug. We’ve searched for her for three years—thank you for revealing the truth. If possible, please help us send her on.”

She sounded formal. But you could hear the grief. I checked her profile, curiosity piqued.

I checked her profile—CEO of the Benson Group, powerful woman, blessed, soon to have another child.

She looked tough. Eyes like steel. She’d built an empire, but the loss of her daughter weighed heavier than any business deal.

But Clara refuses to move on—maybe to torment Jared, maybe because she can’t let go.

Love and hate. Sometimes, it’s the same thing.

After underworld training, Lila asked:

“Isn’t Article 17 of the Afterlife Convention about not letting vengeful ghosts stay in the living world, to prevent harm?”

She quoted the rules like a model student. She glowed. More confident every day.

Looking up from the underworld files, I saw Lila had regained her beauty from life.

She glowed, her hair smooth, her eyes bright. The other ghosts watched her with a mix of awe and envy.

“A tree dies if it doesn’t move, a person lives if they do. I made a contract with Clara—if she harbors any evil, she and her son will be destroyed instantly.”

I made it clear. Rules are rules—but everyone gets a shot at redemption.

Then I thought:

“Oh, right—do you know anyone in the living world?”

“No. If I had to say, only the President of the Looks League.”

“Great! Then give him another dream—I’ll send you the details later.”

I grinned, already planning the next haunting. Sometimes, you gotta give karma a push.

The next day, a news story trended online.

The headline blared: “Young Man’s Dream Leads to Cold Case Breakthrough.”

A young man reported a corpse in a city alley apartment, and police dug up a body there.

Every detail matched Clara’s fate. The city buzzed with rumors, the chat going wild.

The killer was quickly caught and confessed, saying he killed her out of spite toward her husband.

It was the kind of story that makes the rounds on every true crime podcast. The chat speculated, debated, mourned.

The man was suspected by police for knowing so much, but he broke down crying:

“I dreamed it—the ghost gave me the dream. I’ll never judge by appearance or bully women again. Please stop haunting me.”

He sobbed on camera, snot and tears mixing. He went viral in no time.

Unbeknownst to him, he became Lila’s designated dream messenger—but that’s another story.

The afterlife works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, karma needs a delivery guy.

In a city alley apartment in Maple Heights.

Peeling paint. Broken blinds. City noise outside. Jared sat alone in the shadows.

Jared covered his eyes, curled in a corner, filthy, nothing like the elegant man from the livestream.

His hair was matted, clothes stained. The bravado was gone, replaced by a hollow shell.

“Go away… go away, all of you, don’t come near me.”

His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. The room was freezing, the air thick with sorrow.

The long-haired ghost girl clung to his shoulder, holding a bowl of oatmeal, her bloody eyes staring at him.

She hovered inches from his face, her gaze unblinking. The oatmeal sloshed in her hands, thick and lumpy. Even I felt sick.

“Honey, you searched for me for three years. Now I’m right here—why won’t you look at me?”

Her voice was soft, almost sweet, but the words were twisted with pain.

The baby ghost, with a purplish body, clung to his pants, giggling:

“Mommy, does Daddy not like me? Daddy, I’ll give you my eyeball.”

The baby’s laughter was eerie, echoing off the bare walls. He reached up, plucking out his own ghostly eyeball, offering it with a gurgle.

He popped out his own eyeball.

Even I felt sick. The sight was so grotesque it made my stomach turn, even after all these years.

Jared couldn’t take it, knelt and begged, wailing:

“Please, let me go, stop haunting me, go move on—I’ll light candles for you.”

He sobbed, snot running down his face, hands clasped in desperate prayer.

The temperature dropped, icy cold.

Frost crept along the window, breath visible in the air. Jared shivered, teeth chattering.

Jared begged even harder.

He pressed his forehead to the floor, tears pooling beneath him. His pleas grew more frantic, voice cracking with terror.

But the next second, the baby ghost pinned him to the wall.

The baby’s tiny hands grew sharp, nails digging into Jared’s skin. He gasped, unable to move.

He strangled Jared’s neck, sharp nails scraping his face:

“Daddy still wants to leave me and Mommy? I’ll scratch Daddy’s face so he can’t escape.”

His voice was sing-song, but the threat was real. Jared whimpered, eyes rolling back in fear.

The ghost girl floated in front of him, scooping oatmeal into his mouth:

“Honey, did you forget our vows? You said we’d never part for all lifetimes.”

“Baby, Daddy doesn’t want to run—he’s just hungry. I’ll feed him oatmeal—his favorite.”

She spooned the oatmeal into his mouth, her movements slow and deliberate. He gagged, but she kept feeding him.

The oatmeal was yellow and green, crawling with worms and spiders.

It squirmed on the spoon, a nightmare given form. Jared retched, but there was no escape.

Jared suddenly remembered what the beautiful streamer said in the fortune-telling livestream:

“Jared, you have twenty years left—may your family of three never part, and live happily.”

The words echoed in his mind, a curse and a promise. And in the darkness, the ghosts held him tight. Love, inescapable as fate.