A Dead Lover's Lingering Shadow

Gavin

Modern | Completed

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I was strapped to a bomb, pregnant and terrified, using my last moments to call the man I loved. But Arthur didn't send help; he hung up on me because his foster sister, Ivy, was "scared of a noise" outside her apartment. Ten minutes later, the explosion erased me and our unborn child from existence. My spirit didn't cross over. I was cursed to remain as a ghost, tethered to Arthur. I watched him block my number, convinced my silence was just a "jealous stunt." I watched him ignore my missing person report until he stood over my charred remains in the morgue, clutching the locket he gave me. His grief was agonizing, but the truth was worse. A year later, during a staged kidnapping meant to win him back, Ivy slipped up. She admitted she had orchestrated my murder to keep him for herself. As Arthur looked at her with pure hatred, the bond holding me to him finally snapped. But I didn't leave. A dark, cold force pulled me toward Ivy instead. My pain is over, but her nightmare is just beginning.

Kidnapping Revenge Pregnancy Revenge Pregnancy

Chapter 10

12-05 13:55

Chapter 1

She died betrayed. He lived in lies. Now, her ghost is bound to the one who let her die-until the truth sets her free, and a new haunting begins.

Chapter 1

Erykah Phelps POV:

The rough jute sack scraped against my bare arms, each movement a fresh burn. It was stifling hot, the air thick with the smell of dust and something metallic-an abandoned textile factory, just like the news said. My head throbbed. I tasted blood. Garth Figueroa, a name I' d only heard in Arthur' s whispered nightmares, was finally real. He stood over me, his face a roadmap of scars, a chilling grin twisting his lips.

"Hello, Erykah," he slurred, his voice raspy, like gravel grinding. "Heard you were carrying Arthur's little secret."

My stomach clenched. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the dull ache in my belly. How did he know? I hadn' t even told Arthur yet.

"He put me away for too long," Garth continued, circling me like a hungry shark. "Five years. Five years I thought about this. Thought about him. And then I thought about you." His gaze lingered on my midsection. "His weakness. His biggest regret, waiting to happen."

He gestured to a hulking figure next to him, who stepped forward. My eyes widened. He was holding something-a vest, thick and heavy, covered in blinking lights and wires. A small, digital display glowed red, counting down.

"This is going to be swift, baby," Garth chuckled. "But the message? That's going to last forever."

He shoved the vest onto me. The cold metal pressed against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. I tried to scream, but a gag was roughly shoved into my mouth, choking off the sound. The vest clicked into place, snug against my chest. The red numbers on the display burned into my vision. 9:58. My heart hammered against my ribs.

Garth leaned in close, his breath foul. "You tell Arthur Holmes that Garth Figueroa sends his regards. Tell him this is just the beginning." He wrenched the gag out. "Now, make the call." He shoved a burner phone into my trembling hand. "Call your detective. Tell him you need him."

My fingers fumbled with the cold plastic. Arthur. My Arthur. Hope, thin as a spider silk, tried to unfurl in my chest. He would come. He had to. I dialed his number, my thumb clumsy on the buttons. It rang once, twice.

"What do you want, Erykah?" Arthur's voice, clipped and impatient, blasted through the speaker. It wasn't the voice of someone worried. It was the voice of someone annoyed.

My breath hitched. "Arthur," I gasped, my voice raw, "I'm in trouble. I'm at the old textile factory-"

Garth snatched the phone, his grin widening. "Too slow, baby."

Arthur's amplified voice echoed from the phone, which Garth held just out of my reach. "Erykah, seriously? You couldn't pick a worse time. Ivy just heard a scary noise outside her apartment, and she's really shaken up."

My stomach dropped, not from fear of the bomb, but from the familiar, crushing weight of his dismissal. Ivy. Always Ivy.

"You know, this is exactly what I mean," Arthur' s voice continued, oblivious. "Always with the drama. Every time I try to focus on something important, you find a way to make it about you. Can't you just grow up?"

The red numbers on the device were now 9:15. Grow up? My life was ticking away, and he thought I was playing games.

"Arthur, please," I pleaded, tears stinging my eyes. "It's not a game. I'm-"

"No, you know what?" He cut me off again, his voice rising. "I'm done with this. Ivy needs me right now. She's my family. You need to understand that."

Then I heard it-a whimper, small and fragile, coming from Arthur's end. Ivy. Her weaponized incompetence, perfectly deployed.

"Arthur, who is that?" Ivy's voice, thin and reedy, floated through the phone. "Is it Erykah again? Is she still calling you even when I'm scared?"

"She's just being ridiculous, Ivy. Don't worry about it," Arthur said, his tone softening instantly when he spoke to her. "I'll handle it. You know I'd never choose anyone over you."

My heart shattered, pieces scattering like glass across the dusty floor. He hung up.

The line went dead, replaced by the eerie silence of the factory and the relentless countdown. 8:59.

Garth let out a low whistle. "Damn, Holmes. That's cold. Even for you." He looked at me, a strange flicker of pity in his eyes. "He really doesn't care, does he?"

He didn't. He never really did. That was the crushing truth. Garth and his cronies turned and walked away, their footsteps echoing into the gloom. I was left alone, strapped to a bomb, my world crumbling around me.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring the red numbers. It hurt worse than any rope burn, any blow. Arthur. My love for him had been a wildfire, consuming everything, leaving me hollowed out and charred. I had believed in us, in him. I had convinced myself that his strange loyalty to Ivy was just a leftover from a traumatic childhood, a brotherly bond. He' d spun tales of Ivy, his foster sister, his only family, a delicate flower who needed his protection. He called her fragile, susceptible to anxiety, prone to imaginary terrors. I bought it, all of it. I told myself it was empathy, not enabling.

But Ivy wasn't fragile. She was a master manipulator, pulling Arthur's strings with effortless ease. She was the "scary noise" outside her apartment, the "bad dream" that required Arthur to sleep on her couch, the "urgent plumbing leak" that canceled our anniversary dinner. Every manufactured crisis, every tearful phone call, chipped away at us, at me.

"She needs me more than you do, Erykah," he'd say, his eyes distant. "She's been through so much. You're strong. You get it."

I hated that. I hated being strong. It meant I was always the one left to pick up the pieces, while Arthur ran to Ivy' s side. Once, he missed our engagement party. Our engagement party. He was with Ivy, comforting her after she claimed to have seen a "shadow" in her apartment. He' d shrugged off my hurt. "It's just one party, Erykah. Ivy was genuinely terrified."

When I tried to set boundaries, to ask for just a sliver of the attention he lavished on Ivy, he'd snap. "You're jealous, Erykah. That's not a good look. Ivy is family. You're my girlfriend. There's a difference."

The difference was, she was his priority. I was an afterthought. The realization hit me now, with the force of a physical blow, stripping away years of self-deception. Arthur Holmes never loved me, not in the way I loved him. He loved the idea of me, perhaps. The comfort, the stability. But his heart, his attention, his unwavering loyalty-they belonged to Ivy.

The digital timer on the bomb flashed 8:03. I swallowed, the taste of blood in my mouth suddenly bitter, not from a physical wound, but from a deeper, more profound hurt. I pulled out my own phone, the one Garth hadn't taken. My thumbs, still trembling, typed out a message. One last message. To Arthur.

"I regret every second I wasted loving you. We are over. Don't look for me. Ever."

The screen glowed, then went dark. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the relentless ticking. I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on my face. The timer hit 0:00.