A Ghost's Vengeance For Lost Love

Name: A Ghost's Vengeance For Lost Love
Rating: 4.3 (2 reviews)

Gavin

Short stories | Completed

4.3

Comment(s)

8.3K

View

Chapters

My family stormed into my apartment, not to celebrate my prestigious science award, but to drag me to my influencer sister' s party. They didn' t know that just downstairs, I was bleeding out on the cold basement floor after an attack. With my last breath, I called for help. My brother texted me to "grow up." My mother left a voicemail scolding me for my "embarrassing little tantrum." My last hope was my fiancé, Daxton. I gasped that I thought I was dying. He sighed, annoyed. "Anabella, you' re being dramatic. Don't ruin Kamryn's big night." Then he hung up. They thought I was jealous. They thought I was trying to steal my sister's spotlight. But I wasn't. I was dead. And now, as a ghost trapped in my own home, I have to watch the people who let me die... and wait for them to finally find my body.

Family Fantasy Betrayal Revenge BE

Chapter 10

09-29 11:34

Chapter 1

My family stormed into my apartment, not to celebrate my prestigious science award, but to drag me to my influencer sister' s party.

They didn' t know that just downstairs, I was bleeding out on the cold basement floor after an attack.

With my last breath, I called for help. My brother texted me to "grow up." My mother left a voicemail scolding me for my "embarrassing little tantrum."

My last hope was my fiancé, Daxton. I gasped that I thought I was dying.

He sighed, annoyed. "Anabella, you' re being dramatic. Don't ruin Kamryn's big night."

Then he hung up.

They thought I was jealous. They thought I was trying to steal my sister's spotlight.

But I wasn't. I was dead.

And now, as a ghost trapped in my own home, I have to watch the people who let me die... and wait for them to finally find my body.

Chapter 1

Anabella Hawkins POV:

The last thing I ever felt was the cold, unforgiving concrete of my basement floor pressing against my cheek.

Then, nothing. A strange lightness bloomed in my chest, pulling me upward. The sharp, coppery scent of my own blood faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of the air itself. I was floating, a spectator to my own tragedy, watching the body that was once mine lie still in a rapidly spreading pool of crimson.

I was dead. And the world, my world, kept turning without me.

The first sign of it was the sound of the front door slamming open upstairs. No knock. No gentle call of my name. Just the rude intrusion I' d grown accustomed to.

"Anabella!" My half-brother Jamal' s voice boomed through the house, laced with its usual impatience. "Stop being a child and answer your phone."

I drifted through the ceiling, a ghost in my own home, and watched him stomp into my pristine, minimalist living room. He kicked off his shoes, leaving scuff marks on the pale hardwood floors I' d polished just yesterday morning. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression one of pure annoyance.

My family was here. Not for my award ceremony, of course. For something far more important: to drag me to my sister' s influencer party.

"Honestly, Godfrey," my mother, Jeanne, said, her voice sharp as glass as she followed him in. "I don' t know why we even bother. She' s always been like this."

My father grunted his agreement, his eyes scanning my bookshelves with disdain, as if the collection of medical journals and research papers was a personal affront to him. "Thinks her little science fairs are more important than family."

"It' s the Zenith Medical Service Award, Dad," I whispered, but the words were just puffs of silent air. No one heard me. No one ever really had.

I watched them, these people who were supposed to love me, as they invaded my space with an air of ownership. Jamal flopped onto my white sofa, pulling out his phone. My mother ran a finger along my coffee table, checking for dust.

"Where could she be?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "She' s not answering her calls."

Jamal scoffed. "Probably sulking in her room. You know how she gets." He stood up and headed for my bedroom. I floated after him, a powerless observer. He didn't hesitate at the closed door, just pushed it open and scanned the empty room. My bed was perfectly made. My desk was organized, research notes stacked in neat piles.

He saw my laptop, open on the desk. With a sigh of profound irritation, he walked over and jiggled the mouse. The screen lit up, showing my private blog. It was a simple, password-protected page, a digital journal where I' d documented the quiet heartbreaks of my life. The title on the screen read: "The List: 99 Times and Counting."

"What is this?" he mumbled, leaning closer. "'The 99th time.' Pathetic."

He didn't click. He didn't care enough to try. He saw the number not as a tally of pain, but as a mark of my immaturity. He reached out and slammed the laptop shut with a sharp crack. The sound echoed in the silent room, a final, dismissive gesture.

He turned away, leaving the room and my last unheard words trapped inside the cold plastic and metal.

My mother was on her phone now, her thumb hovering over my contact. "I' m leaving her a voicemail," she announced to my father. "This little stunt is enough."

She pressed the button.

"Anabella, this is your mother. Your father, your brother, and I are at your apartment. We are supposed to be leaving for Kamryn' s party in thirty minutes. Your sister has worked very hard for this, and your absence is not only rude, it' s embarrassing for the entire family."

Her voice was cold, clipped. No worry. No concern for my safety. Just condemnation.

"I don' t know what kind of game you' re playing, but it ends now. You will call me back and you will get in the car with us. If you show up in the next hour, we can pretend this little tantrum never happened."

She hung up.

"She' ll come crawling back," my father said, his voice full of certainty. "She always does."

Just then, the golden child herself appeared in the doorway, my younger sister, Kamryn. Her face, a perfect mask of feigned concern, was framed by her professionally styled blonde hair.

"Mom?" she asked, her voice a soft, gentle melody. "Have you heard from Bella? I' m so worried."

I felt a ghost of a laugh, a bitter, hollow thing, rise in my spectral chest. Worried.

"She' s just seeking attention, darling," my mother said, her tone instantly softening as she turned to her favorite.

Kamryn bit her lip, a practiced gesture of vulnerability she' d perfected over years of getting exactly what she wanted. "Still, maybe I should try texting her. She usually answers me."

She pulled out her phone, her perfectly manicured thumb flying across the screen. I drifted closer, my non-existent form hovering over her shoulder, and I saw the message she typed first.

I hope you' re rotting somewhere, you pathetic bitch.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a single, chilling second. A tiny, cruel smile touched the corner of her lips. Then, with the same deliberate grace she did everything, she deleted it.

She started again.

The message she showed my mother a moment later was a masterpiece of loving sisterhood.

Bella, I' m so sorry if I did something to upset you. Your big day is important too, and I feel terrible that my party is on the same night. Please just let us know you' re safe. I love you.

"Oh, my sweet girl," my mother cooed, pulling Kamryn into a hug. "You' re too good. Your sister is just being childish."

Kamryn leaned into the embrace, her eyes flicking towards the basement door for a fraction of a second, a glint of something cold and triumphant in their depths.

And I, the ghost in the room, the body on the basement floor, just watched.

---