GHOSTS OF HUSBANDS PAST

I don’t believe in ghosts. That’s what I’m telling myself anyways. I pulled the sheets over my head and turned towards the wall. Maybe putting my bed in the corner was a bad idea. On one hand it was cozy but right now I just felt trapped.

“Suzannah.”

I shivered at the whisper. Nope, it’s just my imagination. He’s not here. I’m safe. My whispered name was followed by slow footsteps creaking across the floorboards outside my room. Buy an old house, the creaky floors give it character.

“Suzannah?”

The voice sounded closer. Nope, not a voice. I need to make a new appointment with my therapist. The footsteps stopped right outside my door, and I swear I heard my doorknob rattle. I’d been locking it for years. Then came the knocking. Lightly at first then like the heavy fists on the other side of the door were growing angrier the longer they were denied entry.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, burying my face in my pillow.

The pounding stopped but the whispered words that replaced it were somehow worse.

“Suzannah, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.”

I covered my ears. He’s not here. He can’t be here.

“Dammit woman, what do you think you’re doing. This place is a mess; there are dishes in the sink and you’re what? Asleep?”

It’s been five years. Why can’t I move on? Why am I broken?

The pounding started back, this time accompanied by cursing and yelling. I curled in on myself wrapping myself tighter in my blankets. I need to think of something else. Anything but him. A feat which is hard to do when all I could hear was the screaming and pounding of the ghost of my dead husband on the other side of my door.

“Suzannah sweetheart just open the door. I’m not mad I promise. Just let me see you.”

Well now he just sounded drunk. Which was his default state. The anger had turned to desperate pleading. Pleading and the occasional metallic jiggle of the doorknob trying to be turned. I sat up slowly in bed and faced the door from the corner of my bedroom. It was too dark to see if the knob was actually turning. To be honest I didn’t really want to know.

“Baby please. I love you.” The sentence was punctuated by a single fist slammed against the door and a drunken hiccup. I could practically smell the whiskey he always drank. It was expensive and came in a fancy looking bottle.

“Just open the door.”

“Go away Mac.” I said. I’m so tired of this. I just want to sleep. Why can’t he just leave me alone. I looked over at my alarm clock. Three fifteen.

Five years. Five years alone. Five years without flinching every night when he took a bite of dinner or hoping he was too drunk to bother me when he stumbled into bed. Five years. Yet he still haunted me, why? Guilt?

“Suzannah,” he spat out my name like I was the most disgusting thing he’d ever heard of. “Get your lazy ass out of bed and open this damn door.”

Why was I guilty? Malcom Anderson was an evil man. He’d tormented me for years. Beat me down so hard I didn’t think I could escape him. The only person who missed him was his mother and she was just as vile as he was.

“Please beautiful, I miss you,” he switched back to begging.

I blinked in the darkness. Staring in the direction of the door. At the source of my pain and anxiety. My mouth was dry and the smell of whiskey wrapped around me like an unwanted hug.

He thought he was so in control, but he made one fatal mistake. He got so drunk he passed out. Usually, I would roll him on to his side. That last night though I just stared down at him. This man who was killing me slowly every day, stealing my spirit little by little. I stared at him lying on his back passed out drunk.

More slurred pleas and compliments echoed through my heavy wooden door. I cringed.

He was handsome and charming. I had been so in love. Sure, the signs were there looking back, but I was oblivious. After the wedding he stopped pretending. He had moved me across the country from any family I had. He’d isolated me and hurt me relentlessly.

So that last night I’d stared down at his stupid handsome face and I’d walked away. The next day I’d woken up at noon and had just known. It was the best sleep of my life.

“Suzannah!”

The pounding jerked my attention back to the problem at hand. I was still being haunted by this complete waste of a human being. It had been five years, and he was still somehow affecting my life.

I flung the blankets off myself and slid to the ground. My bare feet hit the fuzzy rug I had by my bed and I froze. Waiting.

The doorknob rattled.

“Go away!” I charged towards my bedroom door.

My heart hammered in my chest, but I was done. I was tired.

I tripped over my feet in the dark but finally reach my bedroom door and flipped the lock. I slammed the door open, “Go away Mac!”

I blindly groped the wall outside my door fumbling for the light switch. Finally, I flipped it illuminating my hallway.

Hardwood floors, peeling paint I needed to fix, and utterly empty.

I blinked in the sudden bright light looking for a sign of anyone or anything, but it was completely silent. Nothing.

My hand was gripping the doorknob painfully. He’s dead. He’s dead and I’m alive. I let out a breath. I flipped off the light in the hallway and shut my bedroom door again. Looking at the lock I paused, but I left it unlocked. Let him come, I killed him once and I’ll kill him again. I crawled into my bed and curled up under my blanket.

It was the second best sleep of my life.

Emily Rupert is a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University. Originally from a small town in Georgia, she currently does her writing from an even smaller town on a farm in southern Ohio. She’s a former journalist for the U.S. Air Force where she published many written articles as well as a plethora of video and photo assignments. Her current writing is mostly fiction, focusing on telling stories that make you feel and think. She loves creating characters for you to love or hate and hopes her writing has something in it for everyone to enjoy.