Sarah heard the knock just as she was pouring herself a glass of wine.
It was late—too late for visitors.
She hesitated, heart picking up speed. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe some kid playing a prank. Maybe—
Another knock.
Slow. Deliberate.
Sarah swallowed, set the glass down, and walked to the door. She peered through the peephole.
A man stood on the porch.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Short dark hair.
She felt the world tilt beneath her feet.
It wasn't possible.
She knew that face. Knew it better than her own.
Her husband.
Ethan.
But Ethan was dead.
He had been dead for ten years.
Her hands trembled as she unlocked the door. She wasn't even aware of doing it—just that suddenly, the door was open, and he was standing there, looking at her with those same warm brown eyes.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said, smiling. "You gonna let me in?"
Sarah staggered back. "No. No, you're—"
Dead.
She couldn't say it.
Her chest heaved. It had to be a trick, a hallucination. But he looked real. The tiny scar above his eyebrow. The dimple on his left cheek. The way he stood, shifting his weight slightly to one side.
"Ethan?" she whispered.
He stepped inside. The smell of his cologne hit her like a punch to the gut.
He felt warm when he touched her arm. Solid. Alive.
"This isn't real," she said, stepping away.
Ethan frowned. "Babe, I know this is a shock. But I'm here."
"No, you're not," she said, voice shaking. "You died."
Ethan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I know. But… I came back."
She felt dizzy. The room swayed. "That's not how it works."
"It is now," he said simply.
Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. She backed away, nearly knocking over a lamp.
Ethan watched her, his expression unreadable.
"You always said you'd give anything to have me back," he murmured.
Sarah's stomach twisted.
Because it was true.
She had spent years wishing for this, begging in the dark, whispering to the cold side of the bed. But not like this.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
Ethan hesitated.
"Somewhere else," he said.
Her blood ran cold.
"What does that mean?" she whispered.
His face softened. "I don't want to talk about that, sweetheart. I just want to be home."
She took another step back. "No. No, this—this isn't right."
Ethan's smile faltered.
"Sarah," he said gently, "why are you acting like this? I came back for you."
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"You're not supposed to," she whispered.
Silence.
Then—
"Who told you that?"
Her heart stuttered.
Ethan tilted his head, his warm brown eyes darkening just slightly.
"Who told you I wasn't supposed to?" he asked.
The air felt thick. Heavy.
Sarah's skin crawled.
She took another step back. "You need to leave."
Ethan didn't move.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, "I live here."
She shook her head.
Her mind raced. Maybe she was losing it. Maybe grief had finally broken her. Maybe if she just went to bed, she'd wake up and—
Footsteps creaked upstairs.
Sarah froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Ethan was standing in front of her.
But something else was upstairs.
Ethan's expression didn't change.
"Who else is here?" she whispered.
He smiled.
"You already know," he said.
A door creaked open above them.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Coming down the stairs.
Sarah's body locked up.
Her mouth went dry.
She forced herself to look.
A shadow stretched across the wall.
Too tall.
Too thin.
And then—
The voice.
Soft. Familiar.
"Sarah."
It sounded just like him.
But it wasn't.
Her stomach twisted.
Her knees nearly gave out.
Ethan—or what looked like Ethan—just stood there, smiling as the thing stepped onto the last stair.
The lights flickered.
Sarah backed toward the door, hand scrambling for the knob.
Her fingers closed around cold metal.
Ethan took a step closer.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, "don't you love me?"
The thing on the stairs took another step.
It had his face.
But it wasn't him.
Sarah wrenched the door open and ran.
She didn't look back.
Because she knew—
If she did—
They'd both be watching her go.