Lucille,

If you haven’t realized, I struggled with my memory after you passed. What I can’t seem to forget is your twisted, mangled face that showed up at the end of my bed every night, reminding me of the fact that you’re not really with me anymore.

I remember it like it was yesterday, even if it was over two years ago by now. We were just sitting together, watching our show like we did every night. The Big Bang Theory. It was your favourite, no matter how many times you watched it on repeat. I didn’t care about how boring I thought it was; your laugh whenever they told some stupid joke or did something ridiculous made it worth it.

 I haven’t been able to watch that show since that night. I can’t get the sound of your screaming out of my head. All while I stood there frozen with fear, unable to do anything except watch as your life was taken from me right before my very eyes. “A robbery gone wrong,” was how the news described it.

I drank myself to ruin after your funeral, wishing and praying upon some useless star that somehow, I was the crazy one. Guilt and grief clawed at my throat, making the vodka I swallowed burn more with every shot I took.

After so many blurry nights, so many empty bottles, I couldn’t think of anything besides you. I lost my friends, my job, and I’ll probably lose the home we built together next. But these walls felt cold without you lying in bed next to me.

Every night, whenever I went to sleep, the state your murderer left you in when he broke in and stole you from me haunted the back of my eyes. You haunted me in my dreams, and then you haunted me in the waking world too.

When I saw you for the first time, I couldn’t believe it. Despite how mangled and mutilated your face was, you were there, peering at me from the end of my bed. You didn’t say anything to me, and I didn’t say anything either. It didn’t matter if I could only see your head peeking out over the end of my bed, or the way your lithe fingers slid up to hold the footboard. It was you. Your nails were chipped and broken; covered in dirt and grime, like you had clawed your way out of the casket—out of the grave I buried you in. I thought, “maybe it’s just the alcohol again?” But no. You were there. Your long, dark hair was tattered, covered in mud and grease, but I knew it was you.

We only stared at each other, my heart thrumming violently in my ears with fear, and before I could realize it, you were gone again. Gone like the whisper of a ghost. I faintly remember my instinctive reaction: scrambling to reach for you. At least, that is what I willed myself to do. Yet, I stayed paralyzed to my bed, my own body and mind mocking me in the face of losing you once again.

Your soul was destined to not allow me to rest, even after your death. Or perhaps, it was I who did not allow you to rest?

Then you showed up again, and again, and again. The same thing happened every night. And eventually, my heart didn’t beat so hard against my chest. I wasn’t paralyzed with fear; rather, there was a comfort that flowed through my bones.

After seeing your face so many times, unmoving from the end of my bed, I knew you weren’t there to harm me. You were just watching over me, like we had promised each other in our vows. Your ghost wasn’t haunting me, you just wanted to show me you weren’t angry. That it wasn’t my fault.

Lucille, when you do eventually leave me again, when your presence no longer comforts my dreams, I think I’ll be okay this time. And when I finally join you in that casket buried six feet down, we’ll be together again, just the two of us.

To the stars and beyond, may we rest in peace.

Anders Bourne is a creative person with a love of quiet places and his pets. He grew up in the small town of Chalk River, Ontario and went on to study Professional Writing at Algonquin College. He enjoys various arts, such as drawing, music, and writing—if you consider it an artform. He certainly does, and depicting the scary tales of the world, from the paranormal stories of ghosts and the otherworldly to the immoral creatures that lurk in the night, feasting on our fear.