CHAPTER ONE – GHOSTS IN THE BEDROOM
Karl sat at the edge of the bed, fingers digging into his temples. The room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the bedside lamp that cast eerie shadows across the walls. Irene lay beneath the covers, her face pale and damp with sweat, her breathing shallow. The fever had kept her bedridden for days, and despite everything, despite the IV drips, the medication, the long, sleepless nights he had spent at her bedside, all she cared about was *him*.
Not *him*, her husband.
Him—the dead man.
"I have to go, Karl," Irene's voice was weak but insistent, her hand trembling as she reached for his.
Karl didn't move. He stared at the wedding ring on her finger, feeling its weight like a chain around his throat. "Irene, you're sick," he said, his voice measured, careful. "You need to rest."
Her grip tightened on his hand. "Please." Her eyes were glassy with desperation, but Karl saw something else lurking there—something he didn't want to name.
She wasn't begging to be saved. She was begging to leave.
Karl exhaled, standing abruptly. He paced to the window, running a hand through his hair. "Three years, Irene. Three years I've stood by you while you mourned him. I've never said a word. Never stopped you. But this?" He turned, his chest tightening as he took in her frail form. "You were in the hospital for three days, barely conscious, and the first thing you care about is going to *his* memorial?"
Irene flinched, and for a moment, just a moment, Karl thought she might realize how much this was killing him. But then she pressed her lips together and looked away, as if *he* was the one being unreasonable.
"It's not just about him," she said quietly. "It's his family. They were my family too, Karl."
A bitter laugh escaped his lips before he could stop it. "His family? The same family that doesn't even acknowledge you're married? That still looks at you like you're Jerry's grieving fiancée instead of my *wife*?"
Irene's face darkened, and for the first time in a long time, Karl saw real anger flicker in her eyes. "They *are* my family. You don't get to tell me how to grieve."
Karl clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. *This isn't grief anymore, Irene. This is obsession.* But he didn't say it. He just swallowed the words like he always did, let them rot inside him like everything else.
A sharp knock at the door startled them both. Karl turned as the doctor stepped inside, glancing between the two of them with an unreadable expression.
"I have the results from the tests we ran," the doctor said, his voice clinical, detached.
Karl felt Irene stiffen in bed, but she said nothing.
"You're pregnant," the doctor announced.
Silence filled the room.
Karl turned to Irene, his heart hammering. Pregnant. A baby. *Their* baby.
For the first time in weeks, he felt something other than anger, other than exhaustion. He felt *hope*.
But Irene?
She didn't react.
Not a gasp. Not a tear. Not even a forced smile.
Just silence.
The doctor continued talking, something about prenatal vitamins, about rest, but Karl barely heard him. His eyes were locked on Irene, waiting—*begging*—for her to meet his gaze, to show *something*.
She didn't.
And just like that, the hope inside Karl withered.
As soon as the doctor left, he sat beside her again, more cautious this time, as if she might slip away. "Irene," he said softly, reaching for her hand. "Did you hear him?"
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"And?"
A long pause. Then, finally, she turned her head and met his eyes.
"I still need to go to the memorial."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
"You're *pregnant*," Karl said, his voice barely above a whisper, disbelief laced into every syllable. "And that's all you have to say?"
Irene closed her eyes. "I just… I just need to go."
Karl stared at her, his hands trembling in his lap. He had given her space. He had let her grieve. But now, sitting in this dimly lit room, watching his wife choose a *ghost* over their future, he realized something.
He would never be enough for her.
Not as long as Jerry's shadow still lingered between them.
And yet, when she turned to him with pleading eyes, whispering, "*Please, Karl,*" he did what he always did.
He gave in.
---
The drive was suffocating.
For six hours, Karl listened to Irene talk about Jerry. About the life they had planned together. About his laugh, his touch, his kisses.
She spoke of him as if Karl wasn't there. As if Karl hadn't been the one holding her through her nightmares, hadn't been the one to pick up the shattered pieces of her heart and piece them back together, only for her to keep handing them to a dead man.
She didn't mention the baby. Not once.
Karl gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He stared at the road, forcing himself to breathe, to stay calm.
*One more day,* he told himself. *Just one more day and this will be over.*
By the time they reached the hotel, Karl was barely holding himself together. Irene barely waited for the car to stop before she bolted out, saying something about stopping by the Johnsons' house.
"Wait—" Karl started, but she was already gone.
He swallowed his fury, clenching his jaw as he watched her disappear into the night.
---
She didn't come back until ten.
Karl had called her. Over and over. No answer.
And when she finally walked through the door, her face glowing, her eyes bright with laughter she never shared with him, something inside him snapped.
"Where the hell have you been?"
Irene blinked, clearly taken aback by his tone. "I was with the Johnsons. Why are you acting like this?"
Karl stepped closer, his fists trembling at his sides. "Do you have *any* idea how worried I was? You didn't answer my calls. You're *pregnant*, Irene—"
Her face twisted in irritation. "Oh my God, Karl, stop acting like a nagging wife! I was fine!"
Karl's vision blurred with rage. "You were in the hospital three days ago. You're carrying *our* child. And you vanish for hours without a single goddamn word?"
Irene scoffed, crossing her arms. "You're so insecure, Karl. You *never* understood—"
"Because you never let me!" Karl roared.
Irene flinched, but she recovered quickly. Too quickly.
"I'm done with this conversation," she said coldly.
Karl let out a hollow laugh. "Of course you are."
And then, to his absolute disbelief, she turned, marched to the bedroom, and *locked the door in his face.*
Karl stood there, staring at the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
In that moment, as the weight of everything came crashing down, Karl realized something.
This wasn't just about Jerry.
This was about *them*.
And they were falling apart.
---
Karl didn't sleep.
He sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his mind a storm of rage and hurt.
By the time he finally dozed off, it was nearly morning.
He woke to the sound of movement.
His eyes snapped open, and he turned toward the bedroom.
Irene stood there, fully dressed in black.
At *six in the morning*.
Karl felt something inside him go ice cold.
"You need to rest," he said, his voice hoarse.
"I need to help them prepare," she replied.
Karl exhaled slowly. "They *need* you for that too?"
Irene hesitated.
Karl pushed off the couch, stepping toward her. "I'm taking you there."
Irene opened her mouth to argue, but something in his eyes made her stop.
"Fine," she muttered.
Karl nodded, grabbing his keys.
But as he followed her out the door, he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his gut.
Something was *wrong.*
And for the first time, Karl wasn't sure he wanted to know what.