The morning was still dark when he opened the door and looked upon the figure with the hollow eyes. He stood there, unable to believe what he saw, unable to look away. It was too surreal to be true — it had to be impossible.

“Muriel?” He inquired, though he already knew the answer. It had been a year, and if she looked different, it was probably his mind playing tricks.

She said nothing, simply stood in the entrance until Eric moved aside and allowed her in.

He watched her shuffle ahead of him. As usual, she was barefoot. Muriel never wore footwear inside the house. She preferred the softness of carpet beneath her feet. For his part, Eric had always loathed the sight of her dirty soles and cracked heels when she rested her feet on their leather ottoman. It was disgusting.

When she’d left, he’d replaced their carpet with wood flooring. That morning, in the light of the single porch light and the predawn gloom, she hadn’t noticed the change. Or perhaps she was keeping her dislike of it in reserve?

Watching her walk along the hallway through to the lounge, Eric groaned. Given the choice, he’d have preferred not to follow her, but some things were unavoidable. Besides, he’d done nothing wrong — he’d only defended himself that night.

Overcoming his indecision, Eric found his resolve and followed her.

She’d taken a seat on one of the barstools they’d bought the week before their wedding. Eric wondered why he’d remembered that insignificant detail. Anyway, they’d barely got them home before she’d announced that she hated them. It was typical of her, he’d told her that afternoon. Or, more accurately, what he’d actually said was, “You fucking wanted them. Now you can put up with them because I’m not taking the bloody things back to the store.

Their argument had lasted the entire weekend. He’d been relieved on the Monday when he’d returned to the relative tranquillity of his workplace.

That night, on his way home, Eric had hoped that the subject of the barstools would have been forgotten. They’d never fought in the early days of their relationship. Unfortunately, the peace hadn’t lasted beyond their first anniversary.

When he arrived home, there was no kiss and make-up, just a resumption of hostilities. Twenty-four hours had made their fighting more spiteful than ever.

“For fuck’s sake, get over it, Muriel. If you’re still not happy with the barstools, you can return them yourself. Just don’t expect me to do it for you.”

Christ, how they’d fought that night. He’d never told anyone how bad it had been. Would any man be game to admit that his wife was capable of beating him up?

It was when she’d thrown the cut-glass figurine at him that he’d finally lost control and retaliated. The figurine had been a wedding gift from his mother. She’d aimed it at his head, and he knew she’d done it deliberately. Muriel never did anything by chance.

The memory was much like a thick fog to be brushed aside. Eric returned to the problem of her unexpected reappearance.

“Well — what are you here for?” He’d invited her to answer, though he doubted she would. Her reappearance was intentional, and he needed to know why.

Usually Eric loved the silence of his own company. He put it down to Muriel and her non-stop complaining. She’d never shut up. Now, though, she was silent, giving him the same vacant look and hollow eyes she’d had when she arrived.

“So — what the fuck are you here for?”

Having asked the question, Eric waited. His throat was dry, and he needed a glass of water. But it was as though his feet were stuck to the floor, and all he could do was stand there looking at her. The trouble was, doing that, he couldn’t help recalling that night.

He remembered when the figurine had struck his head, the pain, his anger. He’d had enough. Eric had warned her about her temper, drawn a line that she’d cross that night.

“Bitch!” That was what he’d said that last time they’d been together.

Now he saw Muriel’s sideways glance towards the coffee table and the figurine.

“No, you don’t.”

He’d anticipated her move, his hand grabbing the cut glass ornament before she could.

She hadn’t moved — only him.

Holding it out of her reach, his sweaty fingers gripped the glass. Smashing it against her skull was easier than he’d imagined. It was like cracking walnuts with a rock. Her body slumped to the floor, and Eric knelt over her. His arm rose and fell as blow after blow smashed her skull to a sickening pulp.

His breath came in gasps as he looked down at the bloody mess, and he recognised the absurdity of what he’d done. He’d killed his wife twelve months ago to the day — and now, on the anniversary, he’d done it all over again.

He was a fucking idiot — it had been bad enough disposing of her body the first time. Cutting it up and burying the pieces separately had taken a day. Then he'd spent another night covering his tracks and getting rid of any trace of what he’d done. The place had stunk of bleach for weeks.

So, how the fuck had she found her way back?

He knew he’d killed her and now he’d have to do the same thing all over again.

Eric remained staring at his bloodied hands and the mess of brain and bone he was kneeling beside — until…

He jumped when the doorbell rang for the first time. He waited, holding his breath. Seconds passed, and the bell rang again, accompanied by a fist pounding on the wooden door.

A voice called out.

“Police — open up.”

Here is a meaningful story from Rick Allen

The Things We Keep

The Anniversary was originally published in First Line Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“You think I’m crazy, too, don’t you?” I say to the rat, staring up at me, while I mumble to the corpse laid out on the street. Nothing makes this job more exciting than standing in a downtown alleyway at one in the morning, staring at a dead body in the pouring rain. After working in this field for as long as I have, I understand where my dark sense of humor comes from. What’s worse than examining a corpse at one in the morning? Being down to my last cigarette.

I’ve been a detective for twenty-five years, and after seeing enough corpses, you learn how to keep your composure. Around this time of year, Lucid City experiences a spike in crime, which means more reports to write and more games I’ll miss.

Maybe I’m exhausted from working too many long hours, because the corpse lying in front of me isn’t like any other I’ve encountered. In all my years as a detective, nothing I’ve witnessed this month has made any sense.

“Detective Ashbourne, this is still an ongoing investigation. Unfortunately, we don’t have a suspect we can trace yet,” the chief officer informs me.

Does nobody else see what I’m seeing?

My colleagues gather on either side of me, staring down at the corpse with the same vacant expressions I’ve seen on countless faces at crime scenes.

“I wanted to watch more of the playoffs, but crime always picks up around this time of year. Looks like more paperwork is in our future,” Detective Brown says.

“Are you cold, Ashbourne? You’re shivering. I haven’t seen you shiver in years. Nothing ever seems to affect you,” Detective Watson adds.

Watson is right. Nothing gets to me anymore. Ever since I lost my younger brother and encountered some of the most brutal crime scenes imaginable, I’ve learned to keep my emotions buried. I’ve witnessed things that would give most people nightmares.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bit nippy tonight. Perhaps I’m getting old,” I say.

But I know that’s not it.

Why do I keep seeing my own corpse with a blood-stained cigarette lying beside it?

“I appreciate the information. I’ll be sure to follow up shortly,” I tell the chief officer.

I leave the alleyway, holding my umbrella in one hand and trying to light my cigarette with the other. After a few frustrating attempts, I finally get it burning. I inhale deeply, allowing the smoke to settle my nerves.

I know these cigarettes aren’t good for me. My doctor reminds me often enough. But somehow, they warm the ice around my heart, even if only for a moment.

As I walk down the sidewalk, I pass a neon-lit sign advertising a program to help people quit their addictions. I blow a cloud of tobacco smoke toward it and keep walking.

Bright billboards illuminate the rain-soaked streets, their advertisements reflecting off the pavement beneath the towering skyscrapers. Lucid City is a crapshoot masquerading as a dream for sale. Everywhere I look, the city promises a better life, provided you’re willing to buy into the illusion.

I try to drown my thoughts in the neon glow, but the image of my dead body follows me.

There’s no way I’m lying on that pavement. How could I be dead when I’m standing here, breathing?

Surely the other detectives have seen themselves dead at some point, too. Maybe it’s just the exhaustion getting to me.

At my favorite diner, the owner lets me sit for a couple of hours before closing, usually without asking questions. I need somewhere quiet to get my head straight.

The waitress brings my usual: coffee with two sugars and milk. I take another drag from my cigarette, the same habit my doctor keeps warning me to quit before my lungs give out.

Through the diner window, I watch people heading out to enjoy the rainy Friday evening in Lucid City. Couples huddle beneath umbrellas, friends laugh beneath storefront awnings, and strangers hurry toward whatever awaits them at the end of the night.

I wonder if I’ll be standing over one of their bodies tomorrow.

When I finally get home, I find my wife sleeping peacefully. She hates the smell of cigarette smoke, which makes me wonder how she ended up marrying a man who reeks of it.

I quietly open my sock drawer and remove my firearm. I turn it over in my hands, studying the cold metal. With something like this, a single pull can end a life. In its own way, another pull from a cigarette can do the same.

I put the firearm away and climb into bed.

The moment I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes, I’m back in that alleyway.

Only this time, my corpse sits up.

It reaches for the cigarette lying beside it, places it between its lips, and looks directly at me.

“Got a light?”

I jolt awake, drenched in sweat.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” my wife asks sleepily.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

She studies me for a moment before turning away. She doesn’t like how I keep everything bottled up. She wants me to express my feelings instead of pretending nothing bothers me.

My wife struggles with waves of anxiety and depression herself. She knows what it means to carry pain, and she wishes I’d let her share some of mine. Especially when life gets difficult.

But talking about feelings has never been my strong suit.

I get out of bed and head to the bathroom. I splash cold water on my face, hoping to clear my head.

When I look up at the mirror, I see my corpse staring back at me.

Its skin is pale as a ghost. Its eyes look lifeless, and a cigarette hangs loosely between its lips.

I stumble backward, pressing my back against the wall.

My reflection raises the cigarette, lights it, and exhales a thick cloud of smoke against the glass. The mirror slowly fogs over, concealing its face.

I don’t wait to see what happens next.

I rush out of the bathroom, throw on my robe, and step outside to catch my breath.

I remember when downtown Lucid City was covered in ice. The blizzard of the century froze everything in its path. The tops of skyscrapers resembled ice caps, and the streets became a frozen wasteland.

It was as though the world itself had stopped moving.

Sometimes I wonder if another tundra will cripple my world once more.

The following day, I return to the police station to follow up on the murder. For the sake of my sanity, I need to know whether the victim was actually me.

The report identifies him as a man around my age.

But it isn’t me.

I release a long breath, relieved to have some explanation for what I saw, even if I still don’t understand why I saw it.

Maybe I’m finally losing my mind.

I decide to visit my therapist, whom I’ve been avoiding for the last few sessions. Most days, I’d rather do anything else than sit in a room and talk about my feelings.

In his office, I settle onto the black leather sofa and play with my lighter, flicking it open and watching the flame appear before disappearing again.

“How have the group sessions been?” my therapist asks. “I haven’t spoken to you in a while. It’s good to see you.”

“I tried the group meetings, but all they make me want to do is smoke more.”

“Addiction is difficult to overcome, Kevin. You won’t make much progress if you don’t commit to the process. You have to approach it with the right attitude instead of treating it like a chore.”

I keep my eyes on the lighter.

“I know you have what it takes to overcome this. You’ve spent years serving and protecting the people of Lucid City. But you also have to consider your own life. You deserve that same care and protection. With the work we do here, we can make progress together.”

I flick the lighter one more time before slipping it into my jacket pocket.

“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?” he asks.

I want to tell him that I haven’t been feeling like myself. That lately, I feel like a shadow passing through a world that no longer belongs to me. I want to tell him about the corpse, the mirror, and the way my own face has begun to haunt me.

Instead, I reach for a mint from the glass bowl on his desk.

“I’m fine. I’ll see you soon.”

My therapist watches me for a moment, but he doesn’t push.

When I leave the office, my phone rings. Another crime scene needs investigating.

I drive to a neglected part of Lucid City where tents line the sidewalks and drug dealers linger on nearly every corner. The neighborhood has a reputation for violence, and I take no chances as I approach the scene.

Detectives Brown and Watson are already there.

I walk between them and look down.

There it is again.

My dead body lies on the concrete.

I stare at the pale face, the familiar features, the cigarette stained with blood beside its head.

Suddenly, a violent coughing fit overtakes me. I bend forward, struggling to catch my breath, and spit blood into my hand.

“I think it’s time to quit those, Ashbourne,” Watson says.

I barely hear him.

I hurry around the corner, dry-heaving as I lean against a wall. My hands tremble. My chest burns. All I can think about is making the feeling stop.

I reach into my trench coat and pull out my pack.

Before I can light a cigarette, someone grabs my hand.

I turn.

It’s my corpse.

Its fingers tighten around my wrist, and its hollow eyes stare into mine. Before I can pull away, it exhales a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face.

I cough violently, struggling to breathe. My knees weaken, and I sink onto the littered street.

Brown and Watson rush over to help me. They sit me down, give me some water, and tell me I need to take the rest of the day off.

They’ll handle the scene.

I don’t argue.

Instead, I head to the Lucid City Cemetery.

I’ve been here before, or at least I think I have. Lately, I keep seeing a headstone bearing my name.

KEVIN ASHBOURNE.

I stand before it, waiting for the feeling to change. I thought coming here might help me understand what was happening, but the sight of my name carved into stone leaves me feeling colder than ever.

“Yeah, this is what you deserve,” my corpse says.

It’s standing beside me again.

I turn away and walk, refusing to acknowledge it.

But the voice follows me.

That evening, I return home to find my wife sitting on the couch, crocheting and humming softly to herself.

I sit beside her.

“Hey, hun. How was your day?” she asks.

“Long. Lots of paperwork and reports to look over.” I pause and lean closer. “You smell nice. Is that a new perfume?”

“Yes. I thought I’d try it on for our dinner night out.”

I reach for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.

She notices immediately.

“I thought you were trying to quit, hun.”

“It’s a process. I can’t just quit overnight.”

“I know it’s a process. But I want us to grow old together. If you keep this up, you might not make it much longer. Then I’ll have to live alone.”

I stare at the pack in my hand.

“It’s not that simple.”

She goes quiet and returns to her crocheting. I can tell she’s upset, even though she doesn’t say another word.

I know she doesn’t believe me.

Maybe I don’t believe myself, either.

Later that night, I drive back to the precinct because I can’t sleep. The city blurs past my windshield, its neon lights bleeding into the rain-soaked streets.

Every few blocks, I see my corpse standing on a street corner, smoking.

Sometimes it watches me pass.

Sometimes it smiles.

I keep driving until I reach the station.

Inside, the building is quiet. I walk past rows of empty desks and approach the cells, staring at the iron bars that have held countless criminals over the years.

Then I see him.

My corpse sits inside one of the empty cells, flicking a lighter open and shut.

I approach and grip the bars with both hands.

“You know why you’re here, Detective Ashbourne,” my corpse says. “I represent the part of you that you’ve spent your life ignoring. And this cell? It represents the one you’ve built around yourself.”

I tighten my grip.

“You spent most of your life fighting crime and putting the bad guys away in places like this. Yet you’re walking around in a prison bigger than you could imagine. One that makes these iron bars look like nothing.”

“What do you want from me?”

“You haven’t felt like yourself in a long time. You feel like you’re living one big lie, don’t you?”

I say nothing.

“You should’ve listened to your wife. Really listened. You made the same mistake when your little brother died. Instead of facing your grief, you buried it. You built a life around pretending you were fine.”

“Shut up.”

“You know what happened when you did that? Your world froze. You let the pain turn you into someone you barely recognize. And now you’re doing it all over again.”

I bang my fists against the bars.

“Shut up!”

My corpse doesn’t flinch.

“All your wife wanted was a loving husband. Someone who would be there for her. Someone who could talk about the painful things in life instead of pretending they didn’t exist. But you were too cold to let her in.”

I feel something tightening in my chest.

“Now more of your life is passing you by while you keep living that lie.”

I release the bars and storm out of the station.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I can’t stay there.

Before I realize it, I’m back at the cemetery.

The rain has returned, falling steadily over the rows of headstones. I walk toward the grave bearing my name, but someone is standing beside it.

I hurry forward.

The figure disappears.

I stop in front of the headstone.

My name is gone.

In its place, another name has been engraved.

SHELLY ASHBOURNE.

I stare at the letters, unable to breathe.

Memories begin rushing through my mind. Conversations I brushed aside. Feelings I dismissed. Moments when Shelly needed me to listen, and I gave her nothing but silence.

I remember the hurt in her eyes whenever I told her I was fine. I remember the way she tried to reach me, even when I made it clear that I didn’t want to be reached.

Words begin appearing across the headstone, each one dragging another memory to the surface.

Then I see the words from her suicide note.

My knees give way.

I collapse onto the wet ground, take a handful of dirt, and press it against my chest.

Shelly is gone.

And I wasn’t there for her when she needed me most.

I miss my wife every day. The guilt has become a weight I can barely carry. I’ve spent so long trying to smoke away the pain that I’ve been slowly destroying myself, as though my own suffering could somehow make up for everything I failed to do.

But it can’t.

Nothing can bring her back.

The rain pours harder, soaking through my clothes. I have no umbrella, but I don’t care.

For the first time in years, I let myself feel everything I’ve been running from.

I walk into my house from the downpour, leaving puddles across the floor.

No one is there to tell me to take off my shoes.

The scarf Shelly was crocheting is gone from the coffee table. The photographs that once filled our home have disappeared. The rooms feel hollow, as though someone has taken all the warmth out of them and left only the walls behind.

I sit on the edge of our bed and reach toward the side where she used to sleep.

The sheets are cold.

My corpse appears beside me, holding out my gun.

“You might as well do it,” it says. “Get it over with. Why keep letting the cigarettes kill you slowly when you can end it now?”

I look at the weapon in its hand.

“Your younger brother, Henry, died tragically. So did your wife. Maybe it’s only fitting that you follow them.”

I take the gun.

For a moment, I feel as though I’m standing outside myself, watching a stranger make a decision I can’t take back.

I’ve spent my life serving and protecting Lucid City. I’ve stood between danger and countless strangers. I’ve faced criminals, violence, and death without flinching.

But I failed to protect the people I loved.

I failed to be there for my wife when she needed me.

The thought presses down on me until I can barely stand it.

I bring the gun toward myself.

Then I stop.

I think about the good times with Shelly and Henry. The laughter. The conversations that lasted late into the night. The moments when life felt simple, before grief and guilt began freezing everything around me.

I think about how neither of them would want me to throw away the life I still have.

Even in the next life, Shelly would probably nag me every day for refusing to quit smoking while I was alive.

Despite everything, the thought brings the faintest smile to my face.

I lower the gun and turn toward my corpse.

“You’re the one who needs to go.”

For the first time, my ghost doesn’t look angry.

It lowers my hand, smiles, and gently takes the gun from me. Then it places the weapon back in the drawer.

“I can see you’re ready to let go and move forward,” it says. “You’ve made the right choice, Detective Ashbourne.”

I look at it, waiting for another accusation.

Instead, it offers me a quiet, almost compassionate expression.

“Hopefully, you’ve learned your lesson this time. This is the most important case you’ve ever had to solve.”

My corpse turns and walks out of the room.

I follow it into the hallway, but there’s no one there.

I stand alone in the silence.

For a long time, I do nothing. Then I begin searching through the house for the photographs of Shelly and Henry. I put them back where they belong, returning the other things they loved to their places.

One photograph at a time, I begin restoring the home I had allowed my grief to empty.

It doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t undo the mistakes I made or bring back the people I’ve lost.

But I can stop running from their memories.

And maybe, for the first time, I can begin living with them.

A few months later, I’m called to investigate another crime scene in a Lucid City alleyway.

The rain has stopped, but the pavement is still wet. Police officers gather around the body as the investigators prepare to uncover it.

Detectives Watson and Brown approach and take their places beside me.

I look down at the covered corpse, waiting for that familiar chill to crawl up my spine.

For a moment, I remember the cigarettes, the mirrors, and the voice that followed me through the darkest corners of my mind.

Then I reach into my trench coat.

Brown glances over.

“Don’t tell me you’re lighting another one, Ashbourne.”

I pull out a pack of chewing gum instead.

“Not today.”

I offer a piece to Brown, then Watson.

They exchange a look before accepting.

I unwrap a piece for myself and pop it into my mouth.

The case is waiting.

And for once, I’m ready to face it.

Blood Stained Cigarette: The Ghosts We Carry. was originally published in First Line Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.