A Ghost's Vengeance For Lost Love

My family stormed into my apartment, not to celebrate my prestigious science award, but to drag me to my influencer sister' s party.

They didn' t know that just downstairs, I was bleeding out on the cold basement floor after an attack.

With my last breath, I called for help. My brother texted me to "grow up." My mother left a voicemail scolding me for my "embarrassing little tantrum."

My last hope was my fiancé, Daxton. I gasped that I thought I was dying.

He sighed, annoyed. "Anabella, you' re being dramatic. Don't ruin Kamryn's big night."

Then he hung up.

They thought I was jealous. They thought I was trying to steal my sister's spotlight.

But I wasn't. I was dead.

And now, as a ghost trapped in my own home, I have to watch the people who let me die... and wait for them to finally find my body.

Chapter 1

Anabella Hawkins POV:

The last thing I ever felt was the cold, unforgiving concrete of my basement floor pressing against my cheek.

Then, nothing. A strange lightness bloomed in my chest, pulling me upward. The sharp, coppery scent of my own blood faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of the air itself. I was floating, a spectator to my own tragedy, watching the body that was once mine lie still in a rapidly spreading pool of crimson.

I was dead. And the world, my world, kept turning without me.

The first sign of it was the sound of the front door slamming open upstairs. No knock. No gentle call of my name. Just the rude intrusion I' d grown accustomed to.

"Anabella!" My half-brother Jamal' s voice boomed through the house, laced with its usual impatience. "Stop being a child and answer your phone."

I drifted through the ceiling, a ghost in my own home, and watched him stomp into my pristine, minimalist living room. He kicked off his shoes, leaving scuff marks on the pale hardwood floors I' d polished just yesterday morning. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression one of pure annoyance.

My family was here. Not for my award ceremony, of course. For something far more important: to drag me to my sister' s influencer party.

"Honestly, Godfrey," my mother, Jeanne, said, her voice sharp as glass as she followed him in. "I don' t know why we even bother. She' s always been like this."

My father grunted his agreement, his eyes scanning my bookshelves with disdain, as if the collection of medical journals and research papers was a personal affront to him. "Thinks her little science fairs are more important than family."

"It' s the Zenith Medical Service Award, Dad," I whispered, but the words were just puffs of silent air. No one heard me. No one ever really had.

I watched them, these people who were supposed to love me, as they invaded my space with an air of ownership. Jamal flopped onto my white sofa, pulling out his phone. My mother ran a finger along my coffee table, checking for dust.

"Where could she be?" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. "She' s not answering her calls."

Jamal scoffed. "Probably sulking in her room. You know how she gets." He stood up and headed for my bedroom. I floated after him, a powerless observer. He didn't hesitate at the closed door, just pushed it open and scanned the empty room. My bed was perfectly made. My desk was organized, research notes stacked in neat piles.

He saw my laptop, open on the desk. With a sigh of profound irritation, he walked over and jiggled the mouse. The screen lit up, showing my private blog. It was a simple, password-protected page, a digital journal where I' d documented the quiet heartbreaks of my life. The title on the screen read: "The List: 99 Times and Counting."

"What is this?" he mumbled, leaning closer. "'The 99th time.' Pathetic."

He didn't click. He didn't care enough to try. He saw the number not as a tally of pain, but as a mark of my immaturity. He reached out and slammed the laptop shut with a sharp crack. The sound echoed in the silent room, a final, dismissive gesture.

He turned away, leaving the room and my last unheard words trapped inside the cold plastic and metal.

My mother was on her phone now, her thumb hovering over my contact. "I' m leaving her a voicemail," she announced to my father. "This little stunt is enough."

She pressed the button.

"Anabella, this is your mother. Your father, your brother, and I are at your apartment. We are supposed to be leaving for Kamryn' s party in thirty minutes. Your sister has worked very hard for this, and your absence is not only rude, it' s embarrassing for the entire family."

Her voice was cold, clipped. No worry. No concern for my safety. Just condemnation.

"I don' t know what kind of game you' re playing, but it ends now. You will call me back and you will get in the car with us. If you show up in the next hour, we can pretend this little tantrum never happened."

She hung up.

"She' ll come crawling back," my father said, his voice full of certainty. "She always does."

Just then, the golden child herself appeared in the doorway, my younger sister, Kamryn. Her face, a perfect mask of feigned concern, was framed by her professionally styled blonde hair.

"Mom?" she asked, her voice a soft, gentle melody. "Have you heard from Bella? I' m so worried."

I felt a ghost of a laugh, a bitter, hollow thing, rise in my spectral chest. Worried.

"She' s just seeking attention, darling," my mother said, her tone instantly softening as she turned to her favorite.

Kamryn bit her lip, a practiced gesture of vulnerability she' d perfected over years of getting exactly what she wanted. "Still, maybe I should try texting her. She usually answers me."

She pulled out her phone, her perfectly manicured thumb flying across the screen. I drifted closer, my non-existent form hovering over her shoulder, and I saw the message she typed first.

I hope you' re rotting somewhere, you pathetic bitch.

Her thumb hovered over the send button for a single, chilling second. A tiny, cruel smile touched the corner of her lips. Then, with the same deliberate grace she did everything, she deleted it.

She started again.

The message she showed my mother a moment later was a masterpiece of loving sisterhood.

Bella, I' m so sorry if I did something to upset you. Your big day is important too, and I feel terrible that my party is on the same night. Please just let us know you' re safe. I love you.

"Oh, my sweet girl," my mother cooed, pulling Kamryn into a hug. "You' re too good. Your sister is just being childish."

Kamryn leaned into the embrace, her eyes flicking towards the basement door for a fraction of a second, a glint of something cold and triumphant in their depths.

And I, the ghost in the room, the body on the basement floor, just watched.

---

Anabella Hawkins POV:

They thought I was childish. They believed my life' s work, the culmination of years of sleepless nights and relentless dedication, was a "little science fair."

I had told them, weeks ago, that they should go to Kamryn' s party. I knew how much her online persona, her brand, meant to them. It was flashy, photogenic, something they could boast about at country club dinners. My work was... quiet. It happened in sterile labs, in the silent language of cells and data. It didn't make for a good Instagram post.

"You should all go support Kamryn," I had said over dinner. "It' s her big night." I never asked them to choose. I never wanted to be a burden. I just wanted, for once, for them to see me without me having to scream for their attention.

That was my mistake. I assumed they knew about the Zenith award. I assumed they' d read the invitation I' d left on the kitchen counter. I assumed that even if they chose Kamryn, they at least recognized what I had achieved.

But they didn' t. To them, I was just throwing a tantrum.

The memory of what happened next was a film I was forced to re-watch from my new, ethereal perspective. It played out in my mind with terrifying clarity.

I had been in the basement, my designated lab space at home, making final adjustments to my presentation slides. The house was quiet. I thought they had already left.

Then I heard the back door creak open. Not the loud slam of my family, but a stealthy, metallic groan.

Two men I' d never seen before stepped inside. They were large, dressed in dark clothing, their faces obscured by shadows and pulled-down beanies.

"Who are you?" I' d asked, my voice trembling as I stood up from my desk. "How did you get in here?"

They didn' t answer. They just moved towards me, their presence filling the small space, sucking all the air out. One of them held up a key. A key I recognized instantly. It was the spare I' d given Kamryn for emergencies.

A cold dread, colder than death itself, had washed over me.

"She just wants us to scare you," the man with the key grunted. "Make sure you miss your little party tonight. Stay down here, keep quiet, and you won' t get hurt."

"Please," I' d begged, my mind racing. "Please, just leave. I won' t tell anyone. I promise."

My pleas were nothing to them. They were just noise. The first man grabbed me, his hand like a vice on my arm. He was rough, shoving me back towards the concrete wall. He pulled out his phone.

"Boss wants proof," he said to his partner. "A picture. Something to make her look pathetic."

They laughed. The sound was ugly, full of malice. They were enjoying this. My terror was their entertainment.

"Get away from me," I' d screamed, a surge of adrenaline cutting through the fear. I fought back. I kicked, I scratched, I did everything I could to get away.

It was a mistake.

In the struggle, the second man shoved me hard. Too hard. My feet tangled, and I fell backward. The back of my head connected with the sharp corner of a metal storage shelf with a sickening crack.

A burst of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes. Then, warmth spreading through my hair, down my neck. I could feel the life draining out of me, a torrent of it painting the floor red.

The men froze. The laughter died in their throats, replaced by wide-eyed panic.

"Shit," one of them whispered. "That wasn't supposed to happen."

They didn' t check on me. They didn' t call for help. They just ran. They scrambled out the back door and disappeared into the night, leaving me alone in the spreading darkness.

With the last ounce of my strength, I had crawled towards my worktable. My phone was there. My vision was blurring, the room tilting violently, but I managed to grab it. My fingers, slick with my own blood, fumbled with the screen.

I hit my mother' s number on speed dial. It rang once, twice, then went to voicemail. I tried again. Declined.

A text message lit up the screen. It was from Jamal.

Stop calling. We get it. You' re mad. Grow up.

Tears of pure despair streamed down my face. They thought this was a game. They were blocking my calls, ignoring my desperate attempt to cling to life.

My fingers shook as I dialed the last number I could think of. Daxton. My fiancé. The man who was supposed to love me, to protect me.

He answered on the second ring.

"Bella?" His voice was distant, distracted. I could hear the thumping bass of music in the background. He was already at the party.

"Daxton," I gasped, the word a wet, gurgling sound. "Help me... I' m hurt. I' m bleeding."

There was a pause. I heard him sigh, a sound of weary exasperation that shattered the last fragment of my heart.

"Anabella, can this wait?" he said, his voice laced with impatience. "You can' t do this tonight. Not on Kamryn' s big night. You' re being dramatic."

"No... please..." I sobbed. "It' s bad, Daxton. I think... I think I' m dying."

"Don' t say that," he snapped, though there was no concern in his tone, only irritation. "Look, I' ll take you out for a nice dinner tomorrow to make up for it, okay? We' ll go to that place you like. Just... be an adult for one night. Please."

The line went dead.

He had hung up on me.

Lying there, in the cold, metallic-smelling darkness, I finally understood. There would be no nice dinner tomorrow. There would be no tomorrow at all. My body would be found, eventually. A tragic accident.

And as the last bit of warmth left me, a single, chilling thought echoed in the silence of my mind. It was something Kamryn had screamed at me during a fight years ago, a silly, childish argument.

I wish you would just disappear! I wish you were dead!

Well, Kamryn, I thought, as my world faded to black.

You got your wish.

---

Anabella Hawkins POV:

My spirit was tethered to this house, a silent prisoner forced to watch the life I' d lost be erased. I couldn' t leave. I was bound to the living room, a space that had never truly felt like mine, now a stage for a family portrait of which I was no longer a part.

They were all there, gathered around Kamryn as if she were a queen holding court. She sat on my white sofa, a throne of her own making, unwrapping a ridiculously expensive designer handbag-a gift from our parents.

My father, Godfrey, a man who usually spent his evenings engrossed in financial news, was leaning forward, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "You deserve it, sweetie. All of it."

"After this, we' ll take you shopping on Rodeo Drive next week," my mother added, her eyes gleaming with pride. "And we need to start planning that trip to Paris for your birthday."

Kamryn feigned humility, a blush dusting her cheeks. "Oh, you guys don' t have to do all that. It' s too much."

"Nonsense," my mother waved a dismissive hand. She then glanced around my living room, her gaze critical. "You know, once Anabella finally moves out to be with Daxton, we should turn this place into a proper studio for you. She barely uses the space anyway, always cooped up in that dreary lab of hers."

Kamryn' s eyes widened in a performance of sisterly concern. "Oh, Mom, we can' t do that. What would Bella say?"

"What does it matter what she says?" my mother scoffed. "She chose her path. It' s her duty as your older sister to support you."

Jamal, ever the loyal servant to the family' s golden child, appeared with a glass of champagne for Kamryn. "Here you go, Kam. Anything for the star of the night."

I hovered near the ceiling, a cold, invisible knot of grief. I watched the warmth and laughter flow between them, a current of affection I had never been a part of. It was a physical ache, this phantom pain in my spectral heart. They were a complete family unit, and I had always been the extraneous piece, the one that didn't quite fit.

Kamryn took a delicate sip of her champagne, her eyes sparkling with something more than just bubbles. "I just wish Bella were here to celebrate with us," she said, her voice dripping with counterfeit sadness. "I don' t understand why she' s still so angry."

Her words, perfectly timed, shifted the room's energy. The warmth receded, replaced by a familiar chill directed at my memory.

"Don' t you worry about her," my father grumbled, his good mood evaporating. "She' s just being selfish, as usual. Can' t stand it when the spotlight isn' t on her for five minutes."

"Honestly," my mother agreed, shaking her head in disappointment. "You' d think a woman her age would have outgrown these childish tantrums." She looked at Kamryn, her expression softening. "It takes a once-in-a-lifetime talent to achieve what you have, my love. Anabella gets one of those silly little awards every other year."

She made it sound like my research was a hobby, a participation trophy I collected out of pity.

"She' s just trying to ruin your night, Kam," she continued, her voice hardening. "Don' t let her."

Kamryn gave a playful little pout. "Mom, don' t be mean. I' m sure her award is... nice." The condescension in her voice was so subtle, so expertly woven, that only I could hear it. I saw the flicker of satisfaction in her eyes as she successfully painted me as the villain, the jealous, petty older sister.

I knew that look. I had seen it my whole life. The quiet, triumphant smirk of a manipulator who knew exactly how to play her audience. I remembered her in high school, struggling with grades while my own achievements went unnoticed. Our parents had poured resources into tutors for her, celebrating her C-pluses as monumental victories, while my straight A' s were met with a distracted nod.

Once, she had stolen my research paper for a history class and submitted it as her own. When the teacher, recognizing my work, called our parents, Kamryn had burst into tears, claiming I had forced her to do it out of jealousy. I was the one who was grounded for a month. I was the one who had to endure the cold, silent disapproval.

All I had ever wanted was a sliver of the unconditional love they showered on her. Just a fraction. I had hoped to find it with Daxton, to build a life where I was finally someone' s first choice.

But even he had been drawn into Kamryn' s orbit, mesmerized by her sparkling, effortless charm. He started prioritizing her social events over our quiet nights in, dismissing my feelings as insecurity. The love I thought we had was just another thing Kamryn had slowly, methodically taken from me.

Now, as a ghost, the pain was gone. There was no tightness in my chest, no sting of tears in my eyes. There was only a profound, bottomless emptiness. I was numb. The spirit can' t feel pain, after all. It can only remember it.

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