The Ghost of Guilt

In the weeks that followed, Mark’s perfect world began to crumble.
More messages came — some typed, some handwritten, all bearing the same message in different forms: I know what you did. Sometimes they arrived by text, sometimes slipped under the door, once even carved into the condensation on the bathroom mirror.
He stopped sleeping. Every sound made him flinch. Even the wind howling outside the penthouse felt like a whisper from the past.
Angela, on the other hand, seemed almost amused. She watched him unravel with detached fascination. “You’re jumpy, love,” she said one morning, sipping her coffee. “Feeling guilty about something?”
Mark snapped. “Are you behind this, Angela? Is this your idea of a joke?”
Her smile faded, replaced by something unreadable. “I don’t need to scare you, Mark. You’re doing a fine job of that yourself.”
Her words lingered like a shadow. He wanted to believe she was innocent — but every time he caught her watching him, every time she smiled that knowing smile, doubt clawed a little deeper.
Then, one night, as he scrolled through his emails, another message arrived. But this time, it wasn’t just words. It was a video file. Trembling, he pressed play.
The screen flickered — and there she was. Laura. Standing at the edge of the cliff where she’d fallen, her hair whipping in the wind, her eyes wide with terror. Then came the sound he could never forget — his own voice shouting, “Just let go!”
The clip ended abruptly, leaving only static.
Mark’s knees gave out. He stared at the screen, horror clawing up his throat. How could this exist? Only he and Angela had been there that night.
And then, softly, from behind him, Angela whispered, “You didn’t think secrets stay buried forever, did you?”
The truth crashed over him like a wave. The woman he thought was his salvation had been his executioner all along.
The next morning, the penthouse was empty. Angela was gone — and so was the money. All that remained was a note on the table, written in her elegant handwriting:
You got what you deserved. So did she.
The city below sparkled as if nothing had happened. But for Mark, it was over. The sea that had swallowed Laura’s cries now echoed with his own — the sound of a man haunted not by ghosts, but by his own guilt.
Because in the end, the dead don’t need to return to destroy you. Sometimes, your conscience does the job just fine.