text: Mister Jackson had been an honourable man and a good neighbour and friend to his fellow men. He had never been the kind of man to give in to earthly pleasures like drinking or gambling. He went to work each morning and came home after five each day, wishing everyone a good day he met on his way. All around what one might call a happy chap, without any troubles. Successful as he was it came to pass that he married a woman of noble standing. And although she was mannered and never showed a frown. One sometimes got the impression that a demon might possibly inhabit the human body. But mister Jackson didn’t let coursing rumours destroy his joy. Even if he someday started to work longer in the evenings, or rose earlier in the mornings. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home at all. Perhaps those subtle signs of a somewhat disharmonic relationship were the first steps to what occurred a year later. And perhaps one might have prevented the tragedy altogether by just speaking to mister Jackson if anything was the matter. But none of the people in mister Jackson’s life had poked him about his private struggles, since he never showed any sign of having them. Until one night the police car’s blue lights illuminated the neighbourhood. The uniformed men went inside and only moments later without indicating a fight, they came back. With them followed a black bag and a cuffed mister Jackson. Here and there a curious pair of eyes peeked through the curtain of their bedroom, the source of the coming gossip. The trial was a short one, all evidence was clear. Mister Jackson was sentenced to spend a few years in prison for murder, his house stood abandoned ever since. No family or friends seemed to take interest in the wicked member of their lives. Nor did mister Jackson get any visitors. The first weeks everything went according to the natural order. Like every other criminal he was sitting in his cell, waiting for his time to be over. Unlike most of the others however, he made no ruckus or attempt to tackle the obstacles fate threw at him. In fact, he was bullied in a way that left him ripe for the hospital time after time. The men in charge had no choice but to put him into solitary confinement. Not that Jackson minded, showing no change in behaviour he continued sitting in his cell as if it was just another day to him. Guards checked on him, even attempted to make contact by speech. Seeing their efforts in vain they soon left him alone in his misery. Far enough to not disturb him and yet close enough so they could hear if there should ever be trouble. It was then when Carver Jackson’s nightmare really started. It was a clear, calm night, Carver could tell by his restless soul. He always was restless in those nights. In vain he tried to sleep away the turmoil in his mind, he could not name. The creaking sound of a metallic door caught his attention. Listening carefully, he concluded the sound came from somewhere out of his view. Without a sound he sat up. A strange sensation, as if he had snakes in his stomach, made him uncomfortable. Which was unusual, for he had welcomed the lonely cell. There was nobody to disrupt his few moments of peace of mind he could muster. Nor did he have to stand up for himself, when some broad-shouldered inmate deemed it necessary to punch him. His thoughts wandered to his future and how his life had been turned to ashes. He would never be able to go back to his hometown, and his family had abandoned him without further inquiry. It made him wonder if he ever had meant something to them. Those people who had asked him favours, but never asked to return them. A familiar melody ripped him out of his distraught mind. It was hummed by a woman with a heavenly voice. And yet, his whole body went rigid at the recognition. Only seconds later the figure belonging to the voice appeared in front of his cell. Slowly she turned around, the blonde, curly hair was loose. Her clothes consisted of a blouse and jeans, just like the last time he had seen her. When her blue eyes met his own a shiver ran down his already stiff spine. The flames of vengeance burned brightly in those hollow orbs. Not a word she uttered as they stared at one another. A soft breeze blew back her hair, revealing the marks on her throat. The marks he had left, that fateful night. Carver shuddered as the image slowly faded into nothingness. When he asked the guard on the next day, about a woman entering the prison. The man, quite surprised to be talked to by Carver after weeks of silence, only denied the knowledge of anyone entering the institution. Obviously worried, the policeman asked Carver if he was alright. To which the man replied that he felt fine, and probably just did have a nightmare. The guard cast him a sympathetic look mingled with the disdain people used to regard a murderer with. Carver slept soundly the next night, not overthinking the latest occurrence. It was not before a whole week had passed that a similar incident kept the prisoner awake. Awoken by the same melody, Carver found himself face to face with the ghost of his wife. And again, she glared at him, but this time he gathered the courage to speak. “You are dead,” he said with a hatred he had forgotten he harboured. “What do you want from me?” “No redemption for you,” she said with a gentleness that belied the vengeful eyes. “Only hellfire.” The certainty with which the spectre spoke, caused Carver to feel unbearably cold. A pit opened up in his stomach, setting free an uncontrollable rage. “Go to hell! Leave me be!” He screamed while rushing to the bars where the woman stood. Ignoring his anger, she placed a hand on his shoulder and smirked wolfishly. Carver suppressed a shudder as he stared in the maddening pools he once had loved. “I’ll come for you,” she whispered with an unsettling, growling undertone. At once her skin turned grey like the one of a corpse. Frightened, Carver stepped back as the entity in front of him decomposed. Unable to watch, he covered his eyes. The next time he looked, he was alone. Rubbing his face, he tried to explain the phenomenon with a rational theory. Perhaps the loneliness weighed on him, or the cell itself. He turned back to the place serving as a bed, when his heart stopped. Only inches from him the deceased’s uncanny face had appeared, with a monotone, ghoulish expression. With a shriek he stumbled backwards and fell. But the face had disappeared into thin air. Carver could feel how his life slowly but steadily spiralled downwards, if that was even possible after all he had done to himself. The vengeful spirit haunted him many a night, taking from him the ability to sleep. And if he managed to sleep, he startled awake, bathed in sweat and with a mind full of terror. The guards remarked often enough that he had screamed in the night. Eating too, he had given up and the theory of him trying to starve to death circulated among the policemen. By the time they called a doctor, his dead wife had already become a constant part of his day. Just as in life, she was now harassing him in death. Mocking him with insults or haunting him with grotesque images. “Who are you?” Carver asked from behind his blanket as a tall man in white entered. “He’s the one to take you away, silly,” his wife only replied delighted. “Shut up,” he only muttered towards where the spectre was sitting. “I didn’t say anything, mister Jackson,” the man in white said surprised. “I didn’t talk to you,” Carver apologized to the man he assumed to be a doctor. “Oh, my poor husband,” she continued. “He’s going to put you into a nice white cell. Then we can have even more fun.” A sinister giggle followed the comment. Carver only shot her a warning glance to which the doctor reacted. “Mister Jackson, are you with us?” “I am, I am,” Carver confirmed while nodding several times. But his scattered brain would not let him have his way. Elegantly the spirit rose and went behind the doctor. As if savouring every moment, she took a knife out of her pocket. Which was far too small to harbour such a long blade. Like a priest performing a sacrifice she gripped the hilt with both hands and raised it high. The end pointing at the doctor’s back. “Don’t you dare,” Carver only said sternly, to which the doctor only replied confused. “I have to examine you mister Jackson.” Still grinning like a hyena, the ghost fixed Carver with her maniacal blue eyes. Not waiting for the outcome, Carver jumped the doctor. But when he looked down into the face, it was his wife who was staring back at him. Overcome by frenzy he tried to choke the image. Before he could see the life light dim in the eyes of his victim, Carver’s vision went black. Coming back to himself he was questioned for the reason of his assault. The doctor whom he had tried to strangle had barely survived, they told him. Carver however, could remember no doctor. “My wife,” was all he managed to stammer. “My wife...” He fell silent as the spectre once again appeared behind one of the policemen in the room. Pointing at, to the other men invisible figure, he started screaming again. “There she is, the wretched demon.” Feeling his sanity slip away from him he got up, kicking over the chair in the process. His dead wife only smiled again, while laying her arm around the policeman’s shoulders. “But honey, I think they don’t see me,” she mocked in the voice of a spoiled child. Wielding the kitchen knife once again, she held it to the oblivious man’s throat. “No,” Carver exclaimed shocked as he ran to the officer. But this time he was too late. Holding the place where a cut had become visible the man in uniform sank to the ground. His colleague quickly reacted by pointing his gun at Carver. “His blood is on your hands, my love.” The woman rejoiced while walking up to the other man. “Stop this madness.” Carver started to plead at the coldness of the spirit in front of him. In the blink of an eye the other policeman fell over with the knife in his back. The spectre had disappeared. Trembling from head to toe, Carver sank down in the corner of the room, farthest away from the blood and the corpses. His claim, that his wife had killed and assaulted the man only gave the judge more proof of his insanity. The sentence was the last push for his already fragile mind to go over the edge. Seeing his life and sanity shattered, Carver started to laugh in a frenzy in court. He couldn’t name the reason for his sudden ecstasy; he just knew everything was so unbelievably futile. The man couldn’t but laugh at the dark twist his life had taken. Carver awoke in a padded cell restrained by a straitjacket. The sudden ecstasy had gone the same way it had come. Upon examining his surroundings, he saw his wife standing in front of him. Who else could it be? He thought ironically, all but the vengeful spirit of his wife had abandoned him. Like in the night of her death, she wielded the kitchen knife ready to attack. Carver only looked at her, asking in sincere sorrow. “Why did you want to kill me?” “Why did you love her more than me,” she countered with tears in her eyes. And then it dawned on him. It all had been a misunderstanding. “There is no her,” he replied. “I worked night and day so we could have a child. I was saving money for the future.” With a thud the knife fell to the ground as the spectre sank to her knees. “Oh darling, I destroyed our lives.” Sliding up to her on his knees, Carver tried to comfort his wife. “We both did.” A forgotten warmth spread through Carver when the ghost embraced him. Her skin didn’t feel cold, it felt alive and to her hair clung the smell of spring. And for a moment he thought the past year to have been a dream. She felt so real. Closing his eyes, he pictured himself with her in their kitchen. Out of nothing a sharp pain emerged from his back, causing him to gasp.