Chapter 4: The Ghosts We Made

He insisted on attending the final funding meeting.

He said it was his duty, his legacy. I saw through him—he wanted one last thrill. I almost laughed.

And for him, the only way to get back in shape was to hook up with someone.

He called it "recharging." I called it pathetic.

This time, he wanted me to come along.

He said he needed my support, my presence. I knew he needed a witness—someone to keep the ghosts at bay.

After everything with Emily, he needed me there to feel safe.

He clung to me, begging. I almost felt sorry for him.

With the child as leverage, he bet I’d agree.

He thought he had me trapped. He was wrong.

And I did.

I booked two rooms for Mark at the Intercontinental Hotel, both on the ninth floor—903 and 902.

I double-checked the reservations, letting the suspense build. I wanted him to feel safe—just for a moment.

He and the girl would be in 903; I’d wait in 902.

I sat in my room, listening to the muffled sounds next door. My hands shook, but my resolve held.

A wife reduced to this—what a joke.

I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering when I’d become a stranger to myself.

Not even a minute later, Mark burst into my room, panting. "Next door… Emily’s on the bed!"

His face was white as a sheet, eyes wide with terror. He clung to the doorframe, gasping for breath.

He said that as soon as he entered, he saw Emily, hair tied with the red band, lying on the snow-white sheets.

He described her in detail—every feature, every movement. I almost believed him.

I peeked into 903—a girl with a round face and short hair was sitting on the bed, obviously not Emily.

She looked up, startled, clutching the sheets to her chest. I offered a tight smile, scanning the room for any sign of Emily.

"I checked—it’s not Emily."

I spoke softly, trying to calm him. Mark peeked around the door, eyes darting.

Mark stood in the doorway, craning his neck. Sure enough, just a nervous stranger inside.

He let out a shaky laugh, forcing himself to relax. I watched him, waiting.

He walked in, stripped, and roughly threw the girl onto the bed.

The girl asked him to shower first. Annoyed, Mark went into the bathroom.

He muttered under his breath, slamming the door. The girl shot me a pleading look. I nodded, slipping out.

I closed the door and went back to my room.

My heart pounded as I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the next scream.

Three minutes later, I heard a scream and the door slam open.

The sound echoed down the hallway. I rushed to the door, adrenaline surging.

I opened my door just in time to see a naked figure dash past, shouting, "Ghost! Emily, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have drugged you! I shouldn’t have forced you to get an abortion! I shouldn’t have lied to you! Please, let me go!"

His words tumbled out in a torrent, raw and desperate. He ran barefoot down the hall, heedless of the stares.

Emily, the short-haired girl, and I stood at the door of 903, arms crossed, watching Mark like he was a wild animal in a zoo.

We exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between us. The plan had worked—maybe too well.

Everything had been planned from the moment Emily came to me.

It started that day at brunch, when she threw the photos on the table and demanded justice.

There was a pause after she said it, the weight of the word "justice" hanging in the air.

That day, Emily had thrown the stack of photos at me and said, "I want him to pay."

Her voice was cold, but her hands shook. I saw the pain in her eyes, the raw wound Mark had left.

After hearing her story, I said, "You’re too young. I want him to wish he was dead."

I meant it. I wanted him to suffer, to know what it felt like to lose everything.

Emily sent in her resume to the company and soon got an interview.

I pulled some strings, made sure her application landed on Mark’s desk. He took the bait, as always.

After the interview, it was lunchtime, and Mark invited her out.

He couldn’t resist a pretty face. He flirted shamelessly, convinced she was just another conquest.

During the meal, Mark kept making suggestive comments.

Emily played along, stringing him along just enough to keep him interested.

Emily refused him outright.

She stood her ground, unflinching. Mark didn’t like being told no.

But Mark, the bastard, slipped something into her drink when she went to the restroom.

He thought he was clever, covering his tracks. He was wrong.

After the meal, he took her to a hotel and took a bunch of photos.

He documented everything, thinking it would protect him. It was his downfall.

The photos Emily showed me were all taken by Mark.

He’d kept them as insurance, never imagining they’d be used against him.

He even kept her red scrunchie as a souvenir.

A trophy, proof of his conquest. It became the symbol of his undoing. I felt a chill thinking about it.

After that, Mark used the photos to threaten Emily and assaulted her multiple times.

He was relentless, cruel. Emily suffered in silence, afraid to speak out.

For his own pleasure, he never used protection.

He didn’t care about consequences—only his own satisfaction.

Soon, Emily got pregnant.

She was terrified, alone. Mark refused to help.

Mark coerced her into getting an abortion.

He threatened her, promised to ruin her life if she didn’t comply.

When she refused, Mark tricked her into going for an ultrasound at a private clinic.

He promised it was just a checkup. She believed him—once.

After giving her anesthesia, he forced her to have an abortion.

She woke up in pain, confused. Mark was gone.

I took Emily’s hand. "Want me to help you take care of this man?"

She hesitated, searching my face for signs of betrayal. I squeezed her hand, promising I meant it.

Emily said, "Why should I believe you’d hurt your own husband?"

Her voice was soft, uncertain. I understood her doubt. For a second, I wondered if I could trust myself.

I said, "Because the same thing happened to me."

The words hung between us, heavy with truth. Emily’s eyes widened.

After college, I met Mark on a hiking trip.

He was charming, attentive, everything I thought I wanted. I fell hard.

He seemed so easy, so warm.

He made me feel special, seen. I was young, naive.

After the trip, we started dating. The first year, I got pregnant.

I was scared, but hopeful. Mark promised we’d figure it out together.

He said we couldn’t afford a child yet, and we weren’t even married. I agreed and ended the pregnancy.

I cried for weeks, but Mark comforted me, promising "someday."

A few years later, we got married, the company grew, and I got pregnant again.

This time, I was sure it would be different. I was wrong.

He said he’d take me for a prenatal checkup at a private hospital.

He insisted it was the best care, the safest option. I trusted him.

I thought it was odd they used anesthesia for a checkup.

But I was too scared to ask questions. I let them put me under.

Afterwards, I was cooking at home and slipped on a puddle of oil in the kitchen. I lost the baby.

I blamed myself, thinking I was clumsy. Mark held me as I cried.

I always thought I’d lost it in the fall.

It haunted me for years. I replayed the accident in my mind, searching for answers.

Later I learned the truth—the baby was gone during the hospital visit. Mark had poured oil on the floor to make me think I’d lost the baby by accident.

The realization shattered me. I saw Mark for what he truly was—a monster.

Ever since, it’s been hard for me to get pregnant.

I saw specialist after specialist, but nothing worked. Mark stopped trying.

I love kids. I still dream about those two unborn children.

Their faces haunt me, shadows in my dreams. Sometimes I wake up in tears, wondering what they would have been like.

He promised he’d take care of me for life, love only me.

Lies, all of it. I was just another pawn in his game.

Seeing you, I realized it was all a lie. He’s just an extremely selfish man.

Emily nodded, tears shining in her eyes. We were sisters in suffering now.

He didn’t want to spend any effort on anyone. He didn’t divorce me because I was easy to deal with.

I was convenient, compliant. That’s all he ever wanted.

Worst of all, he took so many unborn lives.

Emily reached out her hand. "Happy to work together."

We shook on it, sealing our pact. Revenge would be ours.

And so, Emily and I began our plan for revenge.

We met in secret, plotting every move. Each step was carefully calculated.

In fact, before we acted, I gave him a chance.

I wanted to believe he could change, that he’d choose love over power.

Remember?

After meeting Emily, I went home and told Mark, "I’m pregnant."

I watched his face, searching for hope. It never came.

If at that moment he’d said, "Darling, really? Then let’s keep the baby. I’ll never cheat again. Let’s live a good life together."

Maybe I really would have forgiven him.

But he used the child as a bargaining chip to threaten me.

My heart broke all over again. I knew then there was no going back.

I was never pregnant. That medical report was fake.

I stared at it in my hands, feeling nothing but emptiness.

Most people fail when they’re tested.

Mark failed, spectacularly. I steeled myself for what came next.

If it had been real, maybe I would’ve jumped from the ninth floor myself.

The thought stuck with me, heavy as stone. I pushed it down and got to work.

At first, I only wanted to destroy his career.

I gathered evidence, built my case. I was ready to go public.

But when he used a child to blackmail me into covering up his filth, I decided to ruin everything—make him wish he was dead.

Emily and I started planning carefully.

We mapped out every step, anticipating every move. Mark never saw it coming.

Step one: lower his guard.

I played the dutiful wife, cleaning up his messes, pretending to care.

He relaxed, confident he’d won. That was his first mistake.

But really, I used the chance to find out how many women he’d hurt, and recruited them to join us.

I reached out to each one, offering support, solidarity. Most were eager to help.

I also investigated his channels for finding these women.

I dug through his accounts, piecing together his methods. The more I learned, the angrier I became.

I pretended to settle each incident, but in reality, I turned every girl into an ally.

We formed a network, sharing information, supporting each other. Mark was surrounded, and he didn’t even know it.

Step two: break him mentally.

We wanted him to feel the fear, the uncertainty, the helplessness he’d inflicted on others.

I had Emily fake her death.

We crafted the Facebook post together, making it as believable as possible. I remember hitting "Post" and watching Mark’s world begin to crumble.

We rehearsed every detail, anticipating every question. Mark fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.

I bought tons of red scrunchies, placing them around Mark—on his toothbrush, pillow, office, car.

Each one was a reminder, a warning. Mark grew more paranoid by the day.

The night the bed was covered in scrunchies and the 3 a.m. "poke," I’d slipped sleeping pills into Mark’s milk before bed.

I remember pouring the milk, my hands steady, my heart racing. He never suspected a thing.

In the middle of the night, I scattered scrunchies everywhere and had Emily "poke" him.

She logged in from a burner phone, timing each message perfectly.

The next day, he was scared out of his mind.

He barely spoke, jumping at every sound. I watched, satisfied.

As for why blocking and deleting didn’t work—it’s because no matter what he did, I re-added Emily’s account at 2 a.m. every night.

He never suspected a thing. I kept the burner phone hidden, relishing his confusion.

Scrunchies and "pokes" weren’t enough. He needed to see Emily’s "vengeful spirit."

We wanted him to believe he was truly haunted.

So I took him to her grave, had Emily dress in white, with a red scrunchie, and hang around the cemetery—and sometimes our house.

She played the part perfectly, drifting through the shadows, always just out of reach.

The day Mark came back from his run, I had Emily stand by the window. When Mark ran to get the silver dagger, Emily dropped a scrunchie and left through the main door.

I handled the security footage—no one saw what they shouldn’t.

I deleted the evidence, covering our tracks. Mark was convinced.

Step three: take over his place at the company.

I used his absence to my advantage, stepping into the spotlight.

In my plan, his fear would gradually weaken his grip on the company.

I took on more responsibility, earning the trust of the board and investors.

During this phase, I slept well, was in a great mood, and managed the company with ease.

For the first time in years, I felt powerful—capable. Mark faded into the background.

Mark thought he was forcing me to help, but actually, I was taking over step by step.

He never saw it coming. By the time he realized, it was too late.

Plus, I’d arranged for Jessie Lee to be my assistant at the company.

She was sharp, loyal, and just as eager for revenge as I was.

When Jessie blackmailed Mark, I promised her he’d pay an even steeper price.

She agreed, helping me gather evidence, build alliances. We laughed about it late at night, the two of us plotting in whispers.

Jessie was already a workplace pro, and for our plan, she worked tirelessly to help me understand the business.

She taught me everything I needed to know, filling in the gaps Mark had left.

I also gradually placed my own people in the company.

I built a team I could trust, loyal to me, not Mark.

My goal: destroy Mark, but keep the company for myself.

I wanted justice, not just revenge. The company was my legacy now.

By the time the funding round closed, Mark was already irrelevant.

He was a ghost, wandering the halls, ignored by everyone.

Step four: completely break him mentally—and make him impotent.

I hesitated at first, unsure if I could go through with it. But Mark gave me no choice.

Honestly, this step wasn’t originally in our plan.

We wanted justice, not cruelty. But Mark pushed us too far.

When Mark told me he wanted one last hookup to "recover," I wanted to castrate him on the spot.

The audacity was staggering. I bit my tongue, nodding along.

Facing ghosts and spirits, all he could think about was sex.

He was hopeless, irredeemable. I steeled myself for what came next.

After discussing with Emily, we decided to go along with it.

We planned every detail, anticipating every reaction.

Some doctors say if a man is scared out of his mind during an erection, it can cause permanent erectile dysfunction.

It was a cruel solution, but it fit the crime.

The girl Mark booked was arranged by me.

She was an actress, briefed on every detail. She knew exactly what to do.

I told her it was just acting—no real sex.

She agreed, eager to help. She smiled when I explained, almost giddy at the chance to take him down.

The first time Mark entered room 903, he really saw Emily.

She lay on the bed, hair spread out, red scrunchie gleaming. Mark froze, terror-stricken.

The short-haired girl hid in the wardrobe.

She waited, ready to switch places at a moment’s notice.

Mark ran to 902 to find me in terror.

He babbled incoherently, clutching my arm. I soothed him, pretending to believe his story.

While I went to check 903, Emily slipped into the wardrobe, and the short-haired girl came out.

We switched places seamlessly, keeping Mark off balance.

I coaxed Mark back to 903 to confirm it wasn’t Emily. He relaxed.

He laughed nervously, stripping off his clothes. The girl played along, asking him to shower first.

I had the short-haired girl ask him to shower first.

He grumbled, but complied, eager to get it over with.

While he was in the shower, Emily, dressed in white, stood at the bathroom door.

She waited, silent and still, her eyes fixed on the door.

Mark rushed through his shower, eager to get started. The moment he came out and saw Emily, everything snapped.

He screamed, stumbling backward, slipping on the wet tile. His fear was palpable, raw.

After that barrage, Mark was done—impotent, mind shattered, a broken man.

He collapsed, sobbing, begging for forgiveness. I watched, unmoved.

I brought him home, sparing him the humiliation of running naked through the halls.

He curled up in bed, shaking, refusing to speak.

For two reasons:

First, to see if the blow was enough.

Second, to make sure the company’s funding went through. Until then, the scandal couldn’t leak.

I played the dutiful wife, covering for him, making excuses. No one suspected a thing.

After a night at home, Mark calmed down a bit.

He ate breakfast, showered, even smiled. I watched him closely, searching for cracks.

He huddled in a corner, bowing his head over and over. "I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t haunt me."

He muttered the words like a mantra, rocking back and forth. I stood there, arms folded, watching him unravel.

I tested him: "The second funding meeting is at noon. After that, we’ll have the investment and our net worth will skyrocket."

He perked up, eyes shining with greed. I felt sick.

He shot back: "Morgan, help me find a suit—I have to go to this meeting."

He was already planning his comeback. I messaged Emily: "Looks like it wasn’t enough. We’ll stick to the original plan."

After the meeting, I went home, hugged Mark, and said, "It’s done. I got it."

He clung to me, tears streaming down his face. I felt nothing.

Mark said, "We got the funding, we got it."

He grinned, triumphant. I wanted to slap him.

I patted his head. "Not we—I did."

He stared at me, confused. I smiled, savoring the moment.

We—we—me—we—me.

He stammered, lost. I turned away, done with his games.

I said, "Now that the company’s settled, let me help you with your problem."

He nodded eagerly, desperate for a solution.

He whispered, "Okay. Thanks, honey."

He clung to my hand, eyes wide with hope.

I said, "I found a pastor from Boston to pray over you. The ritual’s all set up in the living room."

He hesitated, doubt flickering in his eyes. I pulled him forward, ignoring his protests.

Doubt flickered in Mark’s eyes, his lips twitching as I led him out.

He followed, shuffling like a condemned man.

The pastor wore a black robe, candles burning thick smoke in the air.

The room was dim, shadows dancing on the walls. The pastor nodded solemnly, motioning for Mark to lie down.

A large wooden board covered in white cloth—he signaled Mark to lie down.

Mark obeyed, trembling. The pastor tied him up, stuffing a Bible verse card into his mouth.

Mark whimpered, eyes wide with terror. I stood back, arms crossed.

Then the pastor propped the board upright against the wall, so Mark was standing.

He struggled, but the ropes held. Sweat poured down his face.

Mark’s eyes locked on the spare bedroom door, growing wider and wider.

He stared, transfixed, as the door creaked open.

From that door, a procession of women in white, hair loose and wild, filed out.

Emily led the way, her face pale and serene. Behind her came Jessie, then every woman Mark had ever hurt.

Their eyes burned with anger, their voices a low, mournful wail.

Last came three children, circling him, calling, "Daddy."

Their voices were high, sweet, and utterly haunting. Mark sobbed, tears streaming down his face.

Mark tried to shout, but his mouth was stuffed with paper.

He thrashed against the ropes, eyes rolling back in his head.

Snot and tears mixed at his lips, his pants first soaked, then stained, pale yellow liquid running down his legs.

The smell was sharp, acrid. I wrinkled my nose, refusing to look away.

He stared at me, whimpering desperately.

His eyes pleaded for mercy. I offered none.

I pretended to take a picture, then pulled up a staged photo from my album.

I held it up, showing him an empty room. "See? There’s nothing there."

I told him, "There’s no one there, relax. We’ll pray for you now, and you won’t see anything scary again."

He sobbed, nodding frantically. The women closed in, circling the board.

The women lifted the board onto the table, circling him, venting their anger in ghostly voices.

Their whispers grew louder, rising to a crescendo. Mark’s body shook with terror.

Then Emily tore open his shirt.

Her nails scraped his skin, leaving angry red marks. The others joined in, clawing at his flesh. The air filled with the sound of nails raking skin, Mark’s muffled screams.

Everyone used their nails to draw circles on his chest, arms, and face.

They worked methodically, covering every inch of skin.

He liked red scrunchies—so we gave him a body full of them.

By the end, he was covered in bloody rings, a living canvas of his own guilt.

Mark’s eyes bulged, veins popping, screams muffled by the cards, body convulsing until he finally passed out.

He slumped against the board, unconscious. The women faded away, their work done.