Dead Wife Walking: The Last Halloween

My husband is a rapist, but I don't care.

"Are you trying to burn my mouth? Can't you even get the water temperature right? Get in front of the camera and kneel!" My husband, Travis Miller, roared in his livestream, his words echoing in front of tens of thousands of viewers.

All because the cup of Americano I handed him was a little too hot for His Highness.

I didn't argue. I quietly set the cup down, walked to the camera, and knelt.

"I'm so sorry, Travis. It's my fault—I should have checked the temperature."

The chat exploded. Comments poured in, calling me spineless, pathetic, and wondering why I didn't just stand up for myself.

[An Ivy League beauty married to this abusive jerk? What's wrong with young people these days?]

[For the views, he made her dance in a bikini in the snow during that cold snap. He's the worst kind of scumbag.]

[Stop it. Women's rights lawyers have already reached out to her—they said they could help her divorce and take half his assets, but she just won't leave. She sticks by him no matter what.]

Travis's channel thrived on showing me waiting on his family like a maid, humiliating me, and flexing his so-called "alpha male" authority for clicks.

By the time he let me get up, the foundation on my knees had rubbed off on the carpet, exposing dark purple lividity beneath.

Crap. I quickly covered it with my skirt.

Drugstore foundation just doesn't last on the living—or the dead.

It always smudges in the summer. Luckily, the camera couldn't catch it. I calmly smoothed my dress.

On camera, I looked flawless—makeup perfect, body on point, and, most importantly, completely submissive. The "traditional masculinity" crowd loved it, flooding the chat with donations and begging Travis to share his "wife-training secrets."

Travis leaned into the mic, proud as ever. "The key to handling women is never spoiling them."

He grinned. "I said I like pretty women, so my wife never dares show her bare face. She only takes off her makeup after I'm asleep, and puts it back on before I wake up."

"A wife's basic duty is to please her husband's eyes."

Just then, a bolded comment caught Travis's attention: [Your wife's a revenant. Only the dead put on makeup in the middle of the night.]

Travis pointed at the comment, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "What kind of nonsense is this? Someone's been smoking too much weed."

[Does she do her makeup around 2 or 3 a.m.? That's the witching hour—spirits are strongest, and makeup lasts longest.]

Travis's laughter faltered.

He'd never actually seen me without makeup. And every morning, I was always up, fully made up, standing by the bed.

[You've been married three years, right? That's about the time limit for a revenant. Corpses need to feed on the living to keep their skin fresh. Does she cling to you? Do you get sick after being intimate?]

Travis thought about it. He used to be a football player—strong, healthy, almost never sick. But ever since we married, he'd been getting fevers, feeling exhausted for no reason.

[Evil spirits can't cry. Have you ever seen her shed a tear?]

Now Travis was rattled.

No matter how much he'd yelled, humiliated, or shamed me, not once had I ever cried.

[I'm a medium. If you believe me, mix some church ashes into her makeup remover tonight.]

[If she's dead, her face will rot. If she's human, nothing will happen. Simple as that.]