Laura adjusted the silk scarf around her neck, her hands trembling as she looked into the mirror. Her husband, Mark, had surprised her the night before with an invitation: a private boat ride, just the two of them, at sunset.
It was the first gesture of affection she had received in years. Their marriage had grown cold, Mark often retreating behind long silences and vague excuses. Still, Laura clung to hope. Maybe this trip meant something. Maybe the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago was returning to her.
By the time they reached the secluded pier, the evening sun painted the water in streaks of gold. Mark helped her aboard, his grip firm but strangely tense. Laura didn’t notice; she only smiled, her heart fluttering at the thought of reconciliation.
The small boat swayed gently as they sailed into open water. Mark poured wine into crystal glasses, and Laura’s laughter mingled with the call of seagulls. She spoke excitedly about starting fresh, about the children they might still have, about the love she still believed in.
Mark listened in silence, nodding occasionally, though his gaze drifted often toward the horizon. His jaw tightened. His fingers drummed on the railing. Inside him churned a storm of greed and guilt, though he would only yield to the first.
As Laura leaned over the edge, stretching her arms wide to embrace the sea breeze, Mark made his move.
A sudden shove.
Laura’s laughter turned into a scream, swallowed instantly by the ocean. Her body plunged beneath the waves, her hands reaching desperately for air that would never come.
Onshore, a woman lowered her binoculars, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
“Everything went perfectly, darling,” she whispered.
For Mark and his lover, life moved forward seamlessly. With Laura declared missing and presumed drowned, her vast inheritance flowed easily into his control. The two of them built a life together in a city far away, hidden behind the façade of respectability.
But three years later, everything began to unravel.
It started with whispers. Mark received anonymous letters, each containing only a single line: “She’s not gone.” At first, he laughed it off as a cruel prank. But then came the phone calls—always silence on the other end, except for the faint sound of waves crashing.
His lover dismissed it as paranoia. “You’re letting guilt eat you alive,” she said, brushing it off. But Mark couldn’t ignore the sense that someone—Laura—was haunting him.
One evening, as he walked home alone from a business dinner, Mark froze in the middle of the street. Across the road stood a woman in a long coat, her face hidden in the shadows. She didn’t move, didn’t speak—just stared. When he blinked, she was gone.
The nightmares soon followed. Mark woke drenched in sweat, convinced he heard the sound of dripping water in their bedroom. In dreams, Laura rose from the sea, her hair tangled with seaweed, her eyes cold and accusing. Each night, her whispers grew louder: “Why, Mark?”
His health deteriorated. He lost weight, his once-confident demeanor replaced with nervous tics and restless pacing. His lover grew impatient, her initial thrill souring into disdain.
“You’re ruining everything,” she hissed one night. “We have everything we ever wanted. Stop clinging to ghosts.”
But the ghost refused to leave.
On the third anniversary of Laura’s disappearance, Mark received a package with no return address. Inside was a silk scarf—hers. The same one she had worn the night of the trip, neatly folded, still carrying the faint scent of her perfume.
His hands shook so badly he dropped it on the floor. His lover, pale, muttered, “This isn’t possible. We left nothing behind.”
But Mark knew better. Someone had found Laura—or Laura had found them.
The unraveling reached its climax weeks later. Mark was invited to speak at a charity gala, and though reluctant, he forced himself to attend. His lover clung to his arm, dazzling in a sequined gown, determined to prove to the world—and herself—that their life was unshakable.
But as Mark stepped onto the stage, his throat tightening around rehearsed words, he froze.
At the back of the room, illuminated by the dim golden glow of chandeliers, sat Laura.
Alive.
Her eyes locked on his, calm and unyielding. She wore no bitterness on her face, no malice in her expression—just a quiet certainty that turned his blood to ice.
Mark stumbled over his words, the room spinning, while his lover gripped his arm so hard her nails drew blood. When he dared look again, Laura was gone.
Or perhaps she had never been there at all.
That night, unable to bear the weight of his conscience, Mark confessed everything to his lover: the push, the screams, the way the water had swallowed Laura whole. He expected her to comfort him, to remind him of the fortune they had secured.
Instead, she stared at him coldly.
“You fool,” she whispered. “You were supposed to forget her. Now you’ll lose everything.”
She left that night, disappearing with half the fortune they had fought so hard to obtain.
Mark lived alone after that, tormented by shadows of the past. Each crash of the waves outside his seaside villa reminded him of Laura’s scream. Each creak in the house carried her whisper.
And though no one ever saw Laura again, Mark swore he felt her presence everywhere—watching, waiting, haunting him until his final breath.
Because some betrayals don’t sink beneath the sea. They rise again, dragging the guilty down with them.