I spend the night with my boyfriend, not knowing he died two days ago—now I’m pregnant with his ghost’s child.
I swear I saw him. I touched him. I kissed him. I felt his warm breath, his mint‑scented lips—just as always. He wore the grey hoodie he always complained was too big and made him look like a soft‑hearted bully. He feels real. He holds me all night, whispers “I love you” in my ear, and says we’ll marry next year. I remember every second: the way his fingers slide down my arm, how he cries when I cry, how he makes love with such intensity I think my soul might split in two. Then… he vanishes.
I wake up alone, but I’m not scared. I tell myself I must have gone for a run, like I sometimes do. His cologne still lingers on the sheets. My skin still burns where he touched me. Something doesn’t fit.
I call. Again. And again.
My best friend Grace bursts into my room, face pale, and I don’t understand why she’s crying.
—Ellie… —she whispers—. Don’t you know?
I laugh. —Know what?
—Jack is dead.
I blink. —Dead how?
She sobs louder. —He died two days ago. Car crash on the night of the storm.
No. No. No.
I shout, push her, tell her it’s cruel to say that, that it isn’t funny. I show her the text Jack sent the night before, the voice note that says, “I’m coming over. I miss your body against mine.” She trembles, looks at the phone.
—Ellie… he couldn’t have sent that. He was already in the morgue.
The world tilts. My knees give way. I rush to the bathroom, grab the towel he used, still damp, the hoodie he left on the floor, the bite mark on my neck.
He was here. He must have been.
The truth is… Jack was buried yesterday. And somehow, I made love to him last night.
Days pass. Nights become unbearable. I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—sometimes standing at the foot of the bed, sometimes whispering in my ear. One night I hear his voice: “Don’t cry, love. I’m still with you.” I try to record it, but all I get is static and my own terrified breathing.
Then I miss my period. Twice. I think it’s stress, grief, trauma—until I vomit for the fifth time in a day. I take a test. Two lines. Positive.
I collapse. The only person I’ve been with was Jack. But he’s dead, buried, rotting. Yet something grows inside me, kicking in the night, glowing under my skin when the lights are out. Whenever I sob and say I can’t go on, I hear a whisper from the shadows: “You’re not alone. Our child is coming.”
Episode 2
I don’t remember falling asleep. I only recall waking in the bathtub, the pregnancy test still clenched in my hand, those two pink lines mocking my sanity. I haven’t spoken to anyone for days—not even Grace. My phone rings dozens of times, her name lighting the screen, but I ignore every call.
How do I explain that I’m carrying a baby from a man who has been underground for weeks? Who would believe me? I didn’t even fully believe myself—until tonight.
Just as I begin to drift off, something presses against my belly from inside. It isn’t a normal kick. It feels deliberate, almost intelligent, as if trying to get my attention. I bolt upright, gasping, hands on my stomach, and hear Jack’s voice inside my head.
—Don’t be afraid, love. I chose you.
I scream and sprint out of bed, glance at my reflection, lift my shirt, and swear I see a faint blue pulse just beneath my skin. It flickers, then fades. My legs give out; I collapse, sobbing.
The next day I force myself into the hospital. I tell the doctor that I became pregnant after Jack visited me. I lie about the dates, about everything—except the symptoms. “Strange dreams, skin that glows, hearing voices of someone who isn’t there.”
Her expression shifts from concern to a calm suspicion.
—We’ll run some tests —she says cautiously—. Stress can wreak havoc on the mind, especially when mixed with pregnancy hormones.
She presses her stethoscope to my belly. Her face freezes.
—I can’t hear a heartbeat, but something’s moving.
She orders an ultrasound. While I lie on the cold metal table, the sonographer’s face turns ashen. She tweaks the scanner, says nothing until I ask what’s happening.
—There’s a fetus —she whispers—. It’s… glowing.
I leave the hospital without waiting for results. That night I dream again. Jack stands by the old lake we used to visit, the wind tugging at his hoodie.
—Our child isn’t like the others —he says, softer than the breeze—. He’s me… and more.
—What do you mean? —I ask.
He only smiles sadly. —You’ll understand soon. You must protect him.
I wake to find the curtains wide open, even though I locked the windows. The hoodie Jack wore in the dream is neatly folded at the edge of my bed. I touch it; it’s still warm.
Then I know—the thing growing inside me is real. It’s his, and it’s changing me.
The next day I finally call Grace. I need help. She rushes over, embraces me tightly, and I spill everything: the glowing spot on my belly, the dreams, the voice, the baby. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t scream. She whispers:
—We need to go somewhere.
She leads me to an old house hidden behind her grandmother’s church. Inside sits an elderly woman with long silver braids and pale eyes. She looks at me once, then says:
—You’re not the first, but you must be the last.
I ask what she means, and her answer chills me to the bone.
—You carry the child of a bound spirit. That baby is both a blessing and a warning. Its father shouldn’t have returned. Now the door is open, and others are crossing.
—To take him? —I ask.
—To take you.
The lights flicker. A cold draft sweeps through the windows. From the shadows I hear Jack’s voice again:
—Run.
Episode 3
The room turns icy. The old woman’s eyes widen as shadows stretch across the walls like claws.
—He’s here —she whispers, clutching a rosary made of ebony and bone.
Grace pushes me behind her, but fear no longer grips me. I’m no longer terrified of Jack; I’m terrified of what the old woman warned would come.
She sprinkles ash in a circle and tells me to stand inside.
—Don’t leave the circle, no matter what. Hear me? —she warns—. You’re now a bridge between life and death. Bridges are crossed both ways.
I step into the circle. My belly glows with the same unsettling light. The baby kicks harder than ever. Then a chorus of voices erupts—dozens, perhaps hundreds—shouts, moans, pleas, laughter, all rising from the darkness.
—Jack, please —I beg—. What’s happening?
He appears, but not as before. His eyes are empty, filled with sorrow and fear.
—I’m sorry —he says—. I never meant to drag you into this. I just wanted one more night, one more moment. I didn’t know I was opening a door.
Tears stream down my face.
—Why me? Why the baby?
He looks at my belly, then at me.
—Because our love was stronger than death. But love like that breaks the rules.
From the gloom a twisted, half‑faced monster with flaming eyes emerges, whistling a chilling tune. Jack steps in front of us.
—You can’t have her! —the monster roars—. You can’t take our child!
Jack shoves the creature back. The old woman begins chanting in an ancient tongue. Grace clutches my hand, crying.
—Ellie! Stay in the circle!
I scream as the monster lunges. Jack hurls himself at it. The old woman cries out:
—Now! Choose, girl! Life or love?
Jack, bloodied and fading, turns to me.
—You have to let me go, love. For our child. For you.
I shake my head, sobbing.
—I can’t lose you again!
—You never lost me. I live in him now, in you. Hold on, or they’ll take everything.
The lights explode, the floor cracks, shadows howl. With all the pain in my heart I shout his name and say goodbye.
At that moment Jack smiles, then disappears. The darkness recedes, the monster shrieks and dissolves into smoke, and silence falls.
I collapse. The circle fades. The baby inside me kicks once, then again, and finally rests.
Nine months later I give birth to a boy. He doesn’t cry like other infants; he looks straight into my eyes, quiet and calm, as if he already knows everything. His skin glows faintly in the dark. Sometimes, when I sing to him at night, I swear I hear a second voice harmonising with mine—Jack’s voice.
I name—Jackson—meaning “son of Jack.” It never truly belongs to me.
Before crossing over, Jack leaves me one final gift: a piece of himself that no shadow can ever take away.
