The Tormented Wife in the Steamer

For ten months, I had carried Tommy inside me, enduring the crushing weight of pregnancy, the relentless nausea, the sleepless nights. I fought through it all to bring him into this world. And now, my poor son lay lifeless before me.

My little Tommy who once curled up in my arms, breathing softly in sleep, who laughed as he threw himself into my embrace, calling me "Mama"—his face was now a shade of blue. A deep red mark wrapped around his fragile neck.

I searched the air around me, desperate for a trace of his soul, a lingering whisper, a fleeting presence. But there was nothing. Just emptiness.

Jessica let out a sharp cry and buried herself in Tristan's arms, trembling as if she had just heard something unspeakable. "Tristan, do you think… do you think Tommy resents us? Will his ghost come back to haunt us?"

Tristan's face darkened. He hadn't expected this—not from a boy who had always kept his distance. A son who had never dared to cross him.

"Send out a statement," he ordered the butler. "The Miller family's adopted son passed away due to a sudden illness. Resuscitation efforts failed."

But then, as if reconsidering, he hesitated. "No, wait. There's no need. Just have someone wrap him up in a sack and bury him somewhere. It's as if he never existed."

I turned to him sharply, unable to believe what I had just heard.

It was one thing for him to deny Tommy's existence in life, but now, even in death, he refused him the dignity of a proper resting place?

The butler, too, was stunned. He stared at Tristan for a long moment, as if seeing a stranger before him.

"What are you waiting for? Get it done!" Tristan snapped, impatience flaring into fury. "Or you're fired!"

The butler inhaled deeply, as if summoning the strength to make a decision he had long been putting off. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he removed the key ring from his waist and set it gently on the floor.

"Sir," he said, voice steady but worn. "I watched you grow up. I watched Tommy grow up, too.

"Back when you had nothing, it was Madam who stood by your side, helping you inch your way up, step by step. But ever since Jessica reappeared, everything changed. Now, you have her locked inside a scorching steamer, and refuse to even give your son a proper burial. I can no longer serve you."

The butler cast one last look at Tristan before turning away. His once-proud posture was gone, his back bent as if the years had suddenly caught up with him all at once.

"You—" Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but Jessica grabbed his arm in a panic. "Tristan, we need to get rid of Tommy's body quickly. I heard that the spirits of dead children are the most vengeful! We have to make sure he's taken care of properly!"

Vengeful? If only Tommy's soul could return, filled with rage. At least then, I would be able to see him one last time. Hold him one last time.

Tristan called his most trusted men, had them wrap Tommy's body in a sack, and tossed him into an unmarked graveyard where no one would think to look. When the task was done, a heavy silence clung to him like a second skin.

Jessica, still trembling, clung to his arm. "Tristan, it's been days… Crystal won't really die in there, will she? Maybe we should let her out, get a divorce, and finally be at peace. It'll finally be just the two of us. Isn't that better?"

At the mention of my name, even she wasn't spared his irritation. "Relax," he muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "She's too much of a coward to die so easily."

But you miscalculated, Tristan. I didn't just die. I rotted. My soul drifted around you, watching, waiting.

Jessica opened her mouth as if to say more, but one look at his face made her shrink back in silence.

"Crystal belongs to me," Tristan growled. "Even if she wanted to die, I get the final say."

How absurd.

He allowed himself his little love affairs, his whispered romances. But me? I was to remain his, even couldn't decide my own death.

Yet, from the very beginning, the one who strayed was him.

That night, Jessica curled up asleep beside him, brows furrowed. Tristan waited until her breathing evened out, then carefully slid out of bed, moving like a thief in the night.

I watched as he approached the door to my "prison", a silver cross necklace hanging from his neck. How ironic.

Back then, when his mind was unraveling, when reality blurred at the edges, I had made a trip to the church, praying for his peace of mind. The pastor had given me this very necklace, assuring me it would protect him.

He had laughed at me then. Called me superstitious. Said the necklace was ugly and refused to wear it.

But now, after killing his own son, after locking his wife away to die, he was suddenly clutching the necklace like a lifeline.

How laughable.

I watched as he took slow, shuddering breaths, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His legs trembled. He was hesitating.

Then—

"Agh!"

He staggered back, eyes wide with horror.

A fat, white maggot had wriggled onto his hand, its bloated body squirming over his skin.

"Crystal! What kind of sick trick are you playing?"

Something in him snapped. He flung the maggot to the ground and stomped on it viciously, grinding it into nothingness beneath his heel.

"Come out," he barked, shoving the door open. "Crystal, stop this nonsense and come out now!"

The door creaked wide, and a thick wave of decay rolled out.