His ghost haunted her. He lingered in the shadows watching as the events of her life unfolded. It had been seven days, 13 hours, and 52 minutes since she had plunged a screwdriver into her father's eye. He writhed in pain, grasping at his face. Eventually, he fell still, and the dark red blood pooled beneath him. He had been beating her, he was always beating her, and she just got sick of hiding the bruises and the broken bones.
She swiftly disposed of the body, but standing in the garage, could still smell the blood seven days, 13 hours, and 57 minutes later. The room always smelled of sawdust and liquor, but now it smelled of blood, it smelled of murder.
She left and went back into the house, but the burly ghost of her father followed just paces behind her. No one else could see him, only her. She peered through the curtains and saw her mother posting signs wherever she could, frantically searching for a dead man.
The woman made her way into the house, "any sign of him today?" The girl asked her mother, trying to sound concerned.
"None yet." Her mother glanced around the room, paranoid with every heartbeat. Behind her mother stood her father, and she couldn't help but stare at him. She watched as he looked at his wife like he was trying to memorize every detail.
Her mother searched every room, as had been her routine for days. It was like he was going to show up in the kitchen, cracking open another beer. When the woman finished her examination of every room, she dropped a paper bag on the table.
"Dinner." She said in a single breathe and took her seat. The girl sat across from her mother, and just as they had for the last seven days, 14 hours and 13 minutes, they left the head of the table open and the place settings intact. It was as if her father would come home any minute and join them. The ghost stood behind her mother, watching as she rummaged through the paper bag, eventually pulling out soggy fries and rubbery meat all wrapped up in cardboard.
Even though her hands continued to pick at the food on her plate, she couldn't help but stare past her mother. Her father rested his hands on the back of her chair. Then, he reached over her mother's shoulder and picked up the steak knife that sat at his place. If her mother noticed anything was amiss, she didn't say. She watched as her father examined the blade, inspecting every curve.
Her heart pounded with every breath. How was the ghost doing this? He was just a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her guilt. Just as she finished her thoughts, her father slid the blade across her mother's throat in one swift motion. The blood sprayed her, and she watched as the life left her mother's eyes.