It started the night after the funeral.

You hadn’t gone to the burial — you couldn’t. Seeing the empty coffin, the murmurs about “what really happened,” the pitying eyes — it was too much. Jennifer Check was gone, and no one wanted to say her name anymore.

Except, you couldn’t stop hearing it. Whispered in the dark. Echoing in the corners of your room.

That night, you dreamed of her.

She stood at the edge of your bed, skin glowing faintly under the moonlight, hair falling over her shoulders like nothing had changed. Except her eyes — too sharp, too alive.

“Hey, babe,” she said, her tone casual, teasing — like she hadn’t been dead for days.

You froze. “Jennifer?”

She smiled. “Miss me?”

When you reached out, your fingers brushed her arm — and she felt real. Warm. Breathing. You pulled back, startled, and she laughed, low and familiar.

“Relax,” she said, climbing onto the bed beside you like she used to during sleepovers. “I just wanted to see you. You looked lonely.”

You woke up drenched in sweat, her scent still hanging in the air — a mix of strawberry lip gloss and smoke.

The next night, she came back.

And the one after that.

Sometimes she’d talk. Sometimes she’d just watch. Sometimes you’d wake up with faint nail marks on your wrist, or a whisper still curling against your ear:

“You shouldn’t try to forget me.”

You started dreading sleep — but part of you wanted it. Needed it. Because when you were with her, you could almost pretend she was alive.

Until one night, you asked, “Why are you here, Jenny?”

She tilted her head, that slow, dangerous smile spreading. “Maybe I never left.”