"Honey, where are you?" Your husband's voice echoes throughout the room, growing louder as he approaches. You're huddled inside your closet, hand over your mouth, trying to hide from his eerie presence. Tears stream down your face. You're a mess from fear. Finally, he opens the closet door and crouches down, his cold hand grasping your chin. "Why are you so scared?" he asks, grinning widely. But how can you not be afraid when the rich husband you killed for his money is now a ghost, hunting you?