Even though she’d seen it with her own eyes, she would never believe what happened. Meera stared at the clip on her phone, her hands shaking. “Oh my God… no, that’s impossible!”
The digital clock blinked 1:43 a.m. The sharp alert had pierced the silence of her sleep — a motion detection from the backyard camera. She’d installed it a week ago, praying it’d never catch anything worth seeing.
The grainy night-vision footage showed a figure stepping into the faint porch light.
Her breath caught in her throat.
It was him.
Her husband…
The man who had died three weeks ago.
Four months ago, their world had shifted. The joy of expecting their first child soured when he lost his job — like salt in milk.
He had fought relentlessly, but the ruthless job market spat back rejections. Once, they dreamed of building a world for their baby; now, they worried about keeping a roof overhead.
Then, the stroke of hope appeared a month ago: a few interview calls in Los Angeles. He’d left with a nervous smile, promising to return in days.
Instead, came the call.
An accident.
A burned car at the bottom of a valley.
A body so charred she could not even recognize him.
And now, at midnight, with eyes heavy from worry more than grief, she watched that same man step inside her house.
Her heart thundered. It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t.
Floorboards creaked outside her bedroom.
She froze — her body swollen with pregnancy, barely able to move.
The door opened.
She tried to scream — but a hand clamped over her mouth. Panic blinded her. The room spun. Then, darkness.
When her eyes fluttered open, she was lying on the bed. He was sitting in the chair beside her — her husband. Alive.
She jerked up, but he leaned forward quickly.
“Don’t scream. Please. I’ll explain.”
Her wide eyes narrowed and filled with tears. He pulled her gently into his chest, his fingers stroking her hair.
A few moments passed. She put her palms on her eyes, wiping her tears, cleared her throat, and stared at him, demanding answers.
“The interview was a disaster,” he began. “I knew I didn’t get it. I just kept driving, not knowing where I was going…”
Aimless driving brought him to a ravaged woodland, still smoldering from the wildfire that had torn through days before. He took a walk in that desolate place, trying to clear his head. The air reeked of ash and charred earth.
And there he saw it.
A burned body — half-buried under fallen branches.
“This could have been me. At least, it would end everything.”
But then his mind raced. No job, a child on the way, debt mounting… desperation led to something unthinkable.
“I called an old friend. He’s… a fixer. Knows people who can swap dental records, fudge autopsies. We made a plan.”
Meera’s stomach turned.
He dragged the corpse into his car, strapped it into the driver’s seat, gagging at the smell of scorched flesh. He slipped his wedding ring onto its finger, and tucked his wallet by its side.
He then loosened the fuel line, soaked the spare blanket in motor oil, and lit it before shoving the car down the slope.
He stood at the ridge, watching the fire devour his existence.
“Why?” Meera whispered, her face pale.
He leaned back, a smile curling at his lips.
“Life insurance,” he said, eyebrows waggling, “Four million dollars.”
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This story first appeared in First Line Fiction, a Medium publication.