My husband is a ghost. And so am I
1854 Words
My husband is a ghost. And so am I.
A week ago, he and I were in a car accident. We died on the spot.
Because we died suddenly and tragically (a "violent death" in Chinese folklore, believed to leave the soul restless), neither of us could reincarnate.
When our parents came to claim our bodies, they wailed in sorrow at the sight. By then, our souls had already separated from our physical forms. We floated side by side, watching them grieve helplessly.
Since we died at the same time, our families didn’t want us to be lonely in the afterlife. They compared our bazi ("Eight Characters"—a form of Chinese astrology that
calculates compatibility based on birth dates and times) and found that we were a perfect match for marriage. So, they arranged a minghun ("ghost marriage," a traditional Chinese practice where deceased individuals are symbolically married).
Our families burned a mountain of offerings for us—gold, silver, luxury cars, grand villas, the latest phones and laptops. They even sent us servants, ensuring we were well-off ghosts.
Maybe it was the shared experience of dying together, but he and I got along surprisingly well.
He was gentle, patient, and cultured. At home, he tended to flowers, fished, and played golf to pass the time.
Now that I was a wealthy ghost, my laziness kicked in. I had no desire to work. I just lounged around the house every day.
Whenever he watered the flowers, I hovered nearby, constantly asking him what kind of flower this was or that was. Patiently, he would answer, “That’s a hydrangea, that’s a fuchsia, and that’s a rose…”
When he fished, I dragged a little stool over to sit by him, resting my head on his leg while admiring his flawless features.
If it got too quiet, I’d strike up random conversations until he got annoyed and silenced me with a kiss. Only when I obediently quieted down would he pull away and whisper softly, “Honey, stop talking. You’re scaring the fish away.”
I’d pout, grab my phone, and read ghost romance novels. Before I died, I couldn’t understand the appeal of such stories. After death? Well… they hit differently.
When he played golf, he looked incredibly elegant—so handsome that I had to admit that if he hadn’t died, I never would’ve had the chance to marry him. I might not have even met him.
I begged him to teach me how to play—how to hold the club, position my stance, and adjust my strength. I pestered him until he taught me over and over again, until I finally got the hang of it.
Of course, he wasn’t about to let me off the hook for free just because I was his wife. He always said, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” So, every night… I paid my tuition.
Every two days, the ghost market (a market in the underworld, similar to traditional market days in Chinese villages) opened. I dragged him through the bustling crowds, exploring every corner and sampling all the best foods.
I had a habit of trying a few bites, then passing the rest to him. By the time we’d made it halfway down the street, he was already full just from finishing my leftovers.
When I reached for more food, he grabbed my hand and pleaded, “Honey, I really can’t eat anymore. Let’s save some for the next market day. If you eat everything now, there’ll be nothing left next time.”
I thought about it and agreed. He pulled me along, saying we needed to walk it off.
I poked his slightly rounded belly and burst out laughing. “Hey, do you think male ghosts can get pregnant?”
He gave me a long look. “No, just like men can’t get pregnant.”
“But there are cases of men getting pregnant, you know.”
He smiled faintly. “I’m a ghost.”
“But you’re still a man.”
His lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Are you asking me to prove it?”
How could he be so shameless? Bit by bit, his perfect image was crumbling in my mind.
One day, we went to an amusement park. I thought haunted houses were exclusive to the living, but apparently, they existed in the underworld too.
Ghosts scaring other ghosts… Really?
When I was alive, I’d always wanted to visit a haunted house but was too much of a coward. Now that I was a ghost myself, surely I wouldn’t be afraid, right?
I dragged him inside after buying tickets.
The haunted house was dark and eerie, filled with cobwebs and bloodstains. The air reeked of blood, and faint cries of wailing ghosts echoed in the background.
I clung tightly to his arm. “I’m scared…”
“Weren’t you excited just a moment ago?”
Before he finished speaking, a ghost with tattered clothes and rotting flesh jumped out, its grotesque, blood-covered face inches from mine.
I screamed and threw myself into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
He took me out immediately.
Outside the haunted house, I cried like a three-year-old.
He gently wiped my tears and laughed. “Alright, no more haunted houses from now on.”
I buried my face in his chest. After a long while, I finally calmed down.
To cheer me up, he took me to buy candy.
Rows of colorful sweets lined the shelves in glass cabinets. He handed me a plastic scoop. “Get as much as you want.”
After shedding so many tears, I deserved a little treat.
I scooped a bit from here, a bit from there, filling four or five bags.
“Enough.”
“Really? Don’t you want more?”
He held the candy and asked again.
“No, that’s enough.”
He took it to the counter to weigh.
Afterward, we bought more snacks before heading home.
Dinner was ready when we arrived.
After eating, we went upstairs to watch a movie.
Most ghost movies were about romance between humans and spirits—probably because ghosts still longed for the mortal world.
I scrolled through the selections, but the plots were always the same. A human girl, born under a yin-heavy sign ( believed to attract supernatural beings), experienced constant misfortune until a powerful male ghost appeared to protect her.
It was the same trope every time. I was so numb to it that I couldn’t even pick a movie.
“How about a documentary?” he suggested, choosing one about the Ghost Festival (celebrated on the 14th day of the 7th lunar month, when spirits are believed to visit the living world).
I leaned on his shoulder. “Hey, can we visit the living world during the Ghost Festival?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to?”
“I do. I want to see my family and friends one last time.”
I sighed. “Me too.”
Sensing my mood, he pulled me onto the couch. “Let’s do something fun instead.”
“Huh?” I blinked.
Before I realized it, his lips silenced mine.
Through our unspoken bond, I whispered in my mind, “You’re not the gentlemanly ghost I thought you were…”
On the Ghost Festival, we returned to the living world.
Our families burned paper money for us at the site of our accident.
My mom and mother-in-law were inconsolable, crying as they begged us to live well in the underworld. They promised that if we ever ran out of money, we should visit them in their dreams—they would burn more.
I summoned a gust of wind, swirling the ashes and incense smoke toward me. In that moment, I felt my mother’s longing and love.
Their sobs grew louder. They called out to the empty air, asking if we had returned. They missed us terribly.
I cried harder than they did, burying myself in my husband’s arms. He stroked my back gently and whispered, “Let’s go home.”
After returning from the living world, I slept deeply. When I woke, my husband was sitting by the bed, reading.
As soon as he noticed I was awake, he set the book down and leaned in, holding my hand. “Honey, you’re up. Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
He immediately called for the servants to bring food and personally fed me.
Dinner was lavish, complete with chicken soup.
After I finished, he set the bowl down calmly and said, “Honey, we’re going to be parents.”
The room froze.
I blinked at him. “Are you serious?”
His composure cracked into a broad smile, and he nodded. “Let’s visit our parents tonight—tell them not to worry about us anymore. The dead can’t return to life. They have their lives to live, and we have ours.”
I agreed.
That night, we visited our mothers in their dreams, telling them that we were happy and expecting a child. We urged them to live well and not dwell on the past.
The next day, we returned to the living world and found our parents gathered, talking about their dreams from the night before. That evening, they burned more offerings for us at the accident site.
I once again drew in the ashes and incense smoke, letting the wind carry my silent message back to them—We heard you.
Tears of joy filled their eyes as they promised to live well and urged us to be happy in the underworld.
Unlike human pregnancies, which last nine months, ghosts only carry for about four. Half the time, half the waiting.
I gave birth to a little boy. My husband looked at him with mild disappointment. “Why not a little girl?”
I laughed. “We’ll try for a girl next time.” Only then did he kiss me in satisfaction.
On the day our son was born, I once again visited my mother and mother-in-law in their dreams. I told them about our child and assured them that we would live happily together as a family. I urged them to let go and stop worrying.
The next night, they burned more offerings for us—piles of baby clothes, toys, and even a heartfelt letter.
In the letter, they said that no matter what, we would always be their children. Knowing we were doing well gave them peace of mind. They had begun to heal and resume their normal lives.
They promised to visit us every year during Ghost Festival, burning enough offerings for an entire year. They wouldn’t let us suffer or live in hardship.
The letter was long, every word brimming with love.
My husband held our son in one arm and wrapped the other around me, pulling me close as I wiped away tears.
Looking at him and our child, I felt whole.
Who knew that even as a ghost, life—or the afterlife—could feel this complete and full of happiness?
- Writer
