I Was Sleeping on My Boyfriend’s Bed—I Didn’t Know He’d Been Dead for Two Days… Now, I’m Pregnant with His Gh0st’s Child (Episode 1)

The rain tapped violently against the glass that night, echoing like whispers in the darkness. I thought it was just another stormy evening, but I had no idea it would be the night that changed everything forever.

My name is Amara, and this is not a love story.
It’s a curse.
It’s a confession.
And I still don’t know if I will survive what’s happening to me.

The Night That Shouldn’t Have Happened

He was there.

Kelechi, my boyfriend—the only man I’d ever loved. His touch was the same, warm and real. His lips tasted of peppermint, just as they always did after brushing his teeth before bed. I laughed when I saw he was still wearing that oversized gray hoodie, the one I always teased him about. He looked like a boy trying to stay warm in the cold, though he used to joke that it made him look like “a gentle flame.”

That night, we held each other tighter than ever. His breath was hot against my skin, his voice low as he whispered promises into my ear:

“Next year, we’ll get married.”
“I’ll never leave you.”
“You’re my forever.”

We made love like the world was ending, his hands trembling against mine, as though he knew something I didn’t. He cried when I cried, and I could feel the weight of his soul in every kiss.

When I finally drifted into sleep, wrapped in his arms, I thought life was beautiful.

But by morning… he was gone.

The First Crack in Reality

At first, I wasn’t worried. Kelechi often woke early to jog before work. His cologne still lingered on the sheets. My skin still burned from his touch. I even smiled, rolling over, expecting to hear the sound of his sneakers in the hallway.

But hours passed.

I called him. Once. Twice. Ten times. No answer.

It wasn’t until my best friend, Ngozi, barged into the apartment that I realized something was wrong. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, her voice trembling as she spoke my name:

— “Amara… you don’t know, do you?”

I forced a laugh, confused. “Know what? That he’s late? You know Kelechi—he always takes forever to come back from the gym.”

Ngozi’s lips quivered.
— “Amara, stop. Kelechi… he’s dead.”

The world spun. “What nonsense are you saying?” I snapped.
She grabbed my shoulders, sobbing.
— “There was an accident. Two nights ago. On the highway during the storm. He didn’t make it. They buried him yesterday.”

My blood froze.
“No. That’s impossible,” I shouted. “He was here last night! We… we were together. I have messages from him. Look—look at my phone!”

I shoved the screen in her face, showing her the text from 11:47 PM: “I’m coming over. I miss your body next to mine.”

Ngozi’s hands shook violently. She whispered, “Amara… that’s not possible. His body was in the morgue last night. I was there.”

The Haunting Begins

I collapsed, screaming until my throat was raw. My eyes darted around the room, desperate for proof. His damp towel was still in the bathroom. His hoodie was on the floor. I touched the bite mark on my neck, hot and real.

If he was gone… then who held me all night?

Days blurred into nights. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. But every time my eyelids grew heavy, I felt him. Sometimes he stood at the foot of my bed. Sometimes his lips brushed against my ear:

“Don’t cry, babe. I’m still here.”

I tried to record him with my phone. All I captured was static—and the sound of my own shallow breathing.

But nothing could prepare me for what came next.

My period never came. Once, twice. I thought it was grief, stress, my body betraying me under trauma. Until the sickness began. Morning after morning, I rushed to the bathroom, vomiting until my ribs ached.

One afternoon, I bought a test. My hands shook as I waited for the result.

Two lines. Positive.

The room spun, my knees buckled. I sank to the floor, clutching the little stick like it was a dagger stabbing into my chest.

Kelechi was the only man I had ever been with. But he was gone. Buried. Decaying in the earth.

And yet… there was life inside me.

At night, I felt it move. Not like a normal baby—no. It was as if light rippled beneath my skin, glowing faintly in the darkness. When I pressed my hand to my stomach, I swore I felt something… watching me from within.

And always, his voice followed:
“You’re not alone. Our child is coming.”

The Shadows in the Corners

Ngozi begged me to see a doctor, but I couldn’t. How could I explain this? That I was pregnant by a ghost?

Strange things began happening in my apartment. The mirror fogged even without heat, and words appeared across the glass: “Forever.”

Doors slammed without wind. My bed shook in the night. Once, I woke to find the gray hoodie draped over me, smelling of him.

But the most terrifying moment was the nursery.

One night, I heard soft humming from the spare room. A lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me as a child. Heart pounding, I pushed the door open.

The crib—the one we had joked about buying someday—was already there. A mobile spun slowly above it, though I had never bought one.

And in the shadows, I saw him.
Kelechi. Rocking an invisible baby in his arms. His eyes hollow, but his smile soft.

“She’ll be perfect, Amara,” he whispered. “She’ll have your eyes.”

The Breaking Point

I screamed until my neighbors came banging on the door. But when they rushed inside, the room was empty.

Was I losing my mind?
Or was I carrying something not of this world?

Weeks passed. The pregnancy advanced unnaturally fast—too fast. My belly swelled in months instead of trimesters. My skin glowed with a strange blue light at night, as if something inside me wanted to break free.

And Kelechi’s visits grew darker. He no longer whispered sweet promises. Now, his words were chilling:

“She’s not just ours, Amara. She’s the bridge. She’ll keep me here… forever.”

One night, Ngozi staged an intervention. She brought a priest to bless the house. But the moment holy water touched the floor, every light shattered. The air turned icy.

Kelechi appeared—no longer soft and loving, but twisted, his face pale and veins blackened. His voice thundered through the walls:

“She is mine. She belongs to me.”

The priest collapsed, clutching his chest. Ngozi dragged me out, screaming, but I felt the baby kick harder than ever, as if agreeing with him.

The Ending (For Now)

Now I write this with trembling hands, unsure how long I have before the child comes. Doctors won’t understand. Priests can’t help me. Friends are afraid.

Every night, his voice grows louder.
Every day, the life inside me grows stronger.

I don’t know if I’m carrying a miracle—or a monster.

All I know is that I loved him. And maybe that love has cursed me forever.

If you were me—pregnant with the child of someone who had already died, a lover who may not be human anymore—
would you keep the baby, or would you try to escape before it’s too late?

Episode 2 – The Birth That Shouldn’t Happen

The night was too quiet. Too still.
Amara lay awake, her hand resting on her stomach. It was only her third month of pregnancy—at least, it should have been. But the swell beneath her fingers was much bigger than it should be. Almost six months.

Her breathing quickened. This isn’t normal.

Doctors had told her nothing was wrong. Ultrasound after ultrasound showed a heartbeat. But the look on their faces—pale, hesitant, whispering behind closed doors—betrayed them.

Something wasn’t right.

That night, as the wind rattled the windows, she heard it again.
Not Kelechi’s voice. No. This time it was smaller. Softer.

“Mommy…”

Her blood froze. She turned her head slowly toward her stomach. For a moment, she thought it was just her mind breaking under grief. But then—again.

“Mommy… don’t cry. We love you.”

Amara clutched the blanket, trembling. Tears burned her eyes. The voice wasn’t outside. It wasn’t in the room.

It came from inside her.

In the following days, strange things began to happen. The kettle would switch on by itself. Her mirror fogged with words she didn’t write: “Forever.” Neighbors avoided her apartment after hearing cries of a baby late at night—though Amara was still months away from giving birth.

Even Ngozi, her best friend, began to withdraw.
“Amara, this isn’t… human,” she whispered one evening, refusing to look at her belly.
“Don’t say that,” Amara snapped, clutching her stomach protectively.
“Your eyes… they change when you talk to it. Like you’re not even you anymore.”

Amara laughed bitterly. “You think I asked for this? You think I wanted to be a ghost’s bride?”

Ngozi stood silently, tears brimming, then finally turned and left.

For the first time since Kelechi’s death, Amara felt truly alone.

The further along she got, the less she slept. Kelechi’s spirit visited more often now—sometimes sitting at the edge of her bed, sometimes whispering in the dark.

But his words changed. No longer soft. No longer loving.

“Don’t run from me.”
“This child is mine.”
“We’ll be together forever—whether you want it or not.”

Amara began to fear him. She noticed his touch lingered too long, his eyes burned too deep. He wasn’t just there for love.

He wanted something else.

And then one night, as she woke gasping for air, she heard him say:
“I will return. Through him.”

Her blood turned cold. Through him?

The Birth That Shouldn’t Happen

Seven months into her pregnancy, the contractions started. Too early. Too violent.

She was rushed to the hospital. The fluorescent lights flickered as they wheeled her into the delivery room. Machines beeped erratically. Nurses exchanged panicked looks.

“Her body’s… changing too fast,” one whispered.
“This isn’t medically possible.”

Amara screamed, clutching the sheets. Her belly glowed faintly under the harsh white light, veins shining like silver threads. Shadows gathered in the corners of the room.

And then—he appeared.

Kelechi’s ghost, towering, his face twisted with something between grief and obsession. He pressed his hand against the bulging curve of her stomach.

“Almost there, love,” he whispered. “Bring me back.”

The room went black. Nurses shrieked. One fainted. The doctor dropped his instruments as the lights exploded overhead.

And in the chaos—Amara pushed.

A baby’s cry tore through the darkness.

But it wasn’t just a cry. It was layered, echoing, as if two voices—one infant, one deep, familiar—spoke at once.

The lights flickered back on.

In Amara’s trembling arms lay her son. But his eyes weren’t the cloudy gray of a newborn.

They were sharp. Burning. Kelechi’s eyes.

And then—he smiled.

Too knowing. Too real.

“Mommy,” the newborn whispered with a voice too deep for his tiny body. “Don’t cry. Daddy and I are here forever.”

The hospital filed no report. Too many staff resigned that night, refusing to speak of what they saw. Amara was discharged quietly, sent home with her baby.

But nothing was the same. Shadows followed her. Lullabies played by themselves. Sometimes, in the dead of night, she woke to see her child standing in the crib—though he was far too young to stand.

He would smile at her. And in that smile, she saw both the man she loved… and the ghost that refused to let her go.

Amara rocked him, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t know whether she was holding a miracle—
Or a curse.

What would you do if the love of your life died, but returned through your child—half miracle, half ghost? Would you embrace it… or would you run?