My Dead Girlfriend Knocks on My Door

My girlfriend had been missing for three whole years. I had searched every corner of the city, followed every lead, but found absolutely nothing.

Until last Wednesday, when she suddenly showed up at my doorstep, covered in bruises and cuts.

She told me she had been kidnapped and forced to work in an illegal sweatshop, and that it had taken her three agonizing years to finally escape.

My heart broke just looking at her. Shaking, I brewed herbal remedies for her, applied ointment to her wounds, and took care of her day and night for seven straight days.

But this morning, the police knocked on my door.

"Last night, we found a body in an abandoned sweatshop on the outskirts of town. Time of death was estimated to be about a week ago."

"The victim has been identified as your girlfriend."

I froze. "Thats impossible. Shes been staying with me all week."

"Its not impossible."

The officer opposite me frowned, pushing the file folder on the desk closer to me.

"Mr. Lucas Hunt, weve already verified the identity. The deceased had her ID on her, and our system database confirmed her fingerprint match. Its Chloe Vance, the girl you reported missing three years ago."

I heard my own voice trembling. "But shes been staying with me this entire week. In my apartment. She hasnt left at all."

The two officers exchanged a look.

The older one was Officer Miller. I had met him several times before. Three years ago, I used to report to the station almost every week, then it became once a month, and eventually, I thought Id never have to come back here again.

Officer Miller pulled a photo from the folder and placed it in front of me.

I looked down, and my stomach instantly churned with a wave of intense nausea. It felt like a physical blow to my chest.

The photo showed a person lying on a metal table, eyes closed, skin a sickly grayish-white.

The background was dark, likely taken at the crime scene. The camera flash hit her face, making every brutal detail blindingly clear.

It was Chloe.

No, wait. It was that face. It was Chloes face.

I stared at the photo for a long time, so long that Officer Miller had to call my name softly.

"Lucas?"

I looked up. "This isn't her."

"Weve already run a facial recognition scan. Its over a ninety-eight percent match."

Officer Millers tone was flat, stating a fact that left no room for doubt.

"Plus, she had her ID on her. The name, the social security number, everything matches. We pulled your old missing person report, too. All the details are identical."

"But"

"Lucas."

He cut me off.

"The victims immediate family members have all passed away. Her parents died in a car crash shortly after she went missing three years ago. You knew about that, right?"

I knew.

Of course I knew.

Four months after Chloe vanished, her parents had driven out of state to look for her. They crashed on the highway.

I was completely numb during that period. When I got the call, I didn't even know how to react.

Later, I was the one who handled their funeral and sorted through their things, thinking that if Chloe ever came back, at least shed have something left of them.

But she never came back.

"So, the only legal contact we can find right now is you," Officer Miller said.

"We need you to come to the morgue, identify the body, and sign the release papers."

I opened my mouth, trying to say something, but the words died in my throat.

"Shes sleeping in my bedroom right now," I said, pointing toward the hallway of my apartment.

"If you don't believe me, I can go call her out right now."

I stood up immediately and walked toward the bedroom.

I knew I was walking too fast, even stumbling a little, but I didn't care.

I pushed the bedroom door open.

The bed was empty.

The blanket was tossed to one side, as if someone had just gotten up.

I walked over and touched the sheets. They were cold.

"Chloe?" I called out, my voice quiet, as if I was afraid of waking someone.

No response.

I called her name again, louder this time. Still, silence.

I turned and checked the bathroom. Empty.

The kitchen. Empty.

The balcony. Empty.

My apartment was tinybarely six hundred square feet. You could see the whole place in one glance.

I stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the two officers who had followed me in. Seeing the expressions on their faces, I suddenly felt like an absolute idiot.

"She... she probably went out to buy some groceries," I muttered.

Officer Miller didn't say anything. He just watched me.

I looked down at the coffee table.

Last night, I had brewed a hot remedy for Chloe. It was a dark, bitter liquid. She had only drank half of it, complaining it was too bitter, and left the rest on the table.

I had told her she could finish it tomorrow, that Id make her a fresh batch.

Now, the mug was gone.

No, it wasn't just the mug.

I suddenly realized that all the medical supplies Id been usingthe ointment jars, the gauze, the antiseptic, the cotton swabswhich had been piled messily next to the coffee table, were gone.

Chloes wounds needed daily dressing. Every time I changed her bandages, I would put the blood-stained gauze into a trash bag by the door, planning to take it down later.

Now, everything was gone.

The coffee table was completely clean.

The half-empty mug was gone, the gauze was gone, the medicine jars were gone.

This wasn't right.

None of this made sense.

I stood there, my head buzzing. Something dark was clawing its way up my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down.

Officer Miller walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Lucas, are you okay?"

"She came back," I said, turning to look at him, emphasizing every single word.

"She really came back. Last Wednesday night, she knocked on my door. She was covered in cuts, her face was bloody, and I barely recognized her. She told me she had been kidnapped and trafficked to a sweatshop, and shed been running for three years to escape. I cooked for her, bandaged her wounds, and took care of her for seven days. I didn't dream this. I didn't make this up. She was here."

Officer Miller was silent for a moment. "Then why didn't you call the police?"

I froze.

Why didn't I call the police?

Because Chloe begged me not to.

"She said..." I tried desperately to recall that night. "She said the people running the sweatshop had powerful connections. She said the police wouldn't help and would just send her back. She told me she wanted to lay low for a while until things blew over. She said having me was enough, that she didn't want anyone else to know."

Officer Miller looked at me, his eyes filled with something I couldn't quite read.

"During these seven days, did anyone else see her?"

I thought about it. "No. She never left the apartment. Other than running down to get groceries and medicine, I was with her the entire time."

"What about security cameras? Did the cameras at your building entrance catch her?"

"My building is old. The security cameras have been broken for years. Management never fixed them."

Officer Miller nodded slowly but didn't say anything else.

The younger officer beside him whispered, "Sir, this is getting a bit too..."

Officer Miller raised a hand to silence him.

"Lucas, come back to the station with us first. Identify the body."

His voice softened slightly.

"Well figure out the rest later."

I looked at him, then at the empty coffee table, and finally nodded.

All the way to the station in the back of the police cruiser, my mind was racing, trying to figure out where things had gone wrong.

The night Chloe came back was last Wednesday.

I remembered it clearly because I had worked late that night. I had grabbed a cup of instant ramen from the convenience store downstairs, thinking Id just have a quick dinner.

As I walked up to my building entrance, I saw a shadow slumped against the wall.

I startled, instinctively taking a step back.

The shadow moved, and a voice, raspy and incredibly hoarse, called out, "Lucas."

It was Chloe.

I froze on the spot. The cup of ramen dropped from my hands, rolling on the concrete before stopping at her feet.

She took two steps forward, and only then did the dim streetlamp illuminate her face.

She was covered in bruises. Her lip was split, her eyes were swollen almost shut, and her clothes were completely tattered, revealing arms covered in layers of old and fresh scars.

She limped heavily, as if one of her legs was badly injured.

"Chloe?" my voice shook.

She nodded.

I rushed over, wanting to hold her, but I didn't even know where to touch. She was so battered I was terrified of hurting her more.

In the end, I just stood there, tears streaming down my face.

"How did you..." I couldn't even finish the sentence.

She looked at me, and through her swollen eyelids, I saw tears glistening.

"Lucas, I escaped," she whispered.

I didn't remember much of what happened next. I just remembered helping her upstairs, setting her down on the sofa, and frantically searching for the first-aid kit.

Her injuries were far worse than they looked. Her back was covered in whip scarssome had scabbed over, others were still oozing blood.

Her feet were covered in blisters that had popped and healed over and over again, leaving thick calluses.

I cried the entire time I applied antiseptic to her wounds.

She remained incredibly quiet, only letting out a sharp gasp when it stung, never screaming.

Once I finished bandaging her, she leaned back against the sofa, looked at me, and suddenly said, "Lucas, don't call the cops."

I blinked. "Why?"

"The owner of that place has people in high places. Going to the police is useless."

"I saw a girl try to call them once. They just brought her back and beat her twice as hard."

"But we can't just"

"Lucas." She grabbed my hand. "Just let me catch my breath first, okay? Ive been running for three years. I just want a few quiet days with you."

Looking into her eyes, I couldn't say no. I nodded.

For the next week, I took some paid time off and didn't leave her side.

Because she was so badly hurt, she spent most of her time lying down. I made her soup, brewed herbal remedies, cooked, and helped her clean up.

She didn't speak much. Whenever I asked about the sweatshop, shed just shake her head and say she didn't want to talk about it.

When I asked how she survived those three years, she simply said, "By thinking of you."

Once, while I was brewing some herbal tea for her, she watched me from the kitchen doorway and suddenly said, "You still have the same habit. Bring it to a boil on high heat first, then let it simmer on low."

I smiled. "How did you know?"

"You used to make it for me."

"Remember that time I had a terrible cold? You insisted on brewing this fancy herbal remedy. You spent four hours on it, and in the end, it was so bitter I couldn't even swallow a sip."

Now, sitting in the back of the police car, looking at the streetlights flashing past the window, I desperately replayed every detail of this past week.

Her words, her gestures, the way she looked at me.

Everything was so normal.

She remembered my favorite foods, the places we used to go to, every little promise I had made.

Once, I casually mentioned a stray cat we used to feed that eventually got lost, and how I had cried for days over it.

She said, "Yeah, it was a ginger cat named Butterscotch. You searched the whole neighborhood for two weeks after he disappeared."

If this person wasn't the real Chloe, how could she possibly know all these intimate details?

But then...

The car stopped in front of the police department.

Officer Miller opened the door and looked at me. "We're here."

The identification process went much faster than I had anticipated.

I was led into a cold, sterile room. There was a metal table in the center covered with a white sheet. An assistant walked over and gently pulled back the top half of the sheet.

I saw the face.

It was clean.

The bruises were gone, the dried blood was gone. There was only grayish-white skin and closed eyes.

But the features were unmistakably Chloes. The brow, the nose, the shape of her jawit was all her.

I stood there, a cold sweat breaking out across my back.

This was Chloe.

No, this wasn't Chloe.

Two conflicting voices screamed in my head, tearing at my sanity until I couldn't tell what was real anymore.

"Lucas?" someone whispered beside me.

I turned and saw Officer Miller looking at me with a worried expression.

"Can you confirm if this is Chloe Vance?"

I stepped closer to the table, staring at the face for a long time. Then, I reached out, took the corpse's left wrist, and flipped it over.

There should have been a scar.

Chloe had a very deep scar on her left wrist, from a suicide attempt back in high school.

She had told me she was severely depressed back then and wanted to end it all. She was saved, but the scar remained.

When we were together, I used to gently run my thumb over that scar, asking if it still hurt.

Shed smile and say it didn't hurt anymore, it just looked a bit ugly.

But on this wrist, there was nothing.

The skin was smooth, pale, and completely unblemished. Not even a faint line.

I whipped my head around to look at Officer Miller.

"This isn't Chloe."

Officer Miller stepped forward, glanced at the wrist, and then looked back at me.

"Are you sure?"

"Chloe has a deep scar on her left wrist."

"Its very prominent. This person doesn't have it."

Officer Miller was silent for a few seconds. He pulled out the DNA report and looked at it again.

"But the DNA matches."

He handed the report to me.

"See for yourself."

I took the paper, my eyes locking onto the bold letters at the bottom.

*DNA match probability with Chloe Vance's parents' reference samples: 99.97%.*

My hands began to shake violently.

"This is impossible."

I looked up at him.

"If this body is Chloe, then who the hell was staying in my apartment this past week?"

Officer Miller stared at me, speechless.

"She came back," my voice cracked.

"For seven days, she was with me. I cooked for her, I bandaged her. She called me Lucas. She remembered everything about us. If this is Chloe, then who is she?!"

"Lucas, you need to calm down."

"How can I calm down?!" I snapped, interrupting him.

"The DNA matches, which means this body is Chloe. But Chloe has a scar on her wrist, and this body doesn't! It makes no sense!"

Officer Miller frowned, looking back at the corpse's wrist.

"Is it possible you misremembered? Maybe the scar wasn't that deep, or it faded over time?"

"I would never forget that scar," I said, glaring at him.

"I touched it a thousand times. It runs from left to right, about two inches long, and the middle is slightly raised and lighter than the surrounding skin. I could draw it with my eyes closed."

Officer Miller remained silent for a moment before turning to the medical examiner standing nearby.

"Can you explain this?"

The medical examiner walked over, examined the left wrist closely, and then checked the right one.

"There is indeed no scar tissue here," she said.

"But DNA doesn't lie. Unless..."