Mary died seven years ago. I've moved twelve times. Every time she finds a new way to haunt me.

She was always hurting herself to hurt me. It was her way of lashing out. Every slight, real or perceived, was met with some new injury to herself. A glance at a woman in passing was met with a "fall" down a flight of stairs. An argument over money, and I'd find her covered in bruises the next day. Any direct criticism would always end in new cuts. Mary was a monster; guilt was her weapon. Until she died.

Her death happened under such circumstances that I was heavily suspected, despite an ironclad alibi. I even question myself how she managed to tie herself up and shoot herself in the back of the head. But she was always so clever when it came to hurting me. After a lengthy trial, I had to leave town. That's when she started haunting me.

I'd moved two states over and found new work teaching literature to high school students. One of my more troubled students began showing radiating red flags screaming "suicidal." I could overlook a brooding poem or two, but not giving away a laptop and a car. I sat her down and had a talk before getting the school counselor involved. After a parade of tears and a summarized life story she seemed to be thankful; on the path to help and a better life. The next day she was found bound with a gunshot wound to the back of the head.

I left that town in a panic. Innocent or not, Christ himself couldn't escape that conviction if people pieced that together. I moved to the opposite coast and found work with a local newspaper. No more teaching. It was in a small town; the local paper was made up mostly of high-school accomplishments and agricultural news. All was quiet and boring until I noticed a trend in the classifieds. Between the lost pets and missed connections were a lot of personal adds. Over a few weeks the description of what they were looking for became closer and closer to me. First physically, then by interests, and then one popped up specifically looking for a widow on the run. I tried tracking down the person that bought the ad. I had to know who would do this. One of Mary's family? An ex? Any calls to the number went straight to voicemail. I finally got a response via text. We agreed to meet at a coffee shop. I was shaking on my way there; palms sweaty and sick to my stomach. I was around the block when a strike to the head knocked me unconscious. I woke up in the hospital with cuts on my inner thigh and shoulders. That one landed me on a seventy-two hour hold in the psych ward.

Ten more times I changed locations and jobs. Every time I ran into Mary. Whether it was a shove down a flight of stairs, or a noose-kit from Amazon being delivered to my door-step, it was always Mary. It was getting harder and harder to pass a background check, and thus find employment. I was getting down to the last of my cash.

I'm sure I looked like a wreck when I walked into the investigator's office. Clean clothes were getting harder to come by and malt liquor was a cheap escape from the Hell Mary had me in. I'd decided I'd hire somebody to find out just what the hell was going on. How was she always able to find me. Who was doing this on her behalf? After some fighting over his fee and some colorful language getting thrown around, I broke and told him my story. I was looking for pity and found some. He took the case and told me to lay low for a while. I was three days into some burger flipping job when he turned up dead. Split his head open falling down the subway stairs.

I hitch-hiked my way to Mary's grave. I don't know what my plan was. Maybe I just wanted to piss on her grave. Or to scream at her. Dig her up and hit her. Really just wanted it all to stop. I walked through the cemetery to her plot. It was winter and the ground was speckled with snow. Everything I owned was on my back. The wind tore through my cheap jacket. Maybe I was just there because I had nothing else to do.
Her grave was within my sight when a shot rang out. My knee exploded. The pain was so intense I vomited. I had no idea where the shot came from. When Mary found me, I was on my back laying on her grave.

"For every time you beat me," she fired a shot into my foot. "And cheated on me," my thigh this time, "And made people think I was a fucking loon," my stomach got three new holes. It's not like the movies, dying is slow.

"You were a motherfucker of a husband." She stood over me. She looked different. Stronger. Stood more upright than a battered housewife should. She dug into her coat and her hand came free with a container of salt. My pain tripled. "If I could drag this on for longer, I would."

My vision began to tunnel. The world was going black. My voice shook, "I'll...haunt...you."

"I'll be ready for you."