My Curse, Their Endless Guilt

Elia' s POV: My soul detached from my body, a strange lightness replacing the suffocating weight I had carried for so long. I floated above my lifeless form, confused. Why could I still see everything? Then the realization hit me, cold and stark: I was dead. The creak of the front door opening drew my attention. A flicker of something, a desperate, phantom hope, ignited in my ethereal chest. Had they come? Had my brothers, after all this time, finally returned? But it wasn't them. It was Mrs. Davies, the housekeeper, her arms laden with grocery bags. My last, lingering hope, a pathetic ember, flickered and died. They hadn't come. They still hadn't come. Mrs. Davies stepped into the dining room, her eyes widening in horror as she saw me, slumped over the table. The neatly arranged dinner, the urn, the photograph – the scene must have been shocking. She dropped her bags with a thud, a gasp escaping her lips. Her eyes darted from my still form to the polished urn, then to the smiling photograph. A strange pause, a flicker of calculation in her eyes. I saw her hesitate, her breath held. Then, slowly, cautiously, she approached my body. Her hand, trembling slightly, reached out, her fingers hovering just beneath my nose. No breath. No warmth. Her face drained of color. A guttural scream tore from her throat, raw and terrifying. She stumbled back, fumbling for her phone. Her voice, when she spoke, was a frantic, broken whisper. "There's... there's a body! She's... she's dead!" She rattled off the address, her voice shaking. She hung up, pressing a hand to her chest, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at me. Then she turned to leave, but stopped. A conflicted expression crossed her face. After a brief pause, she dialed again. "Mr. Fredrick!" she cried, her voice still trembling. Fredrick's voice, even through the tiny speaker, was impatient, clipped. I imagined his irritated frown, annoyed at being disturbed, perhaps thinking this was another one of my "stunts." "It's... it's Elia, sir," Mrs. Davies stammered, her voice cracking. She clung to the phone, her knuckles white. She took a step back, as if my death was contagious. "She's... she's dead, sir. Cold. No breath. I've called the ambulance." Her voice dissolved into hysterical sobs. "She's really dead, Mr. Fredrick!" A chilling silence descended on the other end of the line, heavier than the one in the room. The reality, like an avalanche, crashed down on him. I felt a strange flicker of satisfaction in my spectral form. His voice, when it returned, was different. The impatience was gone, replaced by a dangerous, low rumble of disbelief. "If you're lying, Mrs. Davies..." he began, a silent threat hanging in the air. "No! No, sir!" she wailed, "I swear! Please, come home! The police are coming!" I watched as Fredrick hung up, the silence that followed now charged with a frantic energy. My soul floated, observing, for the first time free of fear. Red and blue lights flashed against the dining room walls, painting my pale, lifeless face in garish hues. Strangers in uniforms rushed in, their movements efficient and professional. They touched my cold skin, checked for a pulse that wasn't there, and shook their heads. They treated my body with more gentleness than my family had shown me in my entire life. One of them spotted the urn and the photograph on the table. He sighed, a sound filled with pure, unadulterated pity. It echoed, strangely, in my nascent spiritual realm. I found it odd. It seemed I had finally found basic human decency in death, something I had craved my entire life.