This is a work of creative fiction.

When I reflect on years gone by, I think it was Frederick’s voice that first attracted me. He spoke so richly and deeply, I could picture myself swimming in his voice until the day I finally drowned. Surely, he must have noticed my eyes on his throat, as the curve in his dark brow became sultrier, the pitch in his voice lower, and the speed slower. I felt, for the first time, stirred.

The proceeding days were ordinary as falling in love goes with one poignant difference—it seemed as Frederick was falling in love with me. I was shocked. For years, I had given my heart to men who neglected to notice. But Frederick saw it, beating loudly and clearly in his palms, and I think he smiled. There was a time I would have said that the smile was affectionate, but now, I have learned the grin was so nasty, it was impossible to process.

Frederick would take me by the hand and walk around the city with me. He stood much higher above me and was able to point at anything and tell me all about it. He taught me how to order from secret menus, invented for him, he said, because he had charmed the chef. She was a dear friend. The waitress must have been a dear friend as well because I watched him slip the twenty-dollar bill we were going to use on breakfast into the lowest pocket of her apron. I chose to ignore it.

One night, Frederick took me to the jazz club, and after the blonde whose name I did not hear wandered over to the bar to buy Frederick a scotch and soda, I heard Etta Jones over the speakers. Frederick’s dark and beautiful eyes narrowed as he fettered my tiny hand in his and sang in that low tone.

“Pack up all my care and woe/here I go/singing low/bye, bye… blackbird.”

It was the loveliest thing I had ever heard come from a man, so it was easy to grab Frederick by the collar and kiss him zealously. When we broke apart, the waiter spilled a strawberry daiquiri on my white blouse.

I might have been prepared had Frederick given me the time. But before I came to realize what was happening, he pinned me against the lumpy mattress and hovered. His breath was ragged, angry, and occasionally, he let a few understandable words slip. Originally, I tried to replicate them here, but I have learned that what he said is unprintable.

I should have packed my belongings into the one suitcase I brought with me when I moved, but I stopped myself with one hand on the doorway. I knew that if I turned around, I would lose everything. Taking a deep breath, I turned around and went back to bed.

Frederick was sleeping, and I felt my heart grow ill. He lie flat on his back, calmly smiling as he dreamt. I wanted to strike him, but my limbs were already in pain, and I did not want to worsen the stinging. I exhaled quietly, pulled back the sham, and slipped into bed not quite next to Frederick. The smarting between my legs persisted. I decided ice was the best remedy, but only once Frederick was out the door in the morning. Somehow, I knew that if he saw me try to dull the pain, he would only repeat it.

My inconspicuous behavior made no difference. Although it was the first time Frederick thought it sport to dominate me, it was far from the last. It became our routine. I would conduct business in the living room when he would pull me into the bedroom, have his way, roll over, and calmly sleep. I would prepare to leave but always stay. It was a pattern for more than one year.

There was a night I came home from the grocery to find police in the living room. While I was out, someone heard a shot from the apartment. I learned that Frederick had pulled out the revolver his grandfather gave to him on his twenty-fifth birthday and decided to end his life. His dreams were dashed, read the note.

I stared at the note for a long time after the police handed it to me in a small plastic bag. I could not discern if it was actually written in Frederick’s hand.

The police stayed at the apartment for a very long time, and for most of that time, I wept. They tried to comfort me, although this was not grief. This was joy. I accepted their comfort, however, because I knew that if they knew how gleeful I felt, I wouldn’t be able to sleep in my own bed again.

Ultimately, I couldn’t make myself sleep. Every time I rolled over, I pictured Frederick hovering, the hair on his chest dark as a crow, circling, waiting. The air conditioning felt like his breath in my ear. I could smell his skin on the sham, and I could not find solace in that room. The walls shrunk in and around me. I did not sleep. I spent most nights embracing my knees to my chest, gently rocking back and forth and wishing I never heard Frederick’s voice.

After some time passed, I assumed I would be able to survive my life without sleep. And then, it happened. I was in a hurry to catch my train to work one morning when I slipped, fell, and hit my head on the underground floor. The last sight I remembered was that of an older man rushing to me and screaming for an ambulance.

When I awoke in the hospital, the man was waiting there.

He had a terribly kind smile. His hair was graying at the temples but retained most of its carob. He had fat where my captor once had muscle, and I remember thinking that my new hero’s flesh was pure. When he spoke, his voice was half an octave higher than my captor’s, and after a moment, I stopped shaking. He could not hurt me, I decided.

It was not long before I discovered that my new hero’s name was also Frederick. Some time passed before I was able to look into his pale blue eyes again, but when I did, I realized that I loved him. I loved the way he asked me what I was thinking and what I wanted. I loved how intelligently we could converse, and how although he was even older than my first love, he never treated me as beneath him. Our companionship flourished and eventually, he asked for my hand in marriage, which I respectfully gave.

The first six nights of our marriage were spent away from Frederick’s brownstone across the city, and they were pleasant. I slept whole nights through. I never stirred or started to pack a bag in the middle of the night. I was content to stay. I was content with Frederick.

When we settled into the brownstone, I noticed rather marked changes. Frederick’s smiles grew from terribly kind to terrible. As we hung the blue curtains in front of our bed, I mused that they were a bit gloomy, and his grin made my blood turn to ice. It was a chill that had not passed through me since the last night I spent beside my captor, Frederick.

After a few hours, my blood warmed, and I chose to ignore the iciness. Frederick told me I was just imagining it, which I believed because his tone was so convincing. Perhaps I was indeed imagining, but when he spoke to me that day, it seemed as though his voice dropped lower.

Walking the city with Frederick changed after we were married. I remember he pointed to a building and told me all of the things he had written and researched there. When I asked him to tell me more, he chuckled stiffly and said I wouldn’t understand. I chose to believe him.

And yet, there were times when Frederick was the hero from months gone by. He introduced me as the better half of him. He made dinner for me when I was too tired to get out of bed. We discussed Stevenson at length, which kept us awake for hours. I was thankful to be kept awake. My fear of sleep had made an ugly return.

One night, Frederick lie sleeping while I sat up, feeling the mattress change from lush to lumpy below my thighs. I stared at the blue curtains and thought I saw them change to black. As I shook my head, I heard a whispery voice singing.

“Pack up all my care and woe…”

My heart stopped. Violently, I flipped to my right and pulled the sham back to see who slept under it. Surely (and sadly, for my suspicion was correct), there slept with the familiar placid smile, my captor, my first love, the ghostly Frederick!

Without much thought (for I lacked the time), I grabbed the knife I kept in my bedside drawer. I looked into his eyes, which seemed lighter with death, and plunged the knife into his guts. He moaned my name, his voice just slightly higher than I remembered it.

But if he was a spirit, how had I managed to kill him?

My hand trembled as I pulled the knife out of my victim’s core and gazed upon the lifeless face. I wept when I identified the body. Dead in my arms and at my hand was my hero, my husband, Frederick.