My Dead Boyfriend Came Back on the Seventh Night

At three in the morning, the news came that my boyfriend had drowned after sneaking into Nine Dome Skylight at night.

My parents were terrified. Overnight, they burned everything we'd prepared for our engagement and smeared glutinous rice flour all over me, warning me not to leave the house for seven days and seven nights—so my boyfriend wouldn't cling to me even in death and drag me down with him.

I cried until I couldn't breathe. I scrolled through our photos, our chat history, drowning in regret. If I'd just refused to let him go that night, maybe none of this would have happened.

On the seventh day, his body was finally brought back. They said his abdomen was bloated, his whole body swollen with water. He no longer looked human.

But the next second, he video-called me, saying he was outside my door. Telling me to hurry up and let him in.

…

The cold wind howled, sending the lanterns outside rolling across the ground.

Alex Fox kept knocking, patient and tireless. He said he'd bought strawberry mini cakes and wanted to share them with me.

In the video, he didn't show his face—only his neck and chest. And there, faint but unmistakable, was the hickey I'd left seven days ago.

I froze. My mind went blank. In a panic, I hung up.

I thought I was hallucinating from missing him too much, so I pinched myself hard. Only when I yelped from the pain, tears springing to my eyes, did I accept this was real.

The knocking continued. The video call came again.

I checked the time on my phone, counting the days over and over. Alex Fox had drowned seven days ago.

Had he come back on his seventh day?

My heart seized. I tried to call my parents, but my trembling fingers accidentally answered Alex's video instead.

He frowned, looking almost panicked. He kept asking if he'd done something wrong again, if I was angry, if that's why I wouldn't see him.

I sobbed with a strange, desperate joy. My heart was breaking.

Just as I opened my mouth to explain, my mom's call blasted through like a siren. She called over and over until it forcibly cut off Alex's video, and finally I answered.

I didn't know where she was. On her end, there was a terrible howling sound, heavy static, sharp bursts of interference cutting in and out.

She didn't seem to notice. Her voice shook with raw terror.

"Ivy, listen to me: do NOT leave your room. Today is Alex Fox's seventh day—it was supposed to be your engagement day. You cannot leave that room. If you do, he'll take you with him."

I was on the verge of tears, caught between joy and horror. I switched to speakerphone.

Alex's knocking carried clearly through the phone. My mom heard every knock.

"Mom, Alex is here."

She went silent. After several long seconds, her voice came out trembling. She'd heard it too.

"Alex Fox? Is it really him?"

"Yes. He keeps knocking. He even video-called me."

"He video-called? You saw him?"

"Not his face. Just his neck and chest. But the voice—it's exactly his."

"Oh my God!"

She let out a strangled cry and sent photos to my phone.

The funeral home's memorial hall. His parents, relatives, friends—all gathered inside. In the center: Alex's black-and-white portrait. His coffin. Beside it, the diving gear he'd loved so much.

Before I could even process my grief, my mom's voice cracked with horror.

"Ivy, you cannot believe it. Alex Fox is dead. His body—it's horrible. His face was destroyed. When he died, he was still clutching your engagement ring. He can't let you go. That's why he came back."

"Don't believe him. Don't open that door. He didn't show his face in the video because he knows he's dead—and he's afraid of what he looks like now. He's afraid he'll scare you."