No Mercy For The Ghost Worshipper

Summary

It started at a dinner party we hosted. The wine was flowing, the lights were low, and my husband, Preston, was seated at the grand piano in our living room, pouring his soul into a heartbreaking rendition of an old, soulful ballad about losing the one you love.

He sang with a visceral intensity. His eyes were half-closed, glazed with something far away, his voice rough and scraping against the edges of the melody.

I stood by the doorway, leaning against the frame, and quietly recorded it on my phone. Later that night, I posted it online.

I didn’t expect it to explode.