He anxiously grips the knife in his pocket. She’s perfect, stumbling home all alone, as if asking for it, pulling him in with irresistible allure. In a dark alley, he catches up with her. But the first stab goes nowhere, then the second. She whips around, red fiery anger in her eyes, and with one wave of her pale hand, she turns the blade over and drives it deep into his chest. Unable to scream, he drops to the ground, dead.
The papers later declare it “the work of a ghost killer”.
She smirks. How fitting.
Originally submitted to the NYC Midnight 2025 100-word microfiction challenge, round 2.
Provided prompt: [Genre: ghost story | Action: attracting | Word: declare]
Tiny Tales 
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