The Spectral Wives' Club
The Ghosts of First Ladies Past
The Bulldozers and the Whispering Wind
Mar-a-Lago was too quiet that night. Donald Trump, wrapped in silk sheets and a thick cloud of his own self-importance, lay in bed with his phone, scrolling past news articles slandering his brilliant idea.
Trump to Pave Over Rose Garden for Parking Lot
Historians Outraged as Trump Declares “No One Even Likes Roses”
Jackie Kennedy’s Ghost Reportedly Weeps
That last one made him snort. Ghosts. Yeah, right. He tossed the phone onto the nightstand.
Outside, the palm trees rustled—but the wind carried a scent that didn’t belong. It wasn’t the salt of the ocean or the chlorine of his oversized, underused pool. It was… roses.
Faint. Sweet. Old.
A petal drifted through the open balcony doors, landing on the marble floor.
Donald sat up. “What the hell…”
The chandelier flickered. A cold whisper rippled through the air.
"You have defiled my work, Donald."
His breath hitched.
In the dim glow of the moonlight, she appeared.
Jackie Kennedy Onassis.
She stood at the foot of his bed, draped in a powder-blue suit, her pillbox hat perched elegantly atop her head. Her dark eyes, once warm and knowing, were now hollow voids, deep as the abyss. The pearls around her neck gleamed like tiny nooses.
"Did you think you could destroy my garden and suffer no consequences?"
Donald flailed, knocking his phone to the floor. “This is fake news—FAKE NEWS—I don’t believe in—”
The room shook. The mirrors cracked. A shadow fell over the bed as the ceiling warped, the gilded décor peeling away, revealing…
Rows of roses.
Their thorns stretched toward him, twisting, growing, writhing like a nest of snakes. The scent was intoxicating, suffocating. Jackie’s lips curled in amusement.
"Tonight, you will be visited by three spirits, Donald. If you do not repent, you will share the fate of all men who believe themselves greater than history."
The chandelier shattered, plunging the room into darkness.
And then—silence.
Jackie was gone. But the scent of roses lingered.
The Ghost of First Ladies Past
A heavy knock. Three slow beats.
Donald’s eyes shot open. His body was drenched in sweat. His heart pounded like a drum.
The door creaked open on its own.
A shadowy figure stepped inside, her presence stretching long and impossibly tall.
Eleanor Roosevelt.
She was draped in a dark, billowing dress, her face illuminated only by the ghostly glow of history itself. Her sharp gaze sliced through the darkness.
"You crave admiration, but you have done nothing admirable."
Donald shrank back into his bed. “I—I was the best president, the most beloved, they said I—”
"No."
The word rattled the windows. The walls fell away, and suddenly, they stood in a war-torn America—a Great Depression-era street, filled with people waiting in soup lines.
Eleanor gestured. “This is what I fought for. For the poor, the weak, the forgotten. And what did you fight for?”
The scene shifted.
A hospital hallway. Nurses in PPE, exhausted and slumped against the walls. The beep of ventilators.
A man gasping for air. Alone. Forgotten.
Donald tried to turn away, but Eleanor forced him to look.
"How many suffered while you golfed?"
A gust of wind—and she was gone.
But the shadows remained.
The Ghost of First Ladies Present
He was in the Oval Office. Or at least, what was left of it. The windows were shattered, the desk overturned, papers scattered like autumn leaves.
And there, in the wreckage, she stood.
Michelle Obama.
Not a ghost. Not a specter. Just there. As real as ever. Towering. Radiant. Unshakable.
"Did you think it was over?"
Donald swallowed hard. His mouth was dry. “You—you’re not even dead.”
Michelle smirked. “Don’t need to be.”
She walked toward him, deliberate, powerful, each step shaking the very foundations of his existence.
Donald tried to speak, but his voice failed him.
Michelle reached out—and suddenly, he was drowning.
Not in water.
In words.
Books. News articles. College theses. Stories of Black women, of immigrants, of strong leaders who built the world while he played golf.
They piled on top of him, pushing him down, down, down into the abyss.
Michelle’s voice rang out—clear, calm, devastating.
"History will remember you, Donald."
Then—darkness.
The Ghost of First Ladies Yet to Come
The cold was absolute.
Mary Todd Lincoln stood before him. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Laughing.
Behind her, a graveyard stretched into eternity.
Donald turned, frantic, searching for an escape.
And then—he saw it.
His own tombstone.
The name chipped away, barely legible. No visitors. No flowers. Just dust.
"You thought you would be great," Mary whispered, her voice curling like smoke. "But the earth does not remember men like you."
The ground cracked open. The vines wrapped around his ankles.
Donald screamed—
—And woke up.
The Final Horror
He gasped, clutching his chest. The room was normal again. No ghosts. No roses.
He laughed.
"Fake news," he muttered. "Just a dream."
He reached for his phone—
But he couldn’t move.
His hands were frozen at his sides. His body, trapped.
The air was too still. The TV flickered.
And then—a voice.
"Hello, Donald."
Michelle.
His breath hitched.
Another figure stepped from the shadows. Hillary Clinton.
She sipped her coffee, smiling.
"Did you think we were finished?"
The room dissolved. The shadows swallowed him whole.
And somewhere in the distance—
The click of high heels… walking away.
Epilogue: The Vanishing
The next morning, the world woke to shocking news.
Donald J. Trump had disappeared without a trace.
His bed was empty.
His phone sat on the nightstand, open to Truth Social. His last, unfinished post:
"THE WITCHES ARE HERE. THEY—"
The White House Rose Garden was mysteriously restored overnight.
And in the wind—a whisper.
"History remembers."
Cross Posting to https://thistleandmoss.com
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