Read both Main story and Wife's POV of starting chapters before reading this chapter.
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Still terrified from the ordeal, we sat down in silence, taking deep, shaky breaths, trying to steady our nerves. The question that haunted us both was simple but terrifying: was our safety truly guaranteed here? I pulled her into my arms, and she clung to me like a lifeline. Thankfully, it seemed the intruders hadn’t taken much—just an old vase or two. I immediately got the door rewired and added extra locks. We tried to sleep, but it was a restless, half-aware sleep, always alert, waiting for the next shock. I held her close, unwilling to let go, as if my presence alone could shield us both.
The next morning, life followed its usual routine, but the events of the last night lingered like a dark shadow. Ray’s behavior felt… off. Or maybe it was me—maybe the creeping paranoia was twisting my perception. I wasn’t sure who to trust anymore, and that uncertainty suffocated me. Despite the anxiety, I forced myself to go to work. When I returned, I brought home some of her favorite food, hoping to lift her spirits. She seemed genuinely delighted, but something in her demeanor was unusual—an uneasy guilt shadowed her eyes, or maybe it was just the lingering fear of that night.
We talked quietly, tried to find normalcy, but when night fell, she cuddled me tightly, as if trying to say sorry for something unspoken. Her grip was desperate, as if her conscience was pleading to confess a secret she couldn’t yet voice.
The next morning, nearly a week after the old man’s injury, we saw him—limping but alive, slowly walking into his home. He looked better than expected, which brought a strange disappointment. My wife, with a soft voice, asked if I could bring some fruits for him after work—a small gesture of apology for what had happened that day. I hesitated, reluctant to show kindness to someone so unsettling, but the gentle guilt in her eyes softened me. How could I refuse when she carried so much compassion, even when I struggled to understand it?
Back from work, I picked up some fresh fruits, just as she had asked. I didn’t want to, but I did—maybe for her more than for him.
Once home and freshened up, we both headed to that miserable, foul-smelling house. The stench hit us even before we knocked—it was something so potent, so vile, I swear even a demon would faint at the door. Still, we stood there, holding our breaths, and knocked on the door.
He opened it. Same torn clothes, same unkempt look—but something was different. The usual creepy grin was gone. His face was twisted in a kind of bitter anger, like he’d been waiting to see us just to scowl.
Maybe it was for that push… if so, it was expected.
My wife noticed too and stepped forward to apologize immediately, her voice soft, guilt-ridden. I followed, offering a half-hearted apology. He said nothing at first—just stepped aside and pointed towards the filthy sofa like it was a throne. We sat down, careful not to breathe too deeply, as he groaned and lowered himself onto the chair opposite us.
But his walk… it wasn’t the same as the morning. He limped heavily now, one hand clutching his back. Even sitting down seemed like agony for him. My wife leaned forward with concern, asking, “Are you okay?”
He shot back, “No, lady. I’m not okay. You pushed an old man who already had back problems. And now, it’s worse than ever.”
And just like that, the floodgates opened.
We sat through a long, melodramatic monologue—how much pain he was in, how the injury had worsened, how unfair life was. My wife kept whispering apologies, truly feeling sorry. But I was listening with narrowed eyes, seeing right through it. He wasn’t just venting—he was baiting her, guilt-tripping her with every carefully chosen word.
Then came the clincher.
“Now tell me, who’s going to clean the house, wash the dishes, do the laundry? I can’t even move properly! The doctor told me I need at least a week’s rest, and I have no one. No family. No help.”
I knew where this was going. He was setting her up. And it worked.
My wife, with a shaky voice, said, “If you really need rest for a week… I can help. I’ll come by to do your chores until you're well. It’s the least I can do after what happened.”
I turned to her, eyes wide, shaking my head slightly—“Don’t say that”—but she wouldn’t look at me. Her mind was made up. That was who she was. She couldn’t sleep at night knowing she hadn’t done what she felt was right, even if the fault wasn’t hers to begin with.
The old man’s face lit up—smiling through what looked like fake tears. “Thank you, dear. You’re an angel. Truly a godsend.”
His words made my stomach turn.
We left soon after. She tried to apologize again, saying she couldn’t help herself. I stopped her.
“I get it,” I said quietly. “You did what you felt was right. I won’t question that. I know you better than anyone, and I respect your choice.”But then I added, “Still… just be careful around him. He’s not as innocent as he makes himself out to be. If he tries anything weird—even the slightest—tell me. Promise me.”
She nodded, but in her eyes, I saw something fragile—like she wanted to believe the world was still good.
- She Smelled like him
The paranoia had started clawing at my sanity. Every moment of peace seemed to be followed by a wave of irrational thoughts, like shadows trailing too closely behind my back. I couldn’t believe what I had done earlier. Couldn’t trust my wife… for 30 minutes? With an old man? The thought alone made me bury my face in my hands and sigh hard. I need to get a grip. I need to stay anchored to reality before I drift too far from it.
I dove into my work to distract myself, forcing myself to reply to emails and stare at spreadsheets that meant nothing to me. When I finally looked up, it was already evening. The sun had dipped low behind the horizon, casting our house in golden hues.
I stepped out of the room and saw my wife in the kitchen, humming softly while doing her chores. A small part of me felt better seeing her like that—normal, peaceful. I walked up and wrapped my arms around her from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“I saw you from the window earlier,” I whispered, trying to sound casual. “You looked like you were dying holding your breath in that stench. You made this face—like this…”
I contorted my face in a dramatic, exaggerated expression of disgust.
She burst out laughing. That kind of laugh that bubbles up uncontrollably. That was the moment I realized I needed to stop feeding the paranoia. I have a wife who loves me, who’s kind, who chose to help someone when she didn’t have to. And I doubted her. No more.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” I told her casually. “Just stepping out for some air.”
But I wasn’t just going for air. I needed to do something—something that had been gnawing at my conscience all day.
I walked straight to the old man’s house. My chest tightened as I approached the door. I didn’t know what I was going to say exactly, but I had to say something.
He opened the door slowly, eyebrows raised.
The moment he saw me, he gave a half-smile and said mockingly, “I don’t have your wife, boy.”
That stung. A bitter, hot sting. But I deserved it.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and took a deep breath.
“I came to apologize,” I said sincerely. “For earlier. For banging your door. For being… out of line. I had a nightmare, and I panicked. I thought something had happened. It won’t happen again.”
He said nothing at first, just stared at me for a few seconds that felt like a lifetime. Then, placing a wrinkled hand on my shoulder, he gave a dry smile and said,
“Good. Make sure you. Don’t. Do it. Again.”
He didn’t say it exactly like that. Not with that pause. But my mind… my damn mind kept replaying it that way. Word by word. As if there was a hidden threat tucked between his syllables.
Stop it.
I shook the thoughts away. You’re doing it again. Paranoia. This isn’t healthy.
I nodded politely and walked away from his house, trying to stay calm. I needed something—anything—that could help me quiet these spiraling thoughts. That’s when I decided to go to the medical shop.
Ray was there. And oddly enough, he seemed like his old self again—the way he had been when I first met him. That first conversation, when he had this genuine charm, this friendly vibe.
“Need something for overthinking?” he said with a half-laugh, handing me the tablets.
I smiled weakly. “Yeah. Something to shut my brain off.”
We chatted for a bit—casual stuff. Weather. Neighborhood gossip. It was strangely comforting. That Ray, the one at the shop, felt real. Grounded.
But I couldn’t shake the thought… When he came to our house that day, he felt… different. Colder. Off.
Today, he was warm and friendly. The kind of guy you’d want to have a beer with. But still… Why do I feel something’s not right with him?
The thoughts wouldn’t leave.
Not about the old man. Not about Ray.
But I knew one thing—if I didn’t get control over them soon, they were going to ruin everything.
And deep down, I had a creeping feeling that this was just the beginning.
The next morning was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful, but creepy.
She told me she was heading to the old man's house again.
I nodded, trying to sound normal. “Take care.”
But inside, I was reluctant. Uneasy. A battle already waging within me before the door had even shut behind her.
I went up to my room. Not today, I told myself.
You don’t need to look through the window. You trust your wife. There’s nothing to see.
But it wasn’t that easy. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself, there was this part of my brain—small, persistent, clawing—that wouldn’t let me rest. It felt like it had a grip on my neck, dragging me toward the window, whispering in my ear, “Look. There’s something you need to know.”
But I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to look.
What could possibly be there? She was just helping the old man, doing a good deed. The man may have an odd stare, sure—but maybe that’s just age. Maybe he’s not capable of anything sinister. Maybe he sees her like a daughter.
Maybe… maybe… maybe…
Despite the desperate logic, my feet moved on their own. I found myself by the window again, pulling the curtain back just a sliver.
I saw glimpses—her moving around, a shadow here, a shape there.
Time ticked on.
Thirty minutes passed.
That’s how long it usually takes, I reminded myself. She’ll be back any moment.
But then another ten minutes passed.
And another twenty.
Now it had been an hour.
My heart began thudding against my chest. I tried to rationalize again—Maybe there were extra chores. Maybe she had to clean something unusual. Maybe she was just being helpful… again.
But my brain wouldn’t shut up. My thoughts were eating me alive.
Each second passed like a stone dropping into my stomach.
Finally, after seventy agonizing minutes, I’d had enough.
I walked toward the door, fueled by panic and a growing storm of dread.
I don’t care if the old man gets offended.
I don’t care if she gets mad at me again.
I need to know if she’s okay.
Just as I reached for the handle, the door opened.
There she was—my wife—cheerful, glowing, normal.
She flashed me a smile. “Sorry I’m late! I had to go buy some medicines. That’s why it took a bit longer.”
I stared at her, still tense, still in that panicked state.
She noticed and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Hey, everything’s fine.”
I exhaled. A heavy, shaky sigh.
But as she brushed past me…
That’s when it hit me.
The smell.
That same smell I remembered when I hugged the old man.
Rotten. Musty. Thick and putrid.
She smelled like him.
It latched onto me, coated my nostrils, crawled into my thoughts.
Instantly, my mind started spinning stories. Why would she smell like him?
But… maybe she was just cleaning again. Maybe she was close to him while handing over the medicines. Maybe she had to touch something in his room that reeked. Maybe…
Maybe, maybe, maybe…
I tried to force belief into my brain. Like stuffing a blanket into a box already full of doubts.
There’s no other reason. She was just helping. It’s just the smell of that place. That’s all.
But my mind wasn’t listening.
The paranoia was creeping back in again.
And this time, it smelled like rot.
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