The clock read 1:05 AM.
Dressed in his pajamas, the husband walked down the creaking steps, delving further into the pit of darkness. There was just enough natural light coming from the closed blinds and skylight to help him guide his way.
"Where am I?" He wondered aloud.
Only stifling silence answered him.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around, curious of the strange house he found himself in. Unsure of what he should be doing, he started to walk and shoved his hands in his pockets, but stopped when he felt the rough edges of paper pressing against his knuckles. He pulled it out and found a crumpled picture of a stout man torn from the top. He turned it over and saw a note written in uneven handwriting.
"A shed?" He muttered. For some reason, he felt impelled to to do as the note said.
He explored the house until he finally found the backdoor.
"Ah, there it is."
The peepers blinked above.
He shoved his hands back in his pockets and held his arms close to his side while the cold wind beat at him. He fought his way through the chilling air to the shed door and opened it.
A workbench with a lamp sat on the right wall. A small plate with bits of yellow rice and chicken was left on the bench, a big dark stain on the floor below it. The left wall held gardening tools and standing in front of the back wall was a shelf rack stuffed with gardening supplies and boxes, a lawnmower leaning against the shelf.
He went to the lamp and turned it on, illuminating a small area around the workbench. He took the picture out and read the note again under the light. As instructed, he walked to the left side of the shelf rack and crouched. On the leftmost side, he slid the large box out from under the lowest shelf and shoved it aside. He laid on his stomach to get a better look behind it.
It was still too dark to make anything out. Regardless, he reached through the gap to see if he could feel anything, but it seemed the only thing his hand could find were spider webs. Then his fingers brushed the corner of something. Going back, he found it again and grabbed it.
It was a small box no bigger than his palm.
He pulled it out and stood up. A thin sheet of dust covered the lid. He took it off and looked inside, but couldn't see what laid at the bottom. He walked over to the workbench and held it under the light.
A golden ring twinkled.
His heart skipped a beat as something began gnawing at him. He took it out and held it in his palm. He looked at the inside of the ring, almost like he knew there was something important there. He turned it until he saw an inscription.
He held it between his fingers and read it aloud, "My darling husband."
And it came back to him.
"...My ring..."
His heart started to beat a little faster.
He looked at the silver ring that strangled his finger.
He looked at the lonely, forgotten ring resting on his palm.
He held the golden ring secure inside his fist.
His fingers extended to remove the silver ring. He made to pull it off, but was disrupted from the sound of something dragging along the ground.
It came from beyond the shelf.
Whispers seeped from behind. Then a silhouette of a limp hand crept out from where the small box was hidden, the darkness allowing it to flee. It stalked its way through the air, its fingers hanging like dead worms. The hand twisted upwards and its fingers hooked onto the shelf. Then the other arm sprung out and the palm struck the floor, stopping the whispers with a raucous slap that bounced off the walls. The husband flinched. As the arms started to pull out the rest of the body, he took a step back, his shoulder tipping the lamp and giving a spotlight to the arms.
YOU ARE READING
His Lovely Wife
Mystery / Thriller"Who are you?" It was a question he's asked her a thousand times, that's cut her deep a thousand times, a question that never ends. All she ever wants is for him to remember her even if it only lasts a week, a day, or even just thirty minutes-it'll...
