My Dead Husband Screams at 3 A.M. Every Night

It was a blue shirt, covered in dark brown mud stains, with several obvious tears. How could it be this shirt?!

This was what Zach had been wearing the night I killed him. I had taken it off, planning to burn it, but I must have shoved it into a trash bag and thrown it out in a panic.

I flipped over the shipping label. The sender’s address was this building. In the sender’s name, one name was printed clearly:

[Lindy.]

I mailed a dead man’s clothes to myself?

This was pure, brazen provocation!

That blind woman. It had to be her!

She must have dug the shirt out of some trash pile. She wanted me to know. She wanted me to know she knew.

Well, if she was playing games, I would play to the bitter end.

While she was still out, I took out a master key I had prepared long ago.

I had been living in this building for years. I knew these old locks inside and out. All it took was a few twists and they would open.

Dragging my broken leg behind me, I crept to her door and glanced around to make sure there was no one around. I inserted the key and twisted it.

The door opened with a click.

I pushed the door open. A wave of cold air hit me. With the curtains drawn tight, the room was so dark I could not see my own hand in front of me. I turned on my phone's flashlight and swept the beam across the room.

There was no drill, no one‑eyed man, and no signs of life. The living room was empty, except for a pile of wood in the center.

I stepped closer. My scalp prickled. They were not just pieces of wood. They were mannequins! The entire room was filled with wooden mannequins.

More than a dozen of them stood in a circle. Their cheeks were painted bright red, and their black eyes fixed on the table in the center. On that table was a black tape recorder.

My hand trembled as I pressed play.

Static crackled. Then, there came a voice. It was a voice I knew better than my own nightmares.

“Die, you bastard! The insurance money is mine! Go to hell!”

The voice was rough and vicious, punctuated by heavy, ragged breathing and the gurgling sound of water. It was my own voice. It was the words I had shouted while pressing Zach’s head into the bucket.

My blood ran cold, like someone had thrown me straight into an icy lake. Where did this recording come from? It had only been the two of us that night.

I had checked. His phone had been in the living room. It had not been anywhere near us.

Where did this come from? Had there been another recording device in my apartment all along?

I bolted out the door like a madwoman, not even bothering to close it properly. I stumbled back into my own apartment. I locked the door, dove onto the couch, and ripped open the cushions.

I sliced through the fabric underneath with a fruit knife. There was nothing, just a few coins and layers of old dust.

I stormed into the bedroom, tore off the mattress, emptied the nightstand, and even pried open the outlet covers to check. How could there be nothing?

I was drenched in sweat, and the apartment looked like a tornado had ripped through it.

That damn bug? It was like it did not even exist.

Then, the sound of a cane striking the floor came from outside the door. The blind woman was back. My fear turned into rage.

No matter where the recording came from, she had the original. If she died, no one would ever know.

I grabbed my knife and flung open the door. She stood there, fumbling with her keys. Then, she turned at the sound.

I pressed the tip of the knife against his neck and hissed in a low voice, “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

Her sunglasses hid most of her face. She looked dazed as she took a fearful step back, and her voice trembled. “W-What did you say? I just moved here. I don’t know you.”

“Cut the crap!” I stepped closer. The knife tip was nearly pressing against her nose.

“Where did that recording come from? What the hell are all those mannequins in the room? And was that one‑eyed man just you in disguise?”

The woman looked dumbstruck all over.

“W-What recording are you talking about? My name’s Maya… I’m a massage therapist. I usually just listen to the radio. Maybe you have the wrong person?”

She pulled out her phone from her pocket with shaking hands.

“Miss, if you don’t lower the knife… I’ll call the police!”

What she said hit me like ice water.

The police were already watching me. If they came now, walked into my apartment, saw the mess on the floor and smelled the lingering stench of a corpse, I would be finished.

If that blind woman actually called the police, it meant she was not afraid of an investigation. That recording could already be hidden or backed up somewhere else.

I clenched my teeth, glared at her, and pulled the knife back.

“Fine. Just wait. If you dare release that thing, I’ll make sure you die without even knowing how.”

I slammed the door shut and leaned against it, gasping. Something was not right.

The recording sounded like me, but the tone was a little stiff, and some words seemed stitched together.

I had argued on live streams before and said things far worse than this. Those videos were online for anyone to see. What if it were synthesized? What if she had deliberately made a fake recording to scare me?

As long as I did not admit it, it could not be evidence.

Still, why me? Was it just for fun? Or was it really about Zach?

While my mind raced with possibilities, a sudden, piercing noise came from next door.

The sound of a drill bore into the wall. The vibration shook the dust loose from my walls.

The worst part was that the drill sounded like it was aimed directly at the bathroom wall. The one hiding Zach’s body!