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NOTE: This is the main story which is husband's POV. I am posting both the POV's side by side so always pay attention to the chapter title. On wife's POV chapters, the title is going to be simple e. g. Chapter 2: Wife's POV. Sorry for the inconvenience.
Also, before reading this part, read the previous parts which are Chapter 1-8: Husband's POV and then Chapter 1-8: Wife's POV.
Chapter 9: One Week of Regret
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.
Chapter 10: Growing Paranoia
Her decision was a dagger in my chest. She may have had good intentions, but that old man didn't sit right with me--not for a second. Thankfully, starting tomorrow, I was working from home. That gave me some relief. At least I'd be around. If something went wrong, I could rush over. I told myself that over and over, like a broken prayer.
She, on the other hand, seemed lighter--like she was finally getting rid of the guilt that had lingered since that first encounter. I couldn't understand it. She wanted to help him. To make amends. But I could only see danger wrapped in his weak frame and tired voice.
We slept early that night. The morning came too soon. She woke up early, busied herself with the chores--washed, cooked, cleaned. Breakfast was already laid out on the table when I walked into the kitchen. She was hurrying. That made me pause.
"Are you going somewhere?" I asked, half-knowing the answer.
Then it hit me. Like a punch in my stomach.
Yesterday. The old man. The promise.
She got freshened up quickly, tied her hair, wore something plain, and said, "That house is way too dirty to even clean properly... beyond saving, honestly. But I can still wash the utensils and maybe sweep a little."
I nodded, hesitantly. "Be safe," I said, trying to smile.
I walked up to the room on the first floor--the one I had set up for work. From the window, I could see a partial view of the old man's house. Not the whole room, just a sliver. But enough. Enough to keep an eye out. Enough to ease the storm inside me.
Or so I thought.
Fifteen minutes into my work, I peeked through the window again. There she was, mopping the floor. She had her face turned slightly away, almost as if holding her breath from the stink. I watched for a moment longer... and then I saw him.
The old man.
His legs appeared in the corner of the view. He seemed to be saying something to her. I couldn't make out what. She straightened up, listened, and then... she was gone.
Gone from my line of sight.
Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen.
I stared at the screen in front of me, my fingers frozen on the keyboard. My chest grew tight. My mind conjured images I didn't want to see. I wasn't sure what was happening, but I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bit.
I jumped to my feet.
By the time I reached the door, I was already sweating. I ran. I didn't think. Just sprinted to the neighbor's gate and banged on it with the side of my fist.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The door creaked open slowly. The old man stood there, his face a mix of anger and confusion.
I peered over his shoulder, eyes searching.
She was inside. By the sink. Washing utensils.
She seemed startled. Her brows furrowed. "What... what are you doing?"
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled up in guilt. "H-hi," I muttered awkwardly.
The old man scowled. "What is wrong with you? You come banging on my door like a lunatic?"
She came closer. "What's going on? Why are you so worked up?"
I couldn't answer.
I looked at her face, then at the old man. I had no excuse--only a gut feeling, an irrational panic. I felt pathetic.
"I... I was just worried," I finally said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--"
The old man shook his head in disgust. "If you didn't want your wife helping me, you should've said no. Don't come here behaving like I've kidnapped her. She's the one who insisted on helping me. Thirty minutes of kindness, and you lose your mind?"
She looked at me, disappointed. Hurt. Like I had stabbed her trust with the same dagger I had felt the night before.
I apologized, profusely. To the old man. To her. But nothing could undo what had just happened.
We left together.
She stormed inside, her footsteps heavy with disappointment, not looking back even once. I stood frozen for a moment outside that house, shame pulsing through me like heat on my skin. She hadn't said much, but her eyes--those usually soft, kind eyes--held a sting I wasn't ready for. It hurt more than I thought it would.
I slowly walked back to my room, closed the door behind me, and sank into my chair. The laptop screen was still on, the cursor blinking as if mocking me. I couldn't focus on work anymore. My thoughts were louder than any notification or email.
Why did I do that? Why did I bang the door like some maniac? Was it that hard to trust her for just 30 minutes?
My heart had been in the right place, hadn't it? I was just worried... but the way she looked at me, it felt like I'd shattered something between us. That hurt. What was I trying to protect her from? An old man with a limp? Or my own irrational fears?
I sat back, ran both hands over my face, and sighed.
"This place," I mumbled. "This goddamn place."
I wasn't like this before. I used to be calm, secure, rational. But something about this neighborhood--its strangeness, the air of unease, the constant feeling of being watched or judged--it was changing me. Twisting me into someone I didn't even recognize.
The clock ticked on as my thoughts spiraled, until a soft knock on the door interrupted them. I turned. It was her. My wife. Holding a plate of food in her hands.
"You didn't come out," she said softly. Her voice wasn't angry. Just tired.
I didn't say a word. I was too full of guilt, of self-loathing.
She walked in slowly, placed the plate on the table beside me, then surprised me--she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me.
I didn't hesitate. I hugged her back tightly. There was comfort in that moment. Warmth. Regret.
"I'm sorry," I whispered against her shoulder.
She didn't say anything for a moment. Then quietly, but firmly, she said, "Don't do that again."
I nodded against her shoulder, a silent agreement. I couldn't meet her eyes, not yet.
She stepped back and sat beside me.
"I was mopping the floor," she began. "It really stinks in there, I was holding my breath. Then he asked me to help him with his medicines--he couldn't read the labels properly."
That's what it was. That's what I had seen from the window--the moment she disappeared from my view.
Of course. It made sense now.
"I read the dosages and placed them on the table for him. That's all," she said.
And just like that, something inside me unclenched.
So, the old man wasn't trying anything inappropriate. Maybe his creepy vibe was just... a face, a habit. Maybe he wasn't a threat. Just a bitter, broken man trying to get by.
I felt relieved. But even more than that, I felt ashamed of myself for ever doubting her.
She stood up after a while. "Eat your lunch before it gets cold."
I nodded again, still too ashamed to speak. But as she left the room, I caught a glimpse of something in her eyes--not just disappointment anymore, but a flicker of understanding. Like she saw how torn I was inside. Maybe, just maybe, she knew I didn't mean to hurt her.
But I had to admit to myself--I needed to get a grip. Before this place and my own mind pushed me off the edge.
Chapter 11: 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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