Over there. By the dining table.

I quickly glanced over. Nothing there, but perhaps through all of the subtle ambiance, I could have made out some whispers. Careful footsteps that tip-toed over creaky wooden floorboards, or tense breathing.

Better to be safe. Always.

I turned off the microwave heating up my meal and shuffled towards the dining table, ears straining to pick out the odd noise, though no matter how I concentrated, I could hear nothing. Only the soft pitter patter of rain and my own beating heart. Alone with my thoughts, what did I expect? For it to be different this time? To find a looming figure hiding in the shadows, ready to jump at me?

Look. Over there, the living room. Check.

There was a harrowing sense of dread that pushed against my chest without remorse, forcing the air from my lungs. With stiff limbs, I walked down the hallway to my living room, my path lit only by a dull beam of moonlight through the window. The light cast an eerie shadow against the wall, and for a moment, I thought I saw something moving in the darkness.

Ready to pounce, it's there. Waiting. Waiting for you to make a move. There's no way out of this one.

I froze where I stood, not daring to move an inch. My heart raced in my chest as I waited for whatever it was to show itself. When nothing happened, I took a step forward, and then another, and another, until I was out of the hall. I flipped on the lightswitch, squinting as the sudden harsh glare of fluorescent lights filled my vision.

Check. It doesn't hurt to be sure. Right there right below the stairs.

It was the pantry door. Locked, of course. I had also propped a chair against it. The world seemed to pause as I approached the door. One by one, layers of comprehension began to strip away from my mind as my surroundings faded. I no longer heard my dull footsteps as I approached the locked door, nor did I hear the rhythmic drops of rain beating against the rooftop. Even the sterile while lights that had previously flooded the room seemed to dissipate.

Listen. Carefully. Listen closely.

I stepped around the chair and placed my ear against the door. An old, dilapidated thing, with creaky hinges and chipped black paint that revealed the frail wood underneath. At first, all I could hear was the monstrous beating of my heart as it sent dizzying amounts of blood to my head. It was deafening enough to scatter my thoughts and deliver a rising bout of nausea as I tried so desperately to find silence.

Be quiet.

My body obeyed.

Breathing, uneven and hitched, came through from the other side, along with weak, yet desperate scratching. I looked down to find a set of crooked fingernails, jagged and uneven and with disgusting black grit buried underneath. Pale, skinny fingers jutted out from underneath the door. They clawed desperately at the floor, as if hopping to wear the wooden boards down.

"Please," came a weak, trembling voice. It was barely above a whisper, but I could hear the pleading in her voice. "Please… let me out…"

Still inside, then. Good. That's good. Nothing to worry about.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Despite the closed door, I could still plainly make out the palpable stench emanating from the other side. Disgusting, sickly rot consisting of excrement and fluids left to soak into the flooring. Every week, I would attempt to clean whatever leaked outside, yet the pungent scent would remain. It had only worsened as time progressed, first manifesting as an unpleasant sourness, only to become a revolting cloud of stagnating air that was nearly impossible to breathe in.

"God…" the voice bemoaned, "So thirsty. Please. A-Anything… God, help me. God, please."

How long had it been? A month, maybe. It wouldn't be for too much longer. It couldn't be for much longer. I used to be able to hear her cries all the way from my room. Those were the nights. Sleepless, stressful, it felt as if at any moment, her banging fist would finally smash a hole through that decrepit old door. Of course, she could only make such noise for so long; not once had I fed her, not since this whole mess started. Not even water.

I should feel bad, right? I mean, I'm keeping a person, or rather what I thought was a person, locked up like some kind of animal. But the truth is, I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared that I can't even bring myself to think of her as my wife. Every time I do, every time I think of that life, I remember her name. Her face. I see her as she was before: healthy, normal, beautiful.

Not true. She wasn't human, she was something else. Many times, I considered just finishing the job myself. Surely, she wouldn't be able to fight back. She sounded so weak, I could just… grab one of the cleavers from the kitchen. Or that old baseball bat in the toolshed. I could put an end to this nightmare.

Not human. Deceit. She wants you to try. She's crafty, sneaky, you don't know what she's capable of.

Right. It's easier this way. Has to be.

"Help," the voice said. Her fingers stretched out further, reaching towards my feet. "S-Sam, Honey, I know you can hear me. I know you're there. P-Please, just… let me out, fuck, just let me out. I c-can't live like this. I'm almost out of cans. They're so hard to open, Sam. It hurts."

"Be quiet. Don't say my name. Just die already, god damn it, don't do this to me. Don't be so cruel."

The voice inside started sobbing. It hurt like nothing else hearing her cry. I loved her, once. Before I realised what she was. I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life with her. I didn't know whether or not to be thankful that she started to slip up. Little oddities here and there. The way her pupils seemed to change colour in the light, her insistence in cooking all of my meals for me, and above all, just the fact that everything seemed perfect. Too perfect. Like my life was a theatrical scene, something set and rehearsed. Only, I was the only one without a script.

Whatever she was planning to do to me, I never gave her the chance to execute.

"What were you going to do to me? What are you? Who else is in on this?" I hissed at the door. "Tell me. Tell me and I might let you out. I don't want to do this."

The voice inside said nothing, only continuing to cry. I grimaced, disappointed. She never answered my questions. Most of the time, her responses were full of feigned ignorance. But she was lying. I knew that much, I wasn't a fool.

"Nothing to worry about," I whispered to myself as I slowly backed from the door. Her pained voice faded to nothing as the gentle rain once more returned to my ears. I made my way back to the kitchen, careful to keep my footsteps light. I took my dinner out of the microwave, which consisted of half of a rotisserie chicken. It sat in a puddle of brown grease and oil, some of it partly coagulated in translucent chunks of fat.

I tore out a dry chunk of flesh with my hand and stuffed it into my mouth. It was room temperature and salty enough to make me pucker. Despite my distaste, I forced myself to swallow. It could be worse, I reminded myself. I could be locked inside of a dusty pantry, with nothing to eat at all.

Out of the corner of my eye, a shadow blinked in and out of existence.

She'd do anything to live. She would want nothing more than to get back at you.

"The door's locked."

Make sure. Have to make sure. Check, and listen carefully.

I placed my plate down on the kitchen counter and stared forward, eyes focusing on nothing in particular. It was quiet, but if I concentrated, held my breath…

She's opening the door. She's waiting to ambush you.

I nodded my head and retrieved a large steak knife from one of the kitchen drawers. I had to be careful, after all.

Just in case.