Chapter 1Not My Husband In My Bed

After eight years of marriage, my husband was still as much of a child as the day I met him.

He had this exhausting habit of playing pranks—stupid, harmless things involving jump-scares or gag gifts. Every few weeks, he’d bring home some new trick to "lighten the mood." I’d usually just laugh, roll my eyes, and toss the latest plastic spider or fake snake into the storage room under the stairs. I didn’t think much of it.

A few days ago, while I was deep-cleaning the house, I came across his latest box. I decided it was time to finally clear out the clutter and throw it away.

But when I lifted the lid, a thick, cloying stench hit me.

Inside, nestled in the faux-silk lining, was a severed human hand.

My legs gave out instantly. I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, my lungs seizing as the world tilted on its axis. With trembling fingers, I fumbled for my phone and dialed 911.

By the time the DNA results came back, the detectives’ expressions were unreadable—a chilling mixture of confusion and grim pity.

"Mrs. Brooks," the lead detective said, his voice heavy. "The DNA extracted from the limb..."

"It belongs to your husband, Jameson."

* * *

My name is Naomi Brooks. I’ve been a housewife for eight years, ever since Jamie and I said our vows.

I don’t get out much. My world is small, centered entirely around the orbit of my husband. But life was never dull; Jamie was a master at manufacturing "surprises."

Before he left for his latest business trip, he’d spent the evening orchestrating a perfect date night. He handed me a gift box with a mischievous glint in his eyes. I took one look at the packaging and sighed.

"More of those creepy gags, Jamie? Honestly, aren't you a little old for this?"

He grinned, pulling me close and planting a kiss on my temple. "I’ll never be too old to make you jump, Naomi. It keeps things interesting."

I didn’t pull away. I let him fold me into his arms, the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and expensive Scotch—wrapping around me like a security blanket. One thing led to another, and the playful banter followed us from the living room into the bedroom.

After all these years, the spark between us was still electric. People said we were lucky. I used to think so, too. I used to think that if he ever stopped being that playful, charming boy, that would be the sign that something was wrong.

As Jamie was pulling off his shirt, my eyes caught a jagged red mark on his forearm. It was fresh—angry red welts that looked exactly like fingernail scratches.

I grabbed his wrist, my heart doing a strange little stutter. "What happened here? Do I need to worry about another woman, Jamie?"

He glanced down at the marks, then casually wiped them with his thumb, pulling me back into a hug. "It’s a scratch from the warehouse, Naomi. Here I am, working myself to the bone, and you’re accusing me of cheating. I’m hurt."

He began to pout, nuzzling into the crook of my neck like a scolded puppy. I laughed and called him a brat, but my fingers lingered on the wound for a second too long. There was something about the depth of the scratches that didn't feel like an accident.

He didn't give me time to dwell on it. He pressed me into the pillows, and the thought drifted away.

When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. A yellow Post-it note was stuck to the headboard:

Off on the business trip. Be a good girl. Back in two days. Love you.

I moved through the room in a daze, picking up his discarded clothes from the floor to throw into the wash. Something hard pressed into my palm as I grabbed his trousers.

A button.

A delicate, pearlescent button from a woman’s silk blouse.

I smiled to myself, unbothered. Jamie had this weird habit of finding loose buttons on my clothes and tucking them into his pockets, claiming he was "saving them" so he could sew them back on for me. He always forgot, of course. This was just another one he’d picked up weeks ago, no doubt.

The next few days were quiet. I let the house get a bit messy, enjoying the solitary laziness that comes with an empty home. By day four, however, the clutter was starting to grate on my nerves. Jamie usually handled the heavy chores, but I couldn't just let it rot.

I started in the hallway. The moment I opened the door to the storage room, a sharp, pungent odor billowed out. It was worse than the usual damp smell of a closed space—it was organic, heavy, and sweet in a way that made my stomach turn.

I frowned, stepping back to grab a can of lemon-scented air freshener. I sprayed half the can, but the floral scent only made it worse. The two odors tangled together into something truly nauseating.

Holding my breath, I stepped inside to find the source. Two steps in, my foot slipped on something slick.

I looked down. A dark, brownish liquid was seeping from the corner of the box Jamie had brought home.

My first thought was that the "theatrical blood" in his prank kit had leaked. I shook my head, annoyed, and reached down to pick up the box.

The second the lid came off, my entire body turned to ice.

It wasn't a toy.

It was a severed hand. It had been cut clean at the wrist, the flesh turning a bruised, necrotic purple-black. Tissue fluid was oozing from the jagged edges of the wound. Something small and white—a maggot—squirmed near the bone.

The smell hit me like a physical blow. I screamed, shoving the box away from me. The hand rolled out onto the floor, and I saw it clearly now.

It was a man’s hand. A wedding band was still clutched by a swollen, curled finger. The knuckles were white and strained, as if the hand had been clenched in agony at the moment of removal.

My instinct screamed for Jamie. I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped it. I dialed his number.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Nothing but the rhythmic, hollow ringing echoing in the silent house. My heart was pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Jamie, please... pick up," I whispered, sobbing.

Finally, the mechanical voice of the operator cut through: The person you are calling is unavailable or has been turned off.

The sound snapped something in me. I stared at the hand on the floor. The rot, the insects, the blackened flesh... this wasn't a joke. This was a nightmare.

I took a shuddering breath, gave up on Jamie, and dialed 911.

When the operator answered, I tried to keep the sob out of my voice, but my throat felt like it was being squeezed by iron bands.

"911, what is your emergency?"