Widow's Cause

The rain had not stopped. It followed me home, drumming softly against the rooftop as I stepped inside my empty house.

I locked the door behind me and exhaled a shaky breath.

Victor's absence was suffocating. His coat still hung by the door, his cologne faint in the air. But he was gone—like the others.

I was alone. Again.

Except, I wasn't.

Not really.

The piece of paper in my trembling hand reminded me of that. "It wasn't you."

Whoever that man was, he had been watching me. Attending my husbands' funerals. Why? What did he know that I didn't?

I swallowed hard and moved to the kitchen, setting the note on the counter. The silence in the house pressed against me, thick and heavy.

I had spent years convincing myself that each death was an accident, a cruel twist of fate. But deep down, I had always feared there was something more.

And now, someone was confirming it.

I glanced at the dimly lit hallway leading to the bedrooms. My chest tightened.

I had lived in this house with four husbands. It should have felt like home. Instead, it felt like a graveyard.

Daniel's books still lined the study shelves. John's old guitar leaned against the corner of the living room. Adam's painting hung above the fireplace, his signature bold in the bottom corner. And now, Victor's belongings would remain untouched, frozen in time.

I wrapped my arms around myself. Was I living in a house or a mausoleum?

The thought sent a shudder through me.

I turned toward the kitchen, opened a cabinet, and reached for a bottle of wine. My hands were unsteady as I poured a glass, my mind racing.

What if that man was right?

I had convinced myself that life had been cruel to me. That it was all just tragic misfortune.

But four times?

The police had investigated. Each death was ruled accidental.

But accidents don't follow someone like this.

Do they?

I lifted the wine glass to my lips, taking a long sip. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the windows.

Then—a noise.

I froze, my breath hitching.

It came from the hallway.

A creak. The kind the wooden floor made when someone stepped on it.

My grip on the glass tightened.

I wasn't expecting visitors.

You're imagining things.

Maybe. But after what had happened at the funeral, paranoia was creeping in.

I placed the glass down and reached for the nearest object—a kitchen knife. My fingers clenched around the handle as I stepped forward, my heart thudding.

Another creak.

I wasn't alone.

I took slow, measured steps toward the hallway. The lights flickered slightly, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

I wasn't crazy. Someone was inside the house.

I swallowed hard and turned the corner.

The hallway stretched before me—dark, silent. The door to the bedroom was slightly ajar.

I had left it closed.

My grip on the knife tightened as I reached for the switch, flicking it on. Light flooded the space.

Nothing.

The room was empty.

My breathing was uneven as I stepped inside, scanning every inch. The closet door stood open, revealing rows of neatly hung clothes. The curtains swayed slightly, as if touched by a breeze.

The window.

It was unlocked.

My stomach twisted.

Had it been that way before? Or had someone been here and left?

The rain outside blurred the view, but a single set of footprints in the mud outside caught my eye.

Someone had been here.

Watching.

Waiting.

I stumbled back, gripping the doorframe. This wasn't my imagination.

I wasn't just a widow. I was being hunted.

The note on my kitchen counter burned in my mind.

"It wasn't you."

If it wasn't me, then was it them?

The man at the funeral had given me a warning. What if this wasn't just about my husbands' deaths? What if I was next?

A cold sweat broke out on my skin.

I turned sharply, moving back to the living room. I needed answers.

I snatched up the note again, my fingers shaking. I read those three words over and over, as if they would reveal something deeper.

Whoever wrote this knew something. And I had a feeling that if I didn't find out soon…

I wouldn't live long enough to.

I needed to find that man.

I unfolded the note further, realizing something. There was more written on the back.

An address.

A meeting place.

A choice.

I exhaled sharply.

I could throw the note away. Ignore it. Try to move on with my life.

Or I could find out the truth.

A truth that might explain why I had lost four husbands. A truth that might explain why someone had just been inside my house.

My hands tightened around the note.

I already knew my decision.

I grabbed my coat, stepped into the storm, and disappeared into the night.