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Shadows of the Backwaters
That old estate by the backwaters has been my prison for a long time now. My wife, Devika, and I bought it to step away from the chaos of the city and build a quiet life together. As an architect, the traditional woodwork and serene surroundings felt like a dream.
That happiness was short-lived. Devika’s work as a medical representative kept her away for long stretches, and subtle shifts in her behavior planted the seeds of doubt in my mind. The turning point came on a rainy afternoon when she left her tablet on the desk. A sudden notification flashed across the screen, revealing a short video—a painful, undeniable record of her betrayal with a close acquaintance.
In that fraction of a second, years of trust evaporated into an unmanageable rage. The world turned crimson around me. When she stepped out to ask what was wrong, I lost all control. A violent argument ensued, and in a blind fit of fury, I shoved her backward. She struck her head against the stone pillar along the veranda, collapsing instantly into a pool of blood. My own hands had ended her life.
Panicked, I buried her body under the thick brush near the edge of the backwaters, ensuring no one would ever know. I told her family she had packed up and left after an argument, and eventually, the world stopped asking questions.
But hiding the crime did not bring peace.
Three months later, the hauntings began. On cold, stormy nights, she would appear at the foot of my bed. Drenched in river mud, her pale frame contorted, and her wide, unblinking eyes locked onto mine with an overwhelming aura of madness and vengeance. Sleep became impossible. The guilt and fear broke my mind, piece by piece.
Realizing I could never escape her gaze, I decided to give her the resolution she sought. On a dark, moonless night, as her terrifying figure stood at the top of the stairwell pointing downward, I took a breath and threw myself headfirst down the stone steps.
Death, however, did not come quickly.
The fall shattered my spine, rendering me completely paralyzed on the cold floor. Unable to move, speak, or call for help, I lay there for days as my body slowly gave out. Every single night, her silent, crouching figure would descend the stairs to watch over my agonizing decline. The retribution for what I had done proved far more horrifying than death itself.