Many years have passed, yet the memory lingers in the shadows of my mind. There once lived a woman named Beatrice, who had long harboured suspicions about her husbands faithfulness. The excuse of late-night meetings, those endless weekend trips to pick up parts for the shop, the faintest trace of perfume not her ownall of it etched itself deeper with each passing day. Patient though she was, quietly watching each oddity unfold, there came a moment when silence was no longer bearable. Thus, in a moment both brave and desperate, she hired a private detective named Edward who promised a thorough investigation within mere daysa promise he kept with unnerving haste.
That very morning, Beatrice received a message: a terse address, nestled in the woods beyond the edges of Reading. No explanation, no warning. Go at once. You must witness it for yourself, Edward wrote.
The drive dragged onwards, the citys comforting lights shrinking in her rear-view mirror as winding country lanes grew lonelier and more twisty. Her heart thudded so loudly within her ribcage, she feared it might betray her. The map led her to an old forestry road bordered by silent oaks and drooping willows. She expected, perhaps, a cottage, some abandoned motorcara scene of shame among bluebells and foxglove.
Instead, an ancient red-bricked barn loomed through the mist, its corpse almost hidden amongst the trees. There were no other vehicles, no signs of life but her own trembling breath winding into the chill. Anxiety washed over her in undulating wavesfear twined with a sorrow she could taste at the back of her throat.
She stepped out, mobile in hand, ready to ring Edward or the local constables at a moments notice if need be. The barn door hung slightly ajar, as if someone had slipped inside not long ago. Its hinges groaned when she pushed it wider, the sound echoing warnings through the hollow structure. Within, the air smelt musty, thick with decay and iron.
Treading gingerly across broken bricks and discarded rubbish, she spotted something odd in the shadowsa wooden hatch in the far corner, neatly out of place. She touched its edge; surprisingly, it slid open with a hush.
Behind it, a cramped, dim-lit room appeared. There, atop a filthy mattress, a thin, pale figure sat shackled. Hollow eyes drifted up to meet Beatrice, moving with the weariness of one who has wept every day for far too long.
You youre his wife? the woman whispered, voice hoarse but tinged with wonder and warning. He said youd never find out.
Beatrices own reply cracked. Who said that?
The woman looked away, tears silently carving new tracks across her cheeks. Your husband. Hes kept me here for months. Said I was just until he found a replacement.
Only then did Beatrice notice a metal tray resting near the mattressa bowl of soup still steaming faintly in the gloom. Someone had been here not long before her arrival.
Suddenly, the noise of approaching boots broke the suffocating stillness. Through the open door flooded the lantern lights of the local constablescalled by Edward, the detective, at the final moment. The horror of truth rushed in alongside them, leaving Beatrice frozen at the threshold of the life she thought she knew, and the darkness concealed within its very heart.
