Eleanor gazed out the rain-streaked window of the old cottage, the world outside a blurred watercolor of grays and greens. The forest loomed dense and unyielding, swallowing the driveway whole, as if the house existed in its own pocket of isolation. She turned to Tom, slumped in his worn armchair by the fireplace, his eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. ‘Another storm,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him. ‘They come more frequently now.’
Tom didn’t respond at first. His hands, gnarled like the roots outside, rested limp on the armrests. Finally, a faint smile tugged at his lips. ‘Storms pass, Ellie. They always do.’ His voice was a whisper, dry as autumn leaves.
She nodded, though unease stirred in her gut. Tom had always been the steady one, the anchor in their thirty years of marriage. They had chosen this place after retirement, seeking quiet amid the woods. But lately, his words felt… off. Slanted, like memories viewed through warped glass. Last night, he had spoken of their honeymoon in Paris, but she remembered Venice. Or did she? The details blurred when she tried to pin them down.
Eleanor busied herself in the kitchen, the routine a balm against the creeping doubt. She prepared tea, the kettle’s whistle a shrill counterpoint to the thunder. As steam rose, a flash came unbidden: Tom laughing on a sunlit beach, their daughter Sarah building sandcastles. Sarah. The name ached. Lost to leukemia ten years ago. Or was it twelve? Eleanor shook her head, pouring the tea with trembling hands.
‘Thanks, love,’ Tom said as she handed him the cup. His fingers brushed hers, cool and unresponsive. She frowned but said nothing, settling into the chair opposite. They sipped in silence, the fire crackling softly.
That evening, as the rain eased to a drizzle, Eleanor rummaged through the attic for old albums. The stairs creaked underfoot, dust motes dancing in the beam from her flashlight. Boxes of forgotten life: letters yellowed with age, toys Sarah once cherished. She found the photo album, its leather cover cracked.
Flipping pages, joy and sorrow mingled. There they were—young, vibrant, arms entwined at a Christmas party. But wait. In this shot, Tom wore a red tie, not blue. She remembered blue. And Sarah’s first birthday: the cake was chocolate, not vanilla. Her heart quickened. Had she misremembered? Or had Tom changed the photos?
Downstairs, Tom slept—or so she thought. ‘Tom?’ she called softly. No answer. Unease bloomed into quiet dread. She had noticed other things: the calendar stuck on last month, clocks that ticked backward. The power outages that lasted hours, plunging them into darkness where whispers seemed to echo from the walls.
Days blurred into one another, marked only by the rhythm of care. Eleanor helped Tom to bed each night, his weight heavier, steps faltering. ‘Remember our wedding?’ he asked one twilight, eyes distant. ‘The roses were white.’
‘Pink,’ she corrected gently. ‘Pale pink, like dawn.’
He chuckled, a sound like rustling paper. ‘You’re always rewriting history, Ellie.’
The words stung. Rewriting? No, she held the truths close, cherished them against time’s erosion. Yet doubt gnawed. That night, sleep evaded her. She lay beside him, listening to his breath—or was it the wind? In the dark, shapes shifted at the periphery: Sarah’s silhouette in the doorway, gone when she blinked.
Morning brought clarity, or so she hoped. She drove to town—or tried. The car sputtered, battery dead again. Walking the mile to the general store felt eternal, mud sucking at her boots. Mrs. Hargrove behind the counter eyed her strangely. ‘Eleanor, you look peaky. Tom’s not getting worse, is he?’
‘He’s… managing.’ Eleanor bought batteries, canned soup, avoided the pitying gaze. On the way back, thunder rumbled anew. Paranoia whispered: What if Tom had tampered with the car? Silly thought. He could barely stand.
Back home, she found the back door ajar. Heart pounding, she entered cautiously. ‘Tom?’ The house was still, fire dead. In the bedroom, the dresser drawer hung open, papers scattered. She rifled through: bills unpaid for months, doctor’s notes in Tom’s shaky hand. ‘Patient exhibits signs of early dementia. Caregiver vigilant but stressed.’ Caregiver? She was his wife.
Deeper in, a diary. Hers? The handwriting matched, looping elegantly. Entries from years ago: ‘Tom’s anger frightens me. Last night he grabbed my wrist, eyes wild. Sarah cried.’ No. That wasn’t right. Tom was gentle. She slammed it shut, pulse racing.
‘Throwing things out, Ellie?’ Tom’s voice from the hall, frail but accusatory.
She whirled. ‘This diary—it’s lies!’
He shuffled closer, face ashen. ‘Memories are tricky beasts. What if yours are the lies?’
The room spun. She retreated to the kitchen, diary clutched like a talisman. Pages fell open: ‘I can’t take it anymore. The voices in my head… Tom’s face twists into something monstrous.’ Her breath hitched. Forgery. It had to be.
Nights worsened. Shadows lengthened, murmuring Sarah’s name. Tom grew distant, repeating phrases: ‘You did this. You always do.’ Isolation pressed, phone lines dead in storms, no neighbors close. Eleanor questioned everything. Was the cottage always this decayed? Paint peeling like skin, floorboards soft with rot.
One dawn, desperate, she confronted the mirror. Her reflection stared back, eyes hollow, hair streaked more gray than remembered. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
Tom called from the living room. ‘Ellie? Help.’
She found him on the floor, cup shattered beside him. Kneeling, she touched his cheek—cold. Too cold. Pulse? Nothing. Panic surged. ‘Tom! Wake up!’ But his eyes, open and glassy, stared past her.
Memories crashed like waves. Not gentle Tom. Arguments escalating, her screams, his pleas. Sarah’s funeral—had she been there? The diary’s words ignited: ‘Tonight, I pushed him. Down the stairs. The crack of his skull…’
No. She staggered back. The attic stairs. That night of rage, accusations flying—Tom’s affair, lies. She had shoved him, watched him tumble, head striking stone.
But then? She had dressed the body, propped it in the chair, talked to it for years. The ‘care’ was ritual, memories woven to deny the truth. Sarah? Dead by her hand too, in a drunken fury long before. The cottage her prison, self-imposed, mind fracturing to hide the murders.
The whispers were her own guilt, shadows her victims’ echoes. Town trips? Hallucinations, Mrs. Hargrove a figment. The isolation complete, self-made.
Eleanor—no, murderer—sank beside the chair, Tom’s corpse unchanging. ‘Forgive me,’ she wept, but knew no forgiveness came. The rain resumed, washing nothing clean. In the end, truth shattered illusion, leaving only the quiet horror of what she had always been.