I told myself my husband was probably fixing something, maybe the car, or he’d found a new hobby to keep himself busy. But night after night, his behavior grew stranger.

Once the children went to bed, he would silently rise from the dinner table, take his flashlight, and disappear outside. He never said where he was going. Hours later, he’d return — exhausted, pale, his hands trembling slightly, and there were those same reddish stains on his sleeves.

When I asked him what he was doing, he gave the same answer every time:
— Working. Don’t ask.
And one night, when I pressed him harder, he glared at me and said quietly but sharply:
— It’s none of your business.

Those words cut deeper than any knife. He wasn’t the same man I’d married. It felt as though a stranger had taken his place — someone cold, secretive, and dangerous.

One afternoon, when he was at work, I decided I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to know. I took the garage keys, stepped outside, and stopped in front of the rusted metal doors. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it echoing in my ears. I turned the key, and the door opened with a groan.

Inside, the air was thick — damp, metallic, almost suffocating. It smelled of rust, chemicals, and something else… something worse. I switched on the light, and my stomach dropped.

On the workbench lay a collection of tools — saws, scalpels, syringes, glass jars filled with a dark, syrupy liquid. At first, I thought it was oil. Then I saw the dried splatters on the floor and realized… it was blood.

I staggered back, my breath caught in my throat. On the wall hung dozens of photographs — faces of men, women, children. Under each photo was a handwritten note: “Finished,” “Next phase,” “Almost perfect.”
My hands were shaking when I picked up a notebook from the table. The pages were filled with cramped handwriting, the ink smudged in places. At first, it seemed ordinary — lists of materials, chemicals, measurements. But then the entries changed:
“The subject moved again.”
“The tissue is resisting.”
“The screams are unbearable, but I’m getting closer.”

I dropped the notebook as the sound of footsteps echoed behind me.
— What are you doing here?

I froze. His voice. I turned, and there he was — standing in the doorway, a long, thin knife glinting in his hand. His face was blank, expressionless, but his eyes… they were hollow.
— You weren’t supposed to see this, — he whispered. — Just a few more nights, and it would have been complete.

— Complete? What are you talking about? — I stammered.

He smiled faintly.
— I’m fixing what death destroyed. I’m giving them life again. Perfect, eternal life.

I shook my head, stepping back, and that’s when I noticed a white sheet draped over something in the corner. My stomach twisted. I grabbed the edge of the fabric and pulled it away — and screamed.

It was a woman. Her skin was pale, her eyes closed, her hair neatly brushed — she looked asleep, peaceful. Too peaceful. And I recognized her. It was our neighbor — the one who’d gone missing a month ago.

— Isn’t she beautiful? — he murmured softly behind me. — No more pain. No more decay. You’ll be next.

That was the moment I ran. I grabbed the nearest tool — a wrench, maybe — and swung it with all my strength. He fell back, and I bolted out of the garage, barefoot, into the freezing night.

By the time the police arrived, the garage was empty. The body was gone. The photos were gone. The notebook — gone. All that remained was the thick smell of iron and a few dark stains on the concrete.

They never found him.

It’s been six months. I moved away with the children, tried to start over, tried to forget. But some nights, right around midnight, I still hear it — that faint metallic sound coming from somewhere outside.

And in the morning, when I open the curtains, there’s always a handprint on the window.

That’s when I know he’s out there. Watching. Waiting.
And one day, he’ll come back to finish what he started.