The Wife He Buried Alive

“Your visa will arrive by mail in three days, Ms. Donna. Please wait patiently.”

After being discharged from the hospital—with the visa process finally complete—Donna felt an unspoken pull, one that led her straight into a baby store.

She bought a stack of tiny, adorable outfits. Her hand drifted to the gentle curve of her stomach.

“Don’t be afraid, little one. This time, I’ll protect you. Even if it costs me my life.”

Just three more days. Three days, and she would leave this house forever.

Donna had barely pushed the front door open when a bucket of icy water crashed over her head. Christine stood watching, wiping her hands clean with a derisive snort.

“To wash the filth off you.”

It was the same welcome she’d received every day since Terry’s death. Shivering, Donna shook off the water and clutched the bag of clothes to her chest.

Nancy’s eyes widened in theatrical horror. She snatched the bag from Donna’s arms, tears springing up instantly.

“White clothes? You bought these on purpose? Are you trying to lay a death curse on my baby?”

That was all it took. Christine flew into a rage, seizing Donna’s jaw and forcing her mouth open to pour in a foul, stagnant liquid—her gaze so venomous it seemed to wish Donna dead on the spot.

“After Nancy here, kind soul that she is, went to the trouble of hiring a cleansing ritualist for this house! And you repay her with curses? Drink! Purge the corruption from your soul!”

“What a curse on this family, to have married a creature like you!”

The putrid, ammonia-sharp stench made Donna gag and thrash. In the struggle, her hand pressed hard against Nancy’s abdomen, shoving the woman to the floor.

Donna collapsed, retching onto the tiles. A heavy *thwack* landed across her still-tender surgical wound.

“You plague! Beat this plague to death! First you killed my son, now you’re cursing my husband! Do you want my grandchild dead too?”

Christine swung a wooden club, thick as a child’s arm, bringing it down again and again on Donna’s back. Four strikes, five—enough to stain her clothes dark with blood.

“I didn’t… those were for…” *For Terry…*

She never finished. The ritualist stepped forward, slowly tipping a bowl of steaming liquid over her fresh welts, murmuring an incantation.

“Begone, foul spirits. Begone.”

Where it touched her skin, blisters rose instantly with a searing, bone-deep burn. A scream—raw and ragged—tore from Donna’s throat.

This was no ritual potion. This was diluted sulfuric acid from Roger’s lab.

Her face was a deathly mask of pain, yet she didn’t flinch, her hands locked protectively over her belly.

The ordeal stretched on. It would later be tallied as ninety-nine blows and five bowls of that corrosive brew.

Only when Donna’s back was a raw, bleeding mess did Roger finally rush through the door. He caught his mother’s arm mid-swing, flung his suit jacket over Donna, and roared:

“Enough! Stop this!”

Nancy picked herself up from the floor, nursing a vivid red handprint on her cheek. Her tears fell in a pretty, practiced stream.

“Roger, don’t look at me like that! This *is* for her own good! Her womb’s been barren, and now she’s cursing my child…”

Roger’s face darkened at her words, but he gathered Donna’s barely-breathing form against him, his voice turning placating.

“Nancy meant well. She just chose the wrong method. As a lesson, we’ll delay that luxury bag she wanted. She can have it next month.”

A violent tremor ran through Donna. Pain and sobs choked her voice, and the sheer, breathtaking absurdity of it all washed over her.

“She forces piss down my throat, beats me bloody, throws acid on my wounds… and her punishment is a delayed shopping spree?”

Roger’s expression froze into ice.