She had died in a car accident. I had come late to the scene and saw her body twisted up in the wreckage. That was not how I wanted to remember my wife.
Time passed and the pain subsided, not entirely, but enough to go back to living.
“You should really move out of the that house,” a friend said over beers some months later. “Too many memories in that place for a widower.”
I should have taken his advice.
A week later the leak started: a drip from above the stairwell. I called plumber after plumber but to no avail. No amount of caulking or tearing up the walls seemed to be able to find its source.
I heard that infernal drip of the leak in my sleep. I tossed and turned awaiting its next diabolical drop.
Another sleepless night and I could take no more; I was going to fix it once and for all. I arose from my bed and ran to the stairwell with my flashlight, ready to tear out all the piping if I had to, just to silence that damned leak.
I stopped and saw the liquid collecting into drops above the stairwell was now thick and red. Entangled within the pipes in the open wall was the distorted bloody corpse of my late wife. I screamed; blood spattered.
I awoke in a cold sweat the next morning, to find the wall above the landing as it had been before.
I moved out the next day and slept soundly for the first time in months. I left that house and all of the past in it behind me.