Fell in Love with my Neighbor's Wife but something wrong with her (Real Life Story)

I fell in love with my neighbor’s wife, but I think there’s something wrong with her

I have never been a person who’s kept many close relationships. It’s never been my nature to let people into my life. I’ve always taken stock in being an observer, getting to know people from a distance. This trait is what led me to become so enmeshed in Monica’s life. 

Monica Stephens and her husband Dylan were my neighbors and my landlords at my new apartment. I had just moved to the city from my small town - mostly to find work, but it didn’t hurt that they were many more people watching opportunities here than at my previous residence. 

My apartment was not lavish by any stretch, but it was perfect for me. I lived on the top floor, a view of the rooftop garden from my kitchen. And my bedroom window was directly across from the Stephens kitchen window, as they lived just two doors down. Although I’d tried, I could never get a view of their bedroom, as their thick, blackout curtains were shut tightly at all hours.

For the first week after I moved in, I learned the Stephens routine. Each morning, Monica would already be at the kitchen table by the time I woke up at 6. She’d sit, her chin propped up against her palm, head buried in her book, and long blonde curls falling in front of her face. It was so cute. 

When Dylan got up, I could tell she stiffened at his presence. Immediately, he’d begin to berate her. I could see the spittle fly from his mouth as he slammed her book shut, grab his keys, and walk out the door. This was an almost daily occurrence. If he was not screaming in her face, he would sit across from her silently, eat a bowl of cereal, and disappear out the door. When he left, he would not come back again until dinner. I don’t know what he would do during the day, but I never cared to find out. He was probably cheating on Monica, that pig. Plus, if I followed him, it would be less time I could spend with my beautiful girl.

Hour after hour, Monica would sit at that kitchen table, unmoving. Poor thing was paralyzed with fear. I hadn’t known her that long, but I knew I could never let her stay with this asshole. 

When Dylan got home, he walk in and pick her up from her chair and take her to the bedroom. I could her his insincere apologies, just saying sorry in hopes he’d get laid. They come out an hour later, him placing her back into her wheelchair. I’d watch Monica sit with her back to my window while her “doting” husband cooked dinner. He cooked in seeming silence, not speaking to her or even acknowledging her presence. 

It baffled me how that troll could treat a woman of that caliber with such carelessness. Although I could never get a clear view of her face, I could tell she was beautiful, shy, and that he didn’t love her like I did. He was so controlling, his wife never left the apartment complex, let alone feel safe enough to even move from the kitchen table during the day. The only time she could come out was Saturday morning, when would I see her on the rooftop garden. 

I knew she wanted me to save her. 

After observing their routine for around 2 weeks at that point, I could pinpoint exactly when I could corner Dylan. 

The morning I planned to confront him, there was a change in the usual routine. While Dylan was in the middle of his screaming session, he struck the back of Monica’s head. This sent her forehead slamming down onto their wooden kitchen table. Let me tell you, this set me off. 

The rest of the routine remained unchanged as at 7:00 AM exactly he would leave their apartment and head for the elevator. Following him, I left at 7:01 so I could catch the elevator right before it closed, wanting to seem nonchalant. 

I smiled when I walked into the elevator and introduced myself, stating that I was sorry for not formally introducing myself since moving in. I hadn’t interacted with him directly when I had signed the lease, just his property manager.

He gave me the side eye, so I confidently stuck out my hand to shake his. He grabbed it finally, his tarnished silver wedding ring cold on my hand, and said “Yeah, I’m the landlord, Dylan”. 

I told him I had noticed his wife’s affinity for gardening, and asked if she’d like some company next time. I know, a little early to get to talking about Monica, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t spend any more time exchanging pleasantries with this asshole either. 

That’s when something strange happened. He turned to me and grabbed my forearm, squeezing so tight that it was painful. He shoved me forcibly against the elevator wall and said, “Listen bitch, I know you’ve been stalking my wife. She wants you to leave her alone.”

The elevator door dinged and opened. He let go of my arm and walked straight out without another word. Straight through the complex doors to his car and drove off. I stood shocked, what the hell was that? 

But I had gotten what I came for, and that was all that mattered. That whole “leave her alone” was such an obvious lie. It confirmed to me that she needed my help. Dylan was becoming more unhinged by the day, and this episode in the elevator was proof. 

I went straight back up to my apartment, already thinking of what I was going to do on Saturday morning when she got to that garden. It was already Friday evening by the time Dylan got back from his daily escapades. 

I dreamed of her that night. About finally turning her around, seeing that gorgeous face that was no longer hiding from Dylan. Professing my love, and running away together. We’d get a cottage so she could garden but live near the city so we could people watch together. We’d both be free and happy. 

Saturday morning came, and I woke up early to prepare my things. 

When Dylan woke up, he went immediately to find Monica in the kitchen. He lit into her first thing. It was too muffled to hear exactly what he was saying, but loud enough that I could hear through their closed window. I could see her distress, she couldn’t even lift her head to defend herself. This poor, beaten down woman was counting on me. But it wasn’t too much longer now. 

Dylan forcefully grabbed her wheelchair and wheeled her out of the apartment, heading for the roof. I watched as he dumped her there screaming a final time, saying “you can just rot out here, I don’t even care anymore.”

Dylan disgusted me. I wished I could rush up there and take her away right then. However, I knew I had to wait for Dylan to depart if I wanted to avoid a confrontation. Half an hour later, I approached the elevator so that I could reach the rooftop garden. As the elevator rose, I took a deep breath. Was I going to do this? Confess my love to this married woman and propose that we run away from her abusive husband together? 

I guessed so, because a moment later, I was stepping out from the elevator and into the small hallway that ended with the final obstacle between me and my love. As I approached the door that led on top the roof, I felt the hot summer air begin to seeping in. I turned the knob and stepped onto the bright roof. 

There she was. Monica. That silky blonde hair was instantly recognizable. It had fallen and covered her face slightly so that she couldn’t quite see me approach. 

I walked over slowly as I didn’t want to startle her, but then my emotions took over. I grabbed her shoulder, spun her around and closed my eyes right before I professed my love. 

But I got no response. I mean, nothing. Not a “screw you”, not an “I love you too”. Silence. 

I opened my eyes, expecting to meet the eyes of a beautiful woman. Instead, I gagged.

She had no eyes. They were gone. 

No eyebrows either. They were replaced with thick, black stitches that held her eyelids together. Her eyes were completely sewn shut. 

My eyes traveled down to her nose. She had a maggot hanging out of her right nostril, and it turned to crawl into her left one. She was a repulsing pale color with burst veins littering her skin.

Then down to her mouth. It was sewn as well, and her lips were gone, ripped off her face. Her mouth was sewn into a line, no smile, no frown. Completely straight and emotionless. 

Beyond that, her legs were completely gone. I was expecting her to have been intact. I mean, I knew she was in a wheelchair but her legs looked like they had been sawed off. They were jaggedly rotting, not being cauterized of anything.

I couldn’t look anymore. I ran to the hallway leading back to the elevator, vomiting once I had gotten the door shut behind me. I ran to my apartment where I deadbolted the door behind me and sunk down into a fetal position, sobbing. 

I felt indescribable loss and anger, what had he done to my beautiful future wife? He mutilated her. And he thought I was going to let him get away with this? 

I had no weapons beside a massive hammer from an old toolbox I had under my sink. I stalked my way to the Stephens apartment, and broke the door knob off with the hammer. Kicking the door in, I wanted to avenge my love. 

The apartment had an atmosphere so grotesque, so depraved, so much more disturbing than I could have ever imagined. I walked into the door and smelt rotting flesh seeping from the walls. The only light came from the singular kitchen window. The one I had stared into so many time, the one I had never imagined would hold this horror lurking in the spots I couldn’t see. 

Right by the window, just out of the view I could see from my apartment, was a meat hook. And there in the dim apartment, hung Monica’s left leg.

 He was going to eat her leg. 

I nearly puked on the kitchen table. I couldn't bring myself to leave though. No matter how much my brain said to run, my feet kept taking me further into the apartment. 

I entered their bedroom. Dried blood splatter stained the walls and floors. It looked fairly faded. How long ago had he killed her? I knew it hadn’t been long, but I believe that the whole time I had been living in this apartment, she had been dead. 

I gazed into my apartment window as I re-entered the kitchen, imagining how untainted my mind had been just hours ago. 

I began to panic. I wanted to call the police. I had impenetrable evidence against Dylan. Not only was Monica slumped over on the roof, but his apartment was a striking, and completely incriminating crime scene. 

Before I attempted to get help, I knew I had to get Monica somewhere safe. 

I started my way out of the kitchen, making my way back to the front door. But then a voice rang out from just outside the front door.  

“What the hell?”, Dylan yelled. He broke the routine. 

I had no chance of running. I ducked back into the bedroom and slid quietly into the attached bathroom. 

I could hear his thudding footsteps grow closer and closer as he threatened, “I have a gun! Whatever creep is in here, I have a gun!”

It was time for me to avenge Monica. I heard him enter the bedroom. I gripped the hammer in my hand, charged out of the bathroom, and swung. 

I hit him directly in the left temple. He screamed, contorting with pain. I dropped the hammer and fled back to my apartment, adrenaline carrying me the whole way there. All I could focus on was getting his blood off me. 

When the police searched the apartment, they were in shock at the scene. It wasn’t me that called them, but another tenant down the hall. 

By the time I was finished washing myself and disposing of my bloodied clothes, Monica had been found by police. Coroners came and wrapped up her frail body. They lifted her up and she was gone, I didn’t even get to say goodbye. 

Two days later, I went to her closed casket funeral. It was a fairly publicized affair, being how brutally tortured she had been. I stood in the back and after the burial, I left. My car packed with everything I owned, I left the city. 

I still dream of her, of dancing in the kitchen, of how our lives could have been, of her beautiful sewn face. 

Monica, you’re going to love my new place. It’s the cottage we’ve always wanted. I can’t wait to pick you up soon. See you then.

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