I Always Smelt Something Rotten In Our Garden, And One Midnight I Saw My Husband Burying Something There—The Truth Left Me In Tears

I always noticed a strange smell lingering in our garden. However, when I asked my husband and son, they both insisted they couldn’t smell anything. Things took an unsettling turn when I saw my husband burying something in the yard late at night. When the truth was revealed, I couldn’t hold back my tears.

We had just moved into a new house far from the bustling city center. The area was serene, with fresh air and peaceful surroundings, but something felt off to me. A strange, foul odor lingered in the garden, and I couldn’t shake the discomfort it caused.

At first, I tried convincing myself it was just the new soil or decaying plants, but the unsettling feeling wouldn’t leave me.

That evening, as the family gathered for dinner, I couldn’t hold it in any longer and asked my husband and son: “Do either of you smell something? There’s a really unpleasant odor coming from the garden, and it’s been there since yesterday.”

My husband looked up from his newspaper, frowning at me. “Smell what? I don’t smell anything.”
My son, glued to his phone game, shook his head. “Mom, you’re imagining things. It smells fine to me.”

I stared at the two of them, the odd feeling growing stronger. “No, it’s definitely there. It’s a strong, pungent smell… like something is decomposing.”

My husband chuckled, but there was a slight nervousness in his laughter. “Maybe you’re just stressed. Ever since we moved here, you’ve been overly sensitive. Stop worrying so much.”

“But I’m certain! Can you please check outside?” I insisted.

He sighed, set his newspaper down, and walked to the window. Opening it, he sniffed the air outside and turned back to me. “There’s nothing, see? You’re overthinking it.”

“No, I’m not imagining this. The smell is real…” I insisted, furrowing my brow as unease gnawed at me.
My husband sat back down, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he masked it with a gentle smile. “Have you taken your medication today?”

“No, I haven’t,” I admitted softly, caught off guard.
“Take it and rest a bit. Maybe you’re just overly tired,” he suggested, his words lightly dismissing my worries. I stayed silent, unwilling to argue further, but my anxiety remained.

That night, even as I lay in bed, the strange odor seemed to seep into every breath. Could my husband be right? Was I truly imagining things because of stress? Yet, the unease settled heavily in my chest like a seed of doubt waiting to sprout.

Later that night, I woke suddenly. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a faint flicker of light through the curtains. My heart began to race. I tiptoed to the window and carefully peeked outside.

In the garden, illuminated by a flashlight, my husband was crouched down, shovel in hand, carefully digging. I held my breath, unable to look away. What was he doing? He was holding something, then covering it with soil—as though burying a secret.

Unable to contain my curiosity and fear, I quickly threw on a jacket and stepped outside. My heart pounded as I called out, “What are you doing?”

Startled, he turned to face me, the flashlight casting harsh shadows on his face. A moment of silence hung in the air before he chuckled and tried to sound calm. “I’m planting something. I didn’t have time during the day.”

“Planting? Who plants anything at midnight?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

He shrugged, a faint, uneasy smile playing on his lips. “I just figured I’d do it now. Don’t worry; it’s nothing.”

His answer didn’t reassure me at all. I went back inside, but I couldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The image of him crouching in the dark, illuminated by his flashlight, played over and over in my mind.

The next day, as I was tidying up the house, the doorbell suddenly rang. When I went outside, a woman was standing at the gate.

“Has your family been doing something in the garden? I keep smelling something strange. It’s like something rotting!” she said, wrinkling her nose.

I froze, feeling the blood in my veins turn to ice. The unease I had tried to dismiss over the past few days came rushing back, stronger than ever. I wasn’t imagining things after all. That smell was real.

Trying to maintain my composure, I forced a smile and replied, “It’s probably just some animal that died in the garden. I’ll check on it.”

But inside, I was unraveling. My husband and my son—they were hiding something from me in that garden. The thought burrowed deeper and deeper into my mind, an incessant, suffocating whisper.

As soon as my husband left for work and my son went to school, I decided to uncover the truth myself. Grabbing a shovel from the shed, my hands trembled, but my resolve hardened. I walked to the corner of the garden where my husband had “planted something” the previous night, silently praying it was all a misunderstanding.

I drove the shovel into the ground, each thrust scattering dirt and weighing heavier on my chest. The first layer of soil came loose, then the second. Sweat began to drip down my forehead, blurring my vision.

Suddenly, the shovel hit something soft—something different. My hands froze, and my chest tightened as though it were being crushed. I knelt down, pushing the remaining dirt away with my hands. Then I saw it. Something pale, human-like, emerged from the earth. It was… a hand!

A scream tore from my throat, my body collapsing backward in shock. The world around me seemed to crumble. The ground spun beneath me, and my breaths came in shallow, panicked gasps. My eyes were glued to the horrifying sight in front of me.

In that moment, a torrent of thoughts flooded my mind, fragments of a nightmare with no end. Who was buried there? Why? What had my husband done? Or was my son involved? What was happening?

I stumbled back into the house, my hands trembling uncontrollably. My heart pounded erratically, threatening to burst from my chest. I tried to calm myself, but the terrifying possibilities kept rushing in. My hand reached for my phone, but I hesitated. Who should I call? The police? My husband? And if my husband knew, what would he do to me?

I sank into a chair, tears streaming down my face, realizing I wasn’t just facing a mystery—I was on the brink of uncovering a horrifying truth that could shatter everything I knew.

When my husband came home, he stepped through the door and immediately sensed that something was wrong. A suspicious glance swept over me, as if he were searching for answers in the tension etched on my face. “What were you doing in the garden?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. His hair was disheveled from a long day at work, but his eyes gleamed with alertness.

I felt as though the world around me was crumbling. My throat tightened, and words refused to escape. Each thought clawed its way up but got stuck in my chest. My hands trembled as I tried to calm myself, but I couldn’t.

“What… what did you bury out there?” I managed to stammer, attempting to mask the panic in my voice, though it still quivered uncontrollably.

He stood silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on me as if calculating what to say. After what felt like an eternity, he turned away and walked outside without a word. A strange sense of dread rose in me. I stood frozen, my gaze locked on the window, following his figure as it disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Before long, he returned, holding a dirt-covered shovel in one hand. But when he stepped inside, I noticed something else—an object in his other hand. It was a filthy skin-colored rubber glove, stained with soil and looking like it had been discarded after use. He held it up before me, his movements deliberate and unhurried.

The air felt heavy and still, as he spoke calmly: “Maybe this is what you noticed.”

I stared at the glove, its frayed threads visible, but I couldn’t shake the unease deep within me. I let out a breath of relief, but my heart continued to race erratically. It felt as though I had just emerged from a nightmare, and yet I wasn’t entirely free of it. I could only look up at him, trying to piece together what was truly happening.

My husband gazed at me, his eyes now devoid of their earlier hardness, replaced by unmistakable worry. He set the glove down on the table, approached me, and gently took my hands. “Have you taken your sedatives?” he asked softly. “You just got home from the hospital, maybe you were still tired and saw something unreal.”

His voice lowered, filled with concern, but it left me feeling as though I was being watched, trapped within an unrelenting cycle of unease.

He stepped away momentarily and returned with a small bottle of pills. Without a word, he opened the cap, retrieved one tablet, and handed it to me. “You need to relax,” he said. His tone wasn’t forceful, but his gaze carried an unspoken command I couldn’t resist.

I tilted my head back, swallowed the pill, and leaned into the chair. As the medication began to take effect, an unfamiliar sensation crept through my body. My mind grew foggy, a haze settling over my thoughts. It felt as though all my recent memories, the events that had unfolded, were becoming blurred and muddled.

A lingering sense of something unresolved flitted at the edges of my mind, but I couldn’t grasp it. It was like a lost key preventing me from unlocking the door to the past.

As I closed my eyes, the weight of my lids became unbearable. I could no longer hold onto my thoughts, and it seemed as though everything around me was fading away, leaving only a vague, quiet sense of emptiness, like the soft patter of rain outside the window.

The next day, as I was strolling along the road near our home, I suddenly noticed a small black cat wandering leisurely on the sidewalk. Its fur glistened under the sunlight, and I couldn’t resist the urge to approach and stroke the little creature. But before I could move closer, a motorcycle sped by, startling me.

In that fleeting moment, I saw the motorcycle nearly hit the cat. It felt like my heart stopped. A vivid but blurry image suddenly flashed through my mind—my beloved cat Kiki being hit by a car.

The pain felt too real, too familiar. I froze, a wave of panic rising within me. How could this be? It couldn’t possibly be… How could it be my Kiki? But an overwhelming urge pushed me forward, and I couldn’t hesitate any longer. I ran home without another thought.

I rushed into the garden, the place where I knew my husband had buried something the other night. Grabbing a shovel, I started digging deeper than I had the day before. Each scoop of earth I unearthed felt as heavy as the weight in my heart.

After a while, I felt something hard beneath the shovel. My heart nearly stopped. Digging a little more, I uncovered a small wooden box. On its lid was a family photo—me, my husband, and Kiki. The scene was heartbreakingly familiar, a snapshot of our family before everything changed.

My heart shattered. The overwhelming emotion made it hard to breathe. I clutched the photo to my chest as tears streamed down my face. Memories of Kiki and the joyful days we had spent together flooded my mind.

At that moment, everything became clear. I understood why my husband was always so protective, always so cautious. He wanted me to forget the pain of losing Kiki, to shield me from the sadness of the past. He had even moved us to a new house to help me leave those memories behind. But Kiki had remained here, in our little garden, close to us.

That evening, when my husband came home, I couldn’t hold back any longer. I approached him, held his hand, and spoke with a trembling voice, “I remember everything now. About what happened to Kiki.”

He looked at me, his eyes filled with concern and compassion. Then he quickly stepped forward and held me tightly.

“After that day, you were so shocked that you forgot all the memories of Kiki,” he began softly. “To keep you from reliving that pain, our son and I decided to move here and bury Kiki in the garden. I wanted Kiki to stay close, to always be with you and our family.”

His words brought a bittersweet sense of comfort. At that moment, I truly felt the depth of his love and sacrifice for me.

 

Together, we went to the garden where Kiki was buried. By the time we got there, our son had returned home as well. As a family, we stood before Kiki’s grave, the place where we had hidden so much grief and loss.

We stood there, hand in hand, saying our goodbyes to Kiki. My husband embraced me, my son leaned against me, and we all remained silent for a moment, sending our love to the little cat we had lost.

This story draws inspiration from real-life events and individuals, but it has been adapted and fictionalized for creative expression. Names, characters, and specific details have been altered to protect individuals’ privacy and to enhance the storyline. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, or actual events is coincidental and unintentional.