Thomas always smiled at the wrong moments.
At the grocery store, when a jar shattered and a woman gasped, Thomas smiled. At funerals on the evening news, when faces collapsed into grief, his lips curved gently upward. People noticed, but they never said anything. After all, Thomas was polite. Soft-spoken. Married.
Alina used to tell herself that everyone had quirks.
They lived in a narrow house at the end of Birch Lane, where the trees grew too close together and blocked the sun. Thomas liked it that way. "Privacy," he'd say, locking the door with a careful, loving click. Alina worked late at the hospital, and Thomas stayed home, cooking dinner, cleaning stains she never remembered making.
Sometimes she noticed the smell first—metallic, sharp—lingering beneath the garlic and herbs. Thomas would kiss her cheek and ask about her day, his hands warm, steady.
"You're trembling," he'd whisper.
"I'm just tired," she'd reply, because tiredness was easier than fear.
At night, Thomas would stand at the foot of the bed, watching her breathe. He liked counting. Inhale. Exhale. Alive things had rhythm. Dead things did not. That difference fascinated him.
Alina began finding small things out of place. A coat she'd never seen hanging in the closet. Mud on the bathroom tiles though it hadn't rained. Once, she found a ring in the kitchen drawer—too small to be hers.
"Thomas?" she asked, holding it up.
He didn't look surprised. "People leave things behind," he said calmly. "You'd be amazed what gets forgotten."
The news started talking about missing women. Different neighborhoods. Different ages. But always near Birch Lane. Alina stopped watching after she noticed Thomas tilting his head, listening as if the anchor were speaking directly to him.
One night, the power went out.
The house filled with shadows, thick and breathing. Alina reached for her phone, but Thomas's hand closed around her wrist.
"Don't," he said softly. "I don't like interruptions."
The basement door was open. She was sure it had been closed before.
Down there, the air was cold and sweet with rot. Plastic sheets lined the walls. Hooks gleamed. Photographs were pinned neatly in rows—faces smiling, crying, begging. Some wore the same ring she'd found.
Alina's knees buckled.
"I married you," she whispered.
Thomas knelt in front of her, eyes bright with something like devotion. "That's why you're special," he said. "You get to know me."
Sirens wailed somewhere far away. Or maybe they were only in her head.
Thomas tilted his head and smiled again—wide this time, unhidden.
My darling, you are safe with me always safe.
"Thomas said ,as he pecked her cheeck"