THE DEATH OF MOLLY MALONE

I’m Finally Ready To Tell The Haunting Story Behind My Wife’s Death

Molly Malone was the smartest, funniest, most beautiful girl that I’d ever met.

She was my every dream rolled into one – if I could have designed a woman, I couldn’t have done better than Molly. She had blonde hair that flowed down her back in a ramrod-straight waterfall. When I ran my fingers through it, the light reflected every shade of blonde known to man. She had huge blue eyes, so bright they might as well have been alive in their own right. She was tall, full-figured, graceful, and light.

The best part is that she was mine.

I first met Molly in my sophomore year at college. We shared a philosophy class together – I pretended to like it just to impress her. As soon as we graduated, I asked her to marry me, and she said yes without hesitation.

We were married June of the next year. I work in finance and have a pretty well-paying job, so we were able to afford rent on a nice little townhouse, with painted shutters and a fence, the whole nine yards. It made Molly happy. It made me happy.

For five short years, this was our life.

beetlejuice

There was one thing about Molly that I didn’t understand.

Molly didn’t much care for ink or piercings, but she did have one tattoo. A small one, and it was almost never visible. It was on her back, just a few inches below her neck. A tiny keyhole, no embellishments, no nothing.

I always wondered about it.

The first time I asked was a few weeks after we’d been dating. Molly usually wore high-collared shirts or scarves, so I hadn’t noticed it until that point. When I asked her why she got that tattoo, she seemed a little startled. Then her demeanor softened and she smiled at me.

“I’ll tell you about it one day. Just not today.”

Since we’d only just started dating, I decided not to push it – after all, she would tell me when she was ready. In fact, I mostly forgot about it. It wasn’t until I proposed to her that I dared ask again.

After she said yes, she’d practically jumped into my arms. I whispered my question into her ear as I swung her around under the lights of New York City. She stiffened a little as she pulled back to look at me.

“One day. I promise, one day I’ll tell you. Just not today.”

As the wedding drew near, my curiosity deepened. I decided that I would learn the truth on our wedding night.

As she pulled me to the bed that we would share, a little shy but excited all the same, I asked the question one more time.

This time, her eyes became a little wet, as though on the verge of spilling tears. She sighed and fit herself within my arms, pressing close to me as though for comfort.

“I know that you must be so curious. And now that we’re husband and wife, there should be no secrets between us. But, please, trust me now as you have trusted me these past few years. If you love me, then believe me: one day I’ll tell you. Just not today.”

From that moment on, I resolved never to ask again. I realized that it wasn’t important, one stupid little tattoo. I would wait for her to tell me of her own volition, and the results would be infinitely more satisfying.

I conveyed my love to her with my silence, and we basked in happiness.

beetlejuice

Just before our five-year anniversary, the relative stability of our life began to tremble when, one night, I touched Molly’s tattoo for the very first time.

We were lying in bed, and she’d already drifted off to sleep – she always fell asleep before me, but she compensated for it by getting up ridiculously early every morning. As I held her in my arms, enjoying the comfort of her soft warmth, my fingers trailed their way down past her neck.

I was surprised when I felt a hole situated between her shoulder blades. Alarm rang through my body and I almost roused her from sleep, until my fingers trailed along the edges and I realized…

It was the tattoo.

That was when I understood that it wasn’t a tattoo at all. Molly had an actual keyhole in her back.

beetlejuice

For three weeks, I didn’t say a word to Molly about my discovery. After all, she had promised to tell me when she was ready, and I trusted her.

But that didn’t stop me from… exploring.

Every night when she fell asleep, I would touch the hard edges of the keyhole, mapping the mystery with my fingers. I began paying more attention to her routine when she was awake. I noticed, for the first time, the way she made sure she was always awake before I was, even on the days she had off from work. I also noticed that she went to bed exactly fourteen hours after she woke up, each and every day, with absolutely no deviation.

My curiosity grew, and my patience began to wane.

One night after Molly was in bed, I committed the ultimate offence. In the darkness of our bedroom, I began to go through her things.

It was wrong of me, and I know that now – believe me, I do. But, at the time, I just… had to understand. Something was going on with my wife, and it was time for me to find out what.

I opened her drawer in the bathroom, but found nothing out of the ordinary. I went through her jewelry, her makeup, and still, nothing. Finally, I moved to the bedroom and started for her bedside table.

It was locked.

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