A Neighbor’s Daily Ritual Hid a Terrible Secret
Something about my neighbor’s routine didn’t sit right with me. Every single morning at 6:30, she’d step into her yard carrying a yellow garden hose. Without fail, she’d spend several minutes watering one small section of dirt near the fence—the same spot, every time.
What made it strange was that the rest of her garden was flourishing. Tomatoes, cucumbers, strawberries—all thriving, yet barely getting any attention. Meanwhile, this one patch got drenched daily, and absolutely nothing grew there. Just dark, muddy soil.
I figured maybe she’d planted something temperamental, something that needed extra care. But days turned into weeks, and that spot stayed barren.
Finally, curiosity got the better of me. I caught her one morning and asked as casually as I could, “What are you growing over there?”
Her reaction caught me off guard. She jerked back slightly, hands trembling as she fumbled with the hose. “Oh, just… potatoes. A rare kind,” she stammered, eyes fixed on the ground.
Potatoes that need that much water? Daily? I knew she wasn’t telling the truth, but pushing further felt wrong. So I backed off and just started paying closer attention.
As more days passed, the soil remained empty, and she became visibly on edge—snapping at people, looking over her shoulder. I caught her staring at me through her window more than once, like she could sense my suspicion.
That night, I lay awake turning it over in my mind. Something felt deeply wrong. By morning, I’d made up my mind and called the police. They seemed skeptical—it sounded paranoid even to me—but they agreed to take a look.
What they uncovered left everyone speechless.
When the officers arrived, the color drained from her face. She rambled nervously about habits and caring for plants, her explanations growing more incoherent with each word.
One officer approached the damp patch and began digging. Within minutes, his shovel struck something solid. As they cleared away the mud, my stomach dropped.
A pale hand emerged from the earth.
The investigation revealed the horrifying truth: it was her husband, reported missing months earlier. During a heated argument, she’d killed him and buried his body in the backyard, convinced no one would suspect a thing.
She’d tried planting seeds over the grave to maintain appearances, but her constant, frantic watering drowned them before they could sprout. The bare patch of soil became her undoing.
Sometimes I wonder—if she’d just watered her whole garden normally, would anyone have ever known?