It seemed to be the darkest and most sinister winter of my life, I had been spending quality time, getting to know my wife.  The year had been normal, and the summer quite hot, but this day, this day long before the buds of May, it was not.  Money was no issue for me, I have worked long and hard, rich I was not, but my wife is my love.  We had heard nothing from the neighbors in recent days; this was not a concern for me.  I soon heard a knock on my studies door.  It seemed ominous and low, as if knocking on the low gates to the Champion’s Hall.  “I bid you enter.” I said to what I would expect to be my wife.  She came only to retrieve me for supper.  I heard as she entered. “Is something wrong Mary?”  The response was with confidence and assurance that everything would be well soon.
For the remainder of the week I found nothing strange or out of place.  We had still been unable to go out in the weather, but it was no issue, and suspected the storms would be over soon.  I am oh so pleased to have my wife and my fortunes.  I appeared upstairs and proceeded to look around for Mary.  She was neither upstairs, nor downstairs and I promise I looked thoroughly with a sane and calm eye.  I found nothing of it in the loft; in fact, I saw no signs of it anywhere.
I calmly walked outside into the storm, looking for her as I went from door to door, telling people my wife was missing.  I kept my wits about me, and remained in many houses to calm the crying receivers of news.  I told them she was in a better place, and that she was definitely safe now.  Later that night, I was surprised to hear the police knocking on the door.  I ran up from the cellar, closing and locking the heavy door behind me, as I greeted the police officers.  They met me with a kind greeting and words of sympathy and requested to search the house.  I reluctantly agreed to allow them to search my premise.  As they went up the stairs they noted a struggle that led to the master bedroom.  One of them questioned, “You were home all day, correct?” I bid them yes and told them of recent events.  For many days before the storm, I had stayed home to treat my Ill woman, getting her rest and wellness.  I reminded them I had no guests of any kind.
They then explored the main room, and the kitchen.  They noted that there was no food on the shelves, dried oats and stale bread.  “Is your wife a cook?” “No!” I said, I told them what my wife did for a living, sit around and relax.  “I would never make my wife work.”  In the main room, they noted a lack of paintings of either of us, and asked what my wife looked like.  I described her as detailed as I could, but they seemed dissatisfied.
We traveled to the basement; they noticed some things they found odd. They said, “Does your wife use this room?”  I told them yes, and they remarked about the excess of paintings of her in the basement.  “Are you an artist?” I once again told them yes, as they examined the paintings.  The first ones were pictures of a smiling young girl, then of a beautiful woman, as they looked farther and farther down the line of paintings they saw them get more sinister.  The thing began to look unhappier and unhappier.  They spent a lot of time staring at one of my favorites, the first one with her eyes closed.  They noticed the slow transition of rotting flesh revealing a skeleton.  The latest one was still drying; a bare skeleton with rats running through the ribcage.  Their shocked faces told me they knew something.  They asked for the key to the cellar… I no longer was sure of what to do.
They slammed the door shut and cuffed me, from behind the door, I heard a faint moan.  “The Hangman Awaits.”