My wife is a serial killer

My wife, Wendy, killed herself last month. I can’t say I’m sad about it. The last time she did it, she almost took our baby girl Isabella with her, and I was done after that. I guess I should explain - my wife died four times between 1986 and 2004, and each time she came back. She was a reanimator, and she had a gift. By reanimator, I mean exactly that - my wife was able to bring the dead back to life, just like in the movies. It was a beautiful thing to watch, and also a terrible one, because death doesn’t want to give up its secrets easily. We met at a hospice in Oregon. I was working as a chaplain, and my wife had just started working as a nurse. She was beautiful, shy, and incredibly talented. I was immediately drawn to her, but I had my doubts about dating a coworker. We were both in our mid-twenties, totally infatuated with each other, and isolation only made it worse. We bonded over death, and in a way, that’s what killed us. We were so busy trying to undo it that neither of us thought about the consequences. We were young and foolish, and we thought we could cheat fate and win. It started after a patient died. I was still in the room with her, praying, when Wendy came over and touched her forehead. The woman jerked, once, twice, and then sat up and started coughing. She was confused, disoriented, and scared, but she was alive. After that, we couldn’t stay away from each other. We spent every spare moment practicing, experimenting, testing the limits of Wendy’s gift. We could make the dead walk, talk, live, and remember. It was beautiful, in a way. We did it for the first time at home three months after we’d met. Wendy was crying, shaking, and praying. I was holding my mom’s head in my lap, telling her everything I’d never had the chance to say before. She’d died when I was a teenager, and her absence had shaken me, changed me, made me the person I was today. I watched in awe as her eyes fluttered open and she smiled up at me. It felt like a dream, a miracle, a sign that God was with us, guiding us, helping us. My mom didn’t remember much at first, but slowly, things came back to her. She was confused, disoriented, and scared, but after a while, she seemed like her old self. She was actually better, in a way, because she had no memory of the times I’d let her down. She didn’t remember the day I’d skipped her birthday because I didn’t want to buy her a cake, and she didn’t remember the time I’d told her to fuck off when she wouldn’t let me borrow the car. She was my mom again, and I had my second chance. Over the next few months, we brought a lot of people back. Some of them were my family, and some of them were Wendy’s. Some of them were totally random, strangers whose bodies we’d taken from the morgue, and some of them were historical figures that we’d dug up because we were curious. We brought back Thomas Edison and Vincent van Gogh, Cleopatra and Alexander the Great, my grandpa and Wendy’s mom. At first, it was fun. We were living in a dream world, a fairy tale, a fantasy. We had second chances, reunions, and endless possibilities. But the dead don’t come back right. It’s not like the movies, where they’re okay, only a little bit confused. In reality, they come back twisted, angry, violent. They come back wrong. Thomas Edison didn’t want to talk science and invention. He wanted to set fires, hurt animals, and listen to people scream. Vincent van Gogh didn’t want to paint beautiful landscapes. He wanted to kill people, cut off their ears, and mail them to their families. Cleopatra didn’t want to be a queen. She wanted to shoot heroin, fuck strangers, and die again. And Alexander the Great... he just wanted to die. We couldn’t kill them, either. They were immortal - or, at least, they wouldn’t stay dead. So we locked them up, fed them, and tried to help them. But in the end, we couldn’t fix them. We couldn’t fix any of them. Even my mom. I don’t know what triggered it, but one day, she snapped. She started screaming and throwing things, cutting herself and scratching at her face. She couldn’t remember anything, didn’t know who I was or where she lived, and didn’t want to be helped. She just wanted to die. I watched my mom die three more times after that. She strangled herself, cut her wrists, and threw herself in front of a train. We couldn’t save her, couldn’t help her, couldn’t keep her alive. By the end of 1990, we’d killed everyone but my wife. We couldn’t kill her, no matter how much we wanted to. She just wouldn’t stay dead. I’ve seen my wife die hundreds of times. She shot herself in the head, set herself on fire, and cut her wrists while she was in the bathtub. But every time she died, she came back. The first time she killed herself, it was an accident. We were still experimenting with drugs, and she was testing a new combination. She died instantly, and I was terrified, grief-stricken, and alone. I held her body for hours, crying, screaming, begging her to come back. But she did. She came back to life, just like the woman in the hospice, and everything seemed okay. Everything seemed fine. It wasn’t until the next time, a month later, that I realized she wasn’t okay. She was angry, paranoid, violent. She had memory problems, hearing and seeing things that weren’t there. After that, it just got worse. She died because she was tired, she died because she was stressed, and she died because she was bored. She died because she wanted attention, and she died because she wanted to escape. She died because she was a serial killer. I didn’t put it together at first, but it makes sense now. When she was alive, she was a nurse. She helped people, saved lives, and ended pain. But when she died, she watched, learned, and practiced. She saw how death worked, how it happened, how it felt. And when she came back, she used that information. She killed men, women, and children. She killed them slowly, painfully, cruelly. She poisoned them, strangled them, beat them to death. And she always smiled. I didn’t know at first, but it got harder and harder to deny. She’d come back covered in blood, scratches, dirt. She’d have strange objects under her skin, in her hair, up her ass. I think she wanted me to know. I searched her body once, after she’d died but before she’d come back. I found a finger bone in her vagina, a nipple ring in her ear, and a tooth in her ass. I found a piece of paper under her eyelid, a piece of paper with an address on it. I went to the address, and I found a body. It was rotting, decomposing, and half-eaten. It was a young woman, probably in her late teens, and it looked like she’d died slowly. I ran, and I didn’t tell my wife where I’d gone. I loved her, and I couldn’t leave. She was sick, I told myself. She needed help. But I knew. Deep down, I knew. She was a serial killer, and I was her husband. I stayed with her, took care of her, helped her. I helped her kill, and I helped her hide the bodies. I argued with myself, told myself I was doing the right thing. But I wasn’t. I was enabling a monster, and I knew it. I didn’t leave until the baby came. I wasn’t going to risk losing my daughter to her psychosis. I wasn’t going to risk losing my baby girl. So I left. I took my daughter, and I ran. I was hiding in the middle of nowhere, in a small village in Alaska. I was living off the grid, working as a handyman, and raising my daughter. I was happy. I was also paranoid. I kept expecting my wife to show up, to come back to life, to kill me and abduct Isabella. But she didn’t. I didn’t hear from her for ten years - until I got the letter. The letter was short. “I’m sorry,” it said. “I’m sorry for everything. I want to see her. She’s mine, too. I love you. I always have. I want to be a family again.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to be a family again. I didn’t want to live with a monster. I didn’t want my daughter to die. I heard my wife died last month. She was shot, stabbed, beaten, and dismembered. I didn’t do it, but I’m not sad about it. I’m not going to miss her. But I do hope she stays dead.

My wife is a serial killer

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