The Woman Who Broke

“The scariest monsters are the ones

that lurk within our souls.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

Linda had always thought of herself as kind — the kind of person who gave second chances, who stayed quiet to keep the peace, who believed in goodness even when it never returned the favor. For most of her life, she had worn that belief like armor. Lately, though, something unfamiliar had begun to press against it. A quieter part of her — the part that had learned how to hide bruises and swallow anger — had started asking questions she didn’t like to answer.

What if I was never kind at all?

What if something darker had always been there, waiting to be allowed?

She was thirty-one now. By most appearances, she was still gentle — or at least she had been once. These days, she barely recognized her own reflection. The softness in her face had hardened; her eyes looked tired in a way sleep never fixed. Years spent under someone else’s control had dulled her, reshaped her into something careful and quiet. She was married to a man who never gave her his name. From the beginning, he insisted she call him only Husband or Sir, as though identity were something he owned — and hers something to strip away.

She had entered this life at nineteen, young and grieving, with no one left to guide her. Her father — the last of her family, the final thread tying her to any sense of safety — had died suddenly. In the hollow silence that followed, all he left behind was a single letter. It was sealed with wax, the corners worn thin, as if it had been written long before he ever grew ill. There were no instructions for grief. No comfort. No goodbye. Only a final directive.

Dear Linda,

My dying wish is that you fulfill a promise I once made — that you will marry a certain man. He is the son of my oldest and most trusted friend, William Brooks. You’ll find them in the house just north of ours, by the brook that runs strangely blue.

With all my love,

Your father

Linda, just nineteen at the time, followed the letter’s instructions with numb obedience. Her father’s final words were brief and unsettling, but she clung to them like a compass. Without them, she had nothing. No family. No direction. No reason to remain in a house that still carried the faint, sour scent of his illness.

The walk to the Brooks home was silent, the air heavy with damp earth and pine. She heard the brook before she saw it — its water ran an unnatural blue, just as the letter promised, cutting through the trees like a thin ribbon of color that didn’t belong. The house stood just beyond it, modest but aging, ivy gripping its walls as if it might slip away without it. Linda paused at the door.

Her heart thudded. She knocked once. Then again.

The door creaked open. A man stood in the threshold — maybe in his twenties, though something about him felt older than his face. His hair was dark, his eyes pale, his expression carefully blank.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for William Brooks,” she said. Her voice sounded smaller than she meant it to.

He paused. “He died last year. I’m his son.”

Linda blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “Oh. I—I have a letter. My name is Linda.”

She held it out with unsteady hands. He studied her instead, slowly, as if searching for something familiar. Then his gaze flicked to the envelope.

“Are you here to marry me?” he asked, casually, as though asking the time.

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I mean… that’s what the letter says. It’s strange. I wasn’t expecting—”

He took the letter and skimmed it, barely reading. His expression didn’t change.

“I thought you’d smell the way I imagined,” he said, almost to himself.

Linda stiffened, unsure how to respond.

He stepped aside, opening the door wider. “We’ll go to the church now,” he said. “You’ll marry me.”

She lingered at the threshold, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. “Now?”

“This was your father’s promise,” he said. His voice was calm, unyielding. “You wouldn’t want to break it.”

She didn’t answer right away.

He tilted his head, studying her. “Once we’re married, you’ll live here. You’ll call me only Husband or Sir. That’s what’s expected. Do you understand?”

Her breath caught. The word lodged in her throat before she could force it out.

“…Yes,” she said. “I understand, Sir.”

His smile was slight and contained, never reaching his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll learn to love me. Or tolerate me.”

He reached for his coat. “My last wife said I was too controlling,” he added lightly. “She doesn’t say much anymore.”

Twelve Years Later

At first, Linda didn’t mind being married to him — or at least, she told herself she didn’t. He was unexpectedly handsome in a cold, controlled way, the kind of man who rarely smiled but filled a room regardless. His clothes were always pressed, his hair never out of place. He was wealthy, too — not warm or indulgent, but quietly so. Old money. Shelves lined with books no one read. Rugs you weren’t meant to walk on with shoes.

For someone like Linda, raised on loss and just enough affection to make her ache for more, that kind of order felt almost like safety.

The feeling didn’t last.

The truth didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in gradually, like damage spreading through a house you believed was solid. It showed itself in the way he looked at her when she asked a question. In how silence stretched longer each day. In how his voice sharpened, and his approval became something she chased and never quite earned.

It started with instructions.

Then expectations.

Then demands.

Soon, her life was governed by a strict set of daily rules — never written, never discussed. They were taught through repetition and consequence, carved into her memory one correction at a time. Each mistake reinforced them. There was no room for negotiation, no allowance for error. The rules weren’t just law. They became definition. Breaking them meant undoing everything.

They were as follows:

1. Laundry must always be cleaned and folded — no exceptions.

Clothes were washed by hand, hung with precise spacing, folded into neat, silent rectangles. If a wrinkle appeared, she redid the entire load. He said machines made women careless. That her hands should remember the weight of his things.

2. All food must be made from scratch. No canned, boxed, or prepared meals.

He claimed chemicals corrupted the body — especially a woman’s. The pantry held no shortcuts. Her hands blistered from kneading dough each morning. Once, she served store-bought soup. He tipped the bowl onto the floor and made her clean it with her blouse.

3. She may not sleep in the bedroom. Her place is the mat in the basement.

The upstairs bed, he said, was for those who earned rest. She had not. The basement stayed cold year-round, the concrete damp beneath a thin mat that offered little protection. She never protested. That, too, was a rule.

4. She must grow all fruits and vegetables — nothing store-bought.

Even in winter, she was expected to provide something fresh. If she failed, he called it a lack of resourcefulness and punished her with silence or worse. Some nights, she cried into bowls of boiled weeds and told herself it was soup.

5. All tasks must be finished by 7 p.m., or she sleeps outside.

At precisely seven, he locked the door. Rain, cold, bare feet — none of it mattered. Time, he said, was sacred. Punctuality was a form of love.

6. Wake-up is at 4 a.m. to prepare his breakfast. Failure means no food for her.

She tried using alarms. That ended when he smashed the clock against the wall. After that, she trained her body to wake in darkness, cracking eggs and stirring porridge before the birds began to sing.

7. She is forbidden from speaking to anyone in town. He will know.

Even a nod at the market drew suspicion. Once, she smiled at a girl who waved. A week later, the girl was found beaten. Linda never smiled again.

And so the days blurred. Weeks folded into years. Time became nothing more than the completion of tasks, the slow crawl of light and shadow through the cracks of the basement walls. She lost track of seasons. Forgot the sound of her own laughter.

Her reflection became unfamiliar — a thin, quiet woman with a still mouth and eyes that no longer looked for help.

Until she heard the voice.

At first it was soft. Unfamiliar. A whisper folded into the silence like something meant only for her. It was a woman’s voice, though no one else was in the house. Linda assumed she was imagining it — another symptom of being alone for too long.

Then it came again. Clearer this time. Steady. Almost kind.

“You don’t have to stay here.”

A pause.

“I can help you. But you’ll have to listen.”

Something shifted inside Linda — subtle, unsettling. Not fear. Not grief. Something sharper. A wanting she hadn’t allowed herself to name in years.

Change.

Freedom.

The version of herself she’d buried to survive.

She wondered if she should listen. If she could trust a voice with no body, no face, no proof it existed at all.

She asked the broom.

It stood where it always had, stiff in the corner. Silent.

She’d spoken to it before — quietly, in the basement, her voice barely more than breath. She’d whispered to the walls, too, and waited for the kettle to answer back with something human. She’d tried giving her silence names, shaping it into something that resembled company.

Nothing ever answered.

Not the broom, upright and useless.

Not the walls, which only watched.

Not the kettle, which screamed and went quiet again.

And not her husband — unless she’d done something wrong.

So when the voice returned — low, patient, curling around her thoughts like steam — Linda listened.

“Call me Thimble,” the voice said, soft as thread, precise as a needle.

It was a woman’s voice. Kind, almost musical. But something lay beneath it — not cruelty, exactly, but intent. A sense of direction.

Thimble didn’t demand obedience. She offered something more unsettling: clarity.

She spoke carefully. Told Linda she deserved better. Told her how loneliness could distort affection until anything felt like love. How kindness, stretched too far, could become a leash — and how leashes could be cut.

Thimble wanted only one thing.

Revenge.

Not only against her husband, though him most of all. Against everything that had watched and done nothing. The broom. The walls. The kettle. Every object that absorbed Linda’s pain without answering it.

Thimble’s voice was never loud. It didn’t need to be. It was constant.

Her words didn’t stay in Linda’s ears. They settled deeper — under the skin, into the bloodstream, threading their way through her thoughts until they reached the quiet place inside her she had sealed off long ago.

Something there began to stir.

Not love.

Not fear.

Something hotter. More useful.

First came the broom.

“Let it suffer,” Thimble said.

It had stood in the corner for years, upright and unmoving, present for every order, every strike, every whispered attempt at conversation. Linda had spoken to it more than once, low and careful, as if it might respond. It never had. It offered no comfort, no acknowledgment — only silence. Now, it would receive the same.

“Bury it,” Thimble whispered, her voice slipping into Linda’s thoughts. “Alive. The way you were.”

Linda took the broom outside in the dead of night, when the yard lay still and the stars were thin and distant. She dug with her hands, the soil cold and stubborn, her fingernails splitting as she worked.

When the hole was deep enough, she set the broom inside, bristles down, handle jutting upward at an awkward angle — less like a grave marker than a mistake someone had tried to hide.

She covered it carefully.

No remorse.

No mercy.

If it could scream, let it. No one would come.

No one ever had.

Thimble sounded pleased.

“Now the walls,” she said. “The ones that watched. The ones that kept you. The ones that told him.”

Linda’s breath caught. The walls had always been there — too close, too still. They absorbed everything: her footsteps, her muttering, her fear. Over time, she’d begun to believe they whispered at night, carrying her mistakes upstairs.

“Blind them,” Thimble said. “Let them see nothing. Feel nothing. Say nothing.”

Linda went to the basement.

The ink was stored there, thick and black, packed into heavy jars. It reminded her of sleep. Of forgetting. She opened them with shaking hands, dipped her fingers into the dark, and began to spread it.

She worked methodically — over every surface, every crack, every corner.

Over the eyes she imagined in the drywall.

Over the mouths she pictured in the beams.

She didn’t stop until everything was coated. Until the walls reflected nothing back at her. Until the house went quiet in a way it never had before.

The ink stained her skin — her wrists, her fingertips, the thin gold band on her finger.

When her husband came home and saw the walls drowned in black, the air seemed to tighten. The house itself felt braced, waiting.

His footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, each one heavier than the last. Then his voice came, deep, coiled with rage, cutting through the house like a storm through bone.

“Do not test me.”

His eyes swept the room, sharp and cold.

“My temper runs short… and my reach is long.”

He jabbed a finger toward the front door, jaw muscles twitching.

“You’ll sleep outside tonight — and every night this week. No food. No warmth. No exceptions. And if you defy me again, it will be longer.”

He stepped closer, towering over her, shadow stretching across the floor like a warning.

“Ungrateful wife.”

Without another word, he spat at her feet and turned away, his dismissal meant to make her feel smaller than dust.

Linda froze, body tight, heart hammering against her ribs. She stared at the floor, at the dark streaks of ink he left behind, evidence of his disdain.

When he finally retreated to the bathroom to wash his hands — as if that could cleanse him of what he’d seen — the house fell into a taut, aching silence.

And then, soft and silk-like, Thimble’s voice returned, curling around her thoughts:

“Forget the kettle for now, darling,” she whispered, smooth as satin, sharp as a sewing needle.

Remembering Thimble’s whispered instructions from the day before, Linda straightened her shoulders and told her husband, evenly, that she was going into town to fetch some flour. He barely looked up from his chair, only grunted in acknowledgment — but she felt his gaze follow her as she stepped outside.

Instead of the market square, she slipped behind the bakery, down the narrow, crumbling path that led into the shadowed north alley — the mouth of the black market. Most women in town feared it, but Linda moved with silent desperation, heart pounding louder than her footsteps.

The alley twisted like smoke, damp walls cloaked in moss and secrets. Whispers passed between cloaked figures. Deals were struck with glances and nods beneath watchful eyes whose owners never spoke their names. The air smelled of wet stone, old herbs, and something sharper — rust or blood.

The Herbalist waited for her, just as Thimble had promised — hunched behind a veil of woven vines and dried thistles. He neither smiled nor spoke. He simply held out a pale, shriveled pod, tilting his head in expectation. Linda handed over a small bag of coins, hands trembling slightly. The pod felt warm in her palm. She tucked it into her pocket quickly, as if it might burn her.

The weight of the secret pressed down with every step home. If her husband suspected, the punishment wouldn’t just be severe. It could be fatal. Every movement had to be deliberate, every glance rehearsed. And she couldn’t forget the flour — not if she wanted to avoid suspicion. She bought a modest sack and slung it over her shoulder, heart still racing.

Above her, the sky darkened. Thick, bruised clouds rolled low, heavy with impending rain. Linda quickened her pace, the wind biting at her cheeks, reaching home just as the first drops began to fall.

Inside, she lit the fire with numb fingers and set the kettle above the licking flames. Warmth spread slowly through the room, but it did nothing to calm her nerves. Outside, rain hammered the windows in a steady rhythm.

Thimble returned, her voice curling into Linda’s ear like smoke.

“Good, darling. Now… scrape the pod. The sap is what matters. The sap is everything.”

Linda moved quickly but carefully. She retrieved a small knife from the drawer, held the pod gently in one hand, and pressed the blade against its surface. A pale, milky sap oozed out, thick and sluggish like sorrow. She steadied herself, letting it drip into a spoon, each drop a slow, deliberate beat.

When the kettle began to scream, she moved automatically — muscle memory forged over twelve years. Boiling water poured into a teacup, a pinch of dried garden herbs added, and then the thick, bitter sap stirred in. The liquid clouded instantly, swirling into a murky, gray brew. Not tea. Not comfort. Something else entirely.

She stirred until the surface settled, the bubbles vanishing under the weight of what she had done.

Thimble remained silent, watching. Waiting.

With quiet satisfaction, Thimble observed as Linda moved to the next part of her routine — preparing her husband’s dinner. Hands automatic, she chopped vegetables, sliced bread, ladled soup into the bowl he liked just hot enough to burn. Yet tonight wasn’t like any other. Tonight, the teacup held something new. Something bitter.

When the front door creaked open, Linda froze. Heavy boots crossed the threshold, keys jingling, coat shrugged off with a practiced indifference. Fear tightened her chest, but she moved quickly, setting the soup and bread in their exact places, adjusting the silverware with trembling fingers.

He didn’t acknowledge her. He never did — unless something was wrong. And tonight, something was.

He devoured the meal in silence, slurping the soup, tearing the bread with sharp bites. When he finished, Linda gathered her courage and whispered, just above the clink of his spoon,

“I’m very sorry… for being disrespectful. And for ruining your walls. I made you some tea.”

He looked up slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Tea?” he repeated, suspicion dripping from the word. “Hand it over.”

Linda picked up the cup with both hands, offering it like a peace treaty.

He snatched it but didn’t drink immediately, his gaze pinning her to the floor.

“You may want to sit,” she said, calm but quiet. “Or lie down. It’s a calming tea.”

A lie.

He stared at the cup for long moments, then without a word, stood and carried it with him, leaving the room. Her heart hammered as his footsteps climbed the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, Linda tiptoed toward the bedroom. Her breath caught — he was a notoriously light sleeper. Even the faintest creak could wake him. Carefully, she cracked the door open just enough to peek inside.

There he was, asleep. The teacup sat on the nightstand, empty, its rim faintly stained with the cloudy remnants of the bitter brew.

Perfect, whispered Thimble, her voice curling around Linda like smoke. Now, darling… do what I told you.

Linda moved slowly, pulling a folded cloth from her apron pocket. Her hands trembled — not with fear this time, but with the weight of choice. She hovered beside the bed, lowering the cloth toward his face, inch by inch. She wanted him to feel it… what she had felt every day: suffocated.

But then his hand shot up like a trap, fingers locking around her wrist.

“You think I’m that stupid?” he growled.

His eyes snapped open, wide and cruel. “The rim was sticky. The color was wrong. Tea is not supposed to look like ash water.”

He flung the covers off and stood, towering over her. Before she could pull away, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her through the hall like a rag doll. She didn’t scream. There was no point.

Down the stairs. Toward the cold, stone mouth of the basement.

Without hesitation, he shoved her inside and slammed the door. The iron bolt slid into place with a final, echoing clack.

His voice boomed through the thick wood, venomous enough to rattle the shelves.

“You used to be obedient. Helpful. Quiet. Now…” He sneered, contempt thick in every word. “Calling you a burden would be giving you too much credit. Furniture’s more useful. At least it doesn’t talk back or ruin walls.”

A pause, heavy as lead.

“Get a good sleep… or don’t,” he said, voice trailing off. “It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow is your end.”

And with that, he turned and walked back to his room, intent on a good night’s sleep.

The next morning, just as pale light filtered through the cracks in the basement door, he stomped down the stairs. Without a word, he yanked Linda up by the arm, jerking her from the restless sleep that had left her bones aching on the cold concrete floor.

“Time to go,” he muttered.

She barely had time to draw breath before he began dragging her like a sack of grain — limp, helpless — up the stairs and out into the biting morning air. Her bare feet scraped over roots and stones. Dew clung to her skin. The sky hung heavy, gray and unforgiving.

He hauled her toward the brook — the one that always ran strangely blue — swollen and icy from the overnight rain. Dropping to his knees beside it, he yanked her down with him, fingers like wire in her hair. The water churned inches from her face.

“I want you to feel it,” he growled. “Cold. Quiet. Final.”

Panic clawed at her chest. She thrashed, gasping, arms plunging into the current, pressing against slick stones to keep her head above the biting water. That’s when her fingers brushed something solid — cold, heavy, hidden beneath the silt.

A rock. Medium-sized. Perfect.

“Good, darling,” Thimble whispered, silk and smoke curling around her. “Make him lose his grip. Then throw it. Right at that horrible, smug face.”

Summoning the last of her strength, Linda twisted, driving her elbow into his ribs. He grunted, staggered, his hand slipping from her hair.

Free.

She lurched upward, coughing, wet strands clinging to her face. Eyes locked with his — wide with fury and confusion — she gripped the rock in her trembling hand. Then she threw it.

The rock struck his temple with a sickening crack. His expression crumpled. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

He didn’t move.

“Now,” Thimble cooed, almost lovingly. “Put him in the brook, dear.”

Her breath ragged, Linda crawled forward, hooking her arms under his limp body. Mud and water dragged at her soaked dress as she flipped him over, sending his dead weight into the current with a wet, final thud. The icy water swallowed him quietly.

He didn’t resist. He didn’t rise.

Then Thimble whispered, curling into her ear like a secret, “Go into the house. Into his room. Drawer. Bottom left. Orange socks. The key. You know the safe, darling. Freedom waits.”

Linda froze. How could Thimble know? She hadn’t dared touch that drawer since before the wedding. Only he ever did.

But she didn’t care.

Shaking off the thought, she ran inside, bare feet slapping against the cold floor. Up the stairs, straight to the dresser. Her fingers fumbled the handle and yanked it open.

The socks. Awful, hand-knit, orange as sin. She plunged her hand into the first one.

Metal. Cold, golden, perfect.

Without hesitation, she bolted to the basement, to the back wall where the safe hid behind shelves he always said were “off-limits.” She’d never dared touch them before. Now, she didn’t flinch.

The key slid in with a soft click. The door swung open.

Stacks of cash. Neatly bundled. Enough to vanish.

She grabbed a duffel bag from his closet — one always packed for “emergencies.” This one, though, was hers. Bills stuffed inside. Counting didn’t matter.

The silence pressed around her. The house, once loud and suffocating, felt hollow. She surveyed the room one last time.

No goodbyes. No guilt.

She stepped through the front door into the gray morning light. The brook murmured behind her like the end of a sentence.

Thimble said nothing now.

Linda didn’t need her to.

She was free.