I Know What You Buried

Id been living in my new condo for less than two months when my upstairs neighbor suddenly tagged me in the buildings WhatsApp group.

[Vanessa - Unit 315]: To the homewrecking bitch in 215: Youve complained twice about your radiator being broken just to get my husband to come down and fix it. What exactly is your endgame here?

[Vanessa - Unit 315]: Hes missing now. His phone is going straight to voicemail. If so much as a hair on his head is hurt, I swear to God, I will make you and everyone you love pay.

I stared at the screen, entirely baffled. I quickly typed back that my heat was working perfectly fine and I hadnt submitted a single maintenance request, let alone asked anyones husband for help.

But Vanessa wasnt listening. In her mind, the narrative was already written: I was the young, single woman living alone, spinning a web to steal her man.

A week later, she knocked on my door, claiming she just wanted to talk it out. The moment I turned the deadbolt, she threw a mason jar of sulfuric acid directly into my face.

In the center of that blinding, white-hot agonythe smell of my own melting skin, the horrific sizzling soundshe stood over me. Her face was contorted into a mask of pure, weeping hatred.

"You ruined everything!" she shrieked over my screams. "He fought with me because of you! He drove off in the middle of the night and died in a car crash!"

I didn't even know his name.

I died on the floor of my own entryway, suffocating on the pain.

Then, I blinked.

The scent of burning flesh vanished, replaced by the crisp, sterile air of my living room. I was sitting on my sofa, staring at my phone. The glow of the screen illuminated the exact same WhatsApp messages from the night the nightmare began.

Faced with the identical unhinged accusations that had once cost me my life, a cold, jagged fury settled in my chest. I didn't try to explain myself this time. I typed my response with a trembling but resolute thumb.

[Paige - Unit 215]: If youre having a psychotic break, I suggest you call a therapist. Your husband has been dead for three months.

[Paige - Unit 215]: Want me to grab a Ouija board so you can ask him how hell is treating him?

I hit send.

For a few seconds, the group chat was a graveyard. Absolute, stunned silence.

Then, it exploded.

[Unit 402]: Holy shit. 215, what is wrong with you?

[Unit 211]: That is crossing a massive line. You don't joke about people dying.

[Martha - Unit 214]: @Paige_215 Paige, sweetie, apologize right now. You can't say things like that!

Vanessas profile picture began flashing violently as a barrage of venomous voice memos flooded the chat.

"You sick, twisted whore!" her voice crackled through my phone's speaker, shrill and hysterical. "You try to seduce my husband and when it doesn't work, you curse him to die?! I hope you rot!"

"I literally cooked dinner for Derek last night! How dare you say he's dead! You just wait, I'm coming down there to rip your face off!"

"@Everyone Look at this! Look at what a disgusting, evil piece of trash she is!"

I watched the messages scroll by, a phantom chill ghosting down my spine. The memory of the acid felt like a heavy coat draped over my shoulders.

Since moving into The Kensington, I had crossed paths with Vanessa exactly once, in the lobby by the mailboxes. She had looked jittery, avoiding eye contact, and scurried away. I had never even laid eyes on this husband of hers, Derek. As for the radiator? I liked it cold. I hadn't turned the heat on once.

Her accusations weren't just baseless; they were coated in a thick, suffocating layer of the bizarre.

I kept my fingers steady, tapping out a reply that carried the weight of my murdered past.

[Paige - Unit 215]: @Vanessa Let's see the receipts. Where are the texts? The call logs? Does he even have my number saved? Post the proof right now.

[Paige - Unit 215]: You claim Derek was home last night? Great. Tell him to get on this chat, record a five-second video of his face, and say hello. If he does, I will get on my knees, apologize to the entire building, and break my lease tomorrow.

[Paige - Unit 215]: But if you can't, then you are publicly defaming me, and I will be contacting a lawyer in the morning.

My logic was a surgical strike.

It was as if Id reached through the screen and wrapped my hand around Vanessas throat. The voice memos stopped.

When she finally resumed typing, the accusations of seduction had vanished, replaced entirely by unhinged, caps-lock insults that completely bypassed my demands for proof.

She spiraled for a solid ten minutes. Then, the inevitable happened.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

The pounding on my front door was so violent the peephole cover rattled.

"Paige! You cowardly bitch!" Vanessas voice tore through the heavy wood. "Open the damn door! Look me in the eye!"

I walked over. Through the fisheye lens, her face was distortedcheeks flushed purple, eyes bloodshot and wild. The commotion had already drawn an audience; I could see Martha from across the hall peeking out, clutching her cardigan.

"Vanessa, honey, please calm down!" Martha pleaded from a safe distance.

"How am I supposed to be calm?!" Vanessa shrieked, kicking the base of my door. "My husband is in this bitch's apartment refusing to leave, and shes out here telling everyone hes dead!"

I knew I couldn't just hide. Hiding let the narrative fester. Hiding made me look like the guilty party cowering in the dark.

I checked the peephole one last time. Her hands were empty. No mason jar. No acid.

I took a slow, deep breath, pulling the oxygen deep into my lungs, and unlocked the deadbolt. I yanked the door open.

Vanessa clearly hadn't expected me to actually face her. She froze for a fraction of a second, but then the madness took over. Like a rabid dog slipping its leash, she lunged.

She shoved past me, her frantic eyes darting around my living room. "Derek! Derek, get out here! I know you're in here with her! Show yourself!"

She didn't wait for me to speak. She bulldozed straight into my bedroom, ripping my duvet off the mattress. She dropped to her knees, peering under the bed frame, her breath coming in ragged, ugly gasps.

"Where did you put him?! Where is my husband?!"

Vanessa was a hurricane in sweatpants.

She swept the decorative candles off my coffee table. She yanked open my closet doors, sending my silk blouses cascading to the hardwood floor. Every movement was accompanied by a string of breathless obscenities.

"Not in the bedroom? Fine. He's in the bathroom! Or the balcony!"

She spun around, eyes completely manic, and charged the bathroom, slamming the door open so hard the handle put a dent in the drywall.

By now, a few of the neighbors had gathered at my threshold, exchanging wide-eyed, uncomfortable glances.

Martha stepped tentatively into my entryway. "Vanessa! Stop this! Look at yourself! There's no way Paige is hiding Derek in here!"

"You don't know that! She's a manipulative whore!" Vanessa emerged from the bathroom, empty-handed and vibrating with even more rage.

She marched back into the living room and started kicking the drywall near my bookcase, as if expecting to find a secret compartment.

Thud. Thud.

The sound of her heel hitting the baseboards was sickening. She bolted back into my bedroom and started punching my mattressthe expensive memory foam Id saved up forlike it had personally wronged her.

I stood leaning against the doorframe, my expression completely dead, silently recording the entire spectacle on my phone.

In my past life, I had been too accommodating. I had tried to reason with insanity. I had tried to de-escalate. That politeness had ended with my face melting off my skull.

As she raised her foot to stomp on my pillows, the quiet rage inside me snapped.

I crossed the room in three strides. I grabbed her by the upper arm, twisted her momentum, and drove her straight to the floor.

Vanessa hadn't expected the retaliation. She hit the hardwood with a heavy, breathless thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she shrieked, pain slicing through her voice as she thrashed against me.

I dropped my knee sharply between her shoulder blades, pinning her flat. My voice was a glacial whisper.

"What am I doing? You broke into my home. You destroyed my property. Now, you get to find out what happens when you push someone too far."

She flopped like a dying fish, but adrenaline made my grip like iron. I didn't budge.

The neighbors in the hallway gasped. Someone took a step back, but no one intervened.

"Get off me! Let me go!" Vanessa screamed, her cheek smushed against my floor.

Martha wrung her hands. "Paige, honey, let her up! This is going to end badly!"

I didn't look at Martha. "End badly? She broke into my apartment like a lunatic and started destroying my things. Where was this concern five minutes ago?"

I grabbed a fistful of Vanessa's hair at the base of her neck, just enough to keep her head down. "Tell them, Vanessa. When exactly did I seduce Derek? What does he even look like? Give me a single detail, or I'm calling the cops and letting them figure it out."

"Do it!" she spat, spit flying onto the wood. "Call them! I'm not afraid of you!"

I released her hair, but kept my weight squarely on her back. With my free hand, I pulled up my phone, dialed 911, and put it on speaker.

The dispatchers crisp voice echoed in the silent room. "911, what is your emergency?"

The blood drained from Vanessa's face. The neighbors went dead still.

"Hi," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I need an officer to my location..."

Martha rushed forward. "No, no, wait! Paige, please! We're all neighbors here. Let's just talk. We don't need police cars out front, it'll be a whole ordeal!"

I stared down at Vanessa. I looked up at the cluster of voyeurs in my doorway.

"Actually, officer, I'm going to attempt to resolve this civilly first. I'll call back if it escalates." I ended the call.

I leaned down so my lips were inches from Vanessa's ear. "I won't call them right now. But you came in here looking for your husband. Did you find him?"

I eased my knee off her back, stepping away, though my body remained tense, ready to strike again if she lunged.

"Besides your delusional ranting, what do you actually have? A text? A doorbell camera showing him walking in here?" I paused, letting the silence suffocate her. "If you don't have proof, you're just a trespasser throwing a tantrum. And I promise you, I will ruin your life for this."

Vanessas complexion cycled from ghostly pale to a mottled, ugly purple. She opened her mouth, but the words died in her throat.

A quiet realization rippled through the onlookers. She had nothing.

The sheer force of her mania hit a brick wall. Her silence was deafening, and looking at the faces in the hallway, I could see the tide of suspicion turning against her.

The standoff held for a long, agonizing moment before Vanessa clawed desperately at her last lifeline.

"Proof?" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "Fine! I'll give you proof! Come upstairs to my place. I'll show you all his things are still there! We'll see how you lie your way out of that!"

A dark satisfaction bloomed in my chest. Perfect.

"Lead the way," I said evenly. "Let's put this to bed in front of everyone."

Human curiosity is a morbid thing. Martha, Greg from 210, and a few others couldn't resist the gravitational pull of the drama. Like a strange, twisted parade, we followed Vanessa up the stairs to Unit 315.

She shoved her door open. The apartment smelled of stale air masking something heavylike lavender Febreze sprayed over old dust.

It was neat, but an undercurrent of neglect lingered in the corners. Vanessa, emboldened by being back on her own turf, stormed into the master bedroom.

She yanked the closet doors wide. "Look! His clothes! Suits, shirts, everything is right here!"

She marched into the en-suite bathroom, holding up a toothbrush and an electric razor like religious artifacts. "The toothbrush is damp! The razor has hair in it! Are you telling me this is fake?!"

At first glance, it was convincing. The apartment was undeniably haunted by the presence of a man.

The neighbors clustered around the door, their expressions shifting. The skepticism theyd aimed at Vanessa began to pivot back toward me.

"Well, Paige," Martha murmured, her tone dipping into an uncomfortable, placating register. "His things are all here. Maybe Derek just... stepped out for an errand?"

Pam, a woman from the third floor who rarely spoke to anyone but seemed to thrive on neighborhood gossip, crossed her arms. Her eyes raked over me with thinly veiled disdain.

"Honestly, it wouldn't be the first time some pretty young thing got bored and went after a married man," Pam sneered. "And now that she's caught, she's trying to gaslight the poor wife. Vanessa has been through enough. Telling her her husband is dead? That is sick."

"Yeah, completely shameless," someone else muttered. "Trying to play the victim."

Vanessa, sensing the shift in the room, burst into fresh, dramatic sobs. She pointed a trembling finger at me. "You animal! What do you have to say for yourself now?! Where is my husband?!"

In a matter of seconds, I was the villain again. The accusing stares pricked at my skin like needles.

The crushing isolation of my past life threatened to drown me, but the memory of the acid burned away any lingering fear, leaving only ice.

I took a deep breath, letting the anger crystallize. My voice cracked like a whip through the room.

"Shut up!"

The whispering stopped. I stepped toward Vanessa, locking onto her eyes.

"Clothes in a closet and a wet toothbrush prove exactly one thing: a man used to live here."

I turned my back on her, sweeping my gaze over Pam, Martha, and the rest of the peanut gallery.

"She claims her husband has been missing for a few days. She claims he's sneaking down to my apartment. Fine. Let's go to the front desk. The building has cameras at every exit, in the lobby, and in the elevators. Let's pull the footage for the last month. Right now."

Vanessa flinched. It was minuscule, but I saw it. The panic.

She had backed herself into a corner, and the only way out was through. "Fine!" she yelled, her voice vibrating with a desperate, manic pitch. "Check the cameras! They'll show him walking right into your floor! You're done, Paige!"

The procession moved again, this time down to the lobby.

The night concierge, Stan, looked deeply alarmed as a dozen residents piled into the small back office. Once I explained the situationand threatened to call management if he didn't complyhe queued up the security feeds for the last thirty days.

Everyone stared at the grid of monitors.

Fast forward. Rewind. Pause.

We watched the mundane rhythms of our building. There was me, carrying groceries. There was Vanessa, coming and going. There was Martha walking her dog.

But for an entire monththirty straight daysthere was no sign of a man matching Derek's description. Not in the lobby. Not in the elevators. Not leaving the parking garage.

Nothing. He had simply ceased to exist on the property.

Vanessa cracked. She slammed her hands against Stan's desk, leaning over the monitors.

"No! That's impossible! This is a mistake!"

She whirled on Stan. "Did she pay you off?! Did you delete the files?! Oror the camera angles are wrong! They missed him!"

Stan, deeply offended, crossed his arms. "Ma'am, I don't appreciate that. Our system is cloud-based. I literally don't have the administrative clearance to delete anything. And the cameras cover every single point of entry. If he left the building, we'd see it."

"Then she hacked it!" Vanessa screamed, pointing wildly at me. "She hired someone to alter the video!"

I watched her flailing, drowning in her own delusions. It was pathetic, but more than that, it was terrifying to witness the lengths a broken mind would go to protect its own lies.

I was done playing games. I pulled out my phone and dialed.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"Yes, I need police dispatch to The Kensington apartments," I said, my voice steady and cold. "I have a neighbor who has illegally entered my home, destroyed my property, and is actively harassing me."

I paused, letting my eyes lock onto Vanessa.

"I also need officers here to officially verify the integrity of our building's security footage regarding a potentially missing person."

The moment the words missing person left my mouth, Vanessas entire body shuddered as if struck by lightning.

The murmurs among the neighbors died instantly. The air in the tiny security office turned dense and heavy.

The police arrived within fifteen minutes.

After taking initial statements, they reviewed the footage with Stan, making a quick call to their tech department to verify the system's log files.

The lead officer, a stern-looking man named Detective Russo, turned to face the room.

"Based on the system logs, the footage hasn't been tampered with," Russo announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "There are no gaps in the recording."

He turned his gaze to Vanessa, who looked like she might pass out.

"Ma'am, the cameras confirm your husband, Derek, hasn't entered or exited this building in over a month. Given the circumstances, do you want to file an official missing persons report so we can begin a formal investigation?"

The detective's professional, unyielding conclusion fell like a guillotine. It severed Vanessa's last thread of denial and stunned the neighbors into absolute silence.

Martha pressed a hand to her mouth, physically trembling. Greg looked like he was going to be sick.

And then, almost as if orchestrated by a silent conductor...

Every single person in the room turned to look at me.