Living alone isn’t easy 🏚️💔. When I finally hired a “husband for rent” to help fix my leaking roof, I thought I’d found a miracle worker… until I realized I had just let evil walk through my front door 😱🔧
I’d been living alone for years after my husband passed away. The house we’d built together had grown old — like me. The faucet leaked no matter how tightly I turned the handle, the roof dripped when it rained, and the kitchen chairs wobbled dangerously. I used to laugh about it, but lately, the silence in the house felt heavier than ever.
One morning, while chatting with my neighbor, I complained again about the endless repairs.
“Call a husband for rent,” she said with a little smile.
I blinked. “A what?”
“It’s a service,” she explained. “You call, tell them what needs fixing, and a man comes to do it. You pay him, and that’s it — no strings attached.”
I chuckled. It sounded silly, but that night, after staring at the dripping faucet and the flickering kitchen light, I decided to try it. I took out my small box of savings — the money I’d been keeping “for emergencies” — and made the call.
The next day, there was a knock on my door.
When I opened it, I nearly gasped. Standing there was a tall, muscular young man in a blue uniform, holding a shiny toolbox and smiling politely. His voice was warm, confident.
“Good morning, ma’am. You called for a repairman?”
For a second, I almost told him he had the wrong house. He was much younger — and far more handsome — than I’d imagined. My heart raced with embarrassment.
“Yes, yes, come in,” I said quickly, trying to sound casual. “There’s a lot that needs fixing around here.”
He walked through the door, polite and efficient, and got straight to work. He tightened the faucet, fixed the loose socket, even steadied the shaky chair. He moved with quiet confidence, his hands steady, his smile reassuring.
Feeling grateful, I brought out some cookies and juice. “You must be tired, dear. Sit down for a minute, please. Let me offer you something.”
He accepted, sitting at my kitchen table. We talked while he ate — small talk at first. Then he asked, almost too casually, “So, you live alone? No family around?”
I sighed. “My husband’s been gone for ten years. My children are grown — one’s in Texas, the other in Boston. They call sometimes, but life keeps them busy.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That must be hard.”
There was something about his eyes then — too curious, too focused. I ignored it, brushing it off as politeness.
When he finished fixing everything, I told him I’d just step out to my neighbor’s house to drop off a letter. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” I said.
He smiled. “Take your time. I’ll check if everything’s holding up.”
I remember that smile clearly — calm, reassuring… and completely fake.
When I came back ten minutes later, the house felt wrong. Too quiet. The air felt heavier somehow.
Then I saw him by the door, holding his toolbox — and something else. My husband’s old watch glimmered in his hand. Behind him, drawers were half-open, and my jewelry box lay empty.
Before I could speak, he turned, eyes cold, and swung something heavy toward my head. Everything went black.
When I woke up, bright hospital lights blinded me. My neighbor was sitting beside me, crying. A police officer told me I’d been lucky — the blow hadn’t killed me, but I’d suffered a concussion. The thief had taken everything of value before running away.
Later, when I regained enough strength, I called the agency — furious, frightened, desperate for answers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman on the line said after checking their records. “We don’t have anyone matching that description. None of our workers were assigned to your address.”
I froze. My heart pounded in my chest. “What do you mean?” I whispered. “He said he was from your service.”
But she only repeated, “I’m sorry, ma’am. That man doesn’t work for us.”
My hand shook as I hung up. The room around me blurred. That’s when the truth hit me like ice: I hadn’t found him — he had found me.
Even now, months later, I still can’t sleep with the door unlocked. I keep the lights on at night, and every knock makes me jump. I thought I was hiring a man to fix my home… but what he really broke was my peace.
And sometimes, when the faucet drips in the quiet of the night, I swear I can still hear his voice — polite, calm, and smiling — saying, “Good morning, ma’am. You called for a repairman?” 😨💔
