My Husband Wants Me to Carry the Dead Woman's Child

Married for three years and my husband had never once touched me.

I assumed he was impotent. Out of respect for his dignity, I kept quiet, living like a widow in my own marriage. Until the day I discovered what he was hiding in the basement: the corpse of his first love.

He gently stroked the matted strands of her decaying hair, his face full of longing. "Macey, no one could ever replace you. I know your biggest wish, when you were alive, was to have my child."

"That’s why, until you carry our baby, Anna won't be allowed to get pregnant."

That night, I logged into one of the forums my husband frequented and posted anonymously: [Guys, I think I found a way to get a dead woman pregnant.]

——

[You’ve been married three years and your dad still won’t hand over the company?]

The speaker was Dennis’s childhood friend, Nick Donnovan.

Dennis flicked his lighter, clearly irritated. “He’s stubborn as hell. First, he said I had to settle down to get my stake in the company. Now he’s saying no heir, no shares.”

“Only Macey deserves to have my child. Once she’s pregnant, I’m divorcing Anna.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got some serious selfcontrol. Ignoring a woman like Anna for three years? But… how do you even…” He didn’t get to finish.

Dennis’s tone softened as he interrupted. “I’ve kept Macey in good condition. Her body’s still… intact. As long as I can extract viable eggs…”

“I’m ready to invest another billion if that’s what it takes. I will make this happen.”

“That medical report I tricked Anna into giving me—her oxytocin levels are high. The experts said she’s biologically perfect to be a mother.”

To mother a child born from a corpse? I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, just to keep from screaming.

I couldn’t believe it. The man I slept beside every night had tricked me into a sham marriage… just to raise a dead woman’s child.

He had gone with me to every checkup for three years, pretending to care. In reality, he was evaluating my suitability—to raise her baby.

“What if she finds out?” Nick asked.

Dennis sneered. “Her? She’s an idiot. It’s been three years and she’s never even discovered the basement.”

“And even if she does? Anna’s the kind of woman who’ll believe anything you tell her. What’s she gonna do—get jealous of a corpse?”

“Besides, I’ve got ways of handling her. Just like I did with that nosy cat of hers.”

The blood rushed to my head in an instant.

Last year, my British Shorthair suddenly vanished. Dennis said the cat had run off. Now I knew the truth—it had wandered into the basement. And he… did something to it.

Dennis kept talking, every word more disturbing than the last. But I couldn’t hear him clearly anymore—my mind had gone numb, my thoughts a fog.

For three years, I thought he was sick. I thought we were in this together and that with time and patience, I could help him heal. But it wasn’t his body that was broken—it was his mind. His heart already rotten to the core.

From the day we got our marriage certificate, I’d been nothing more than a prop—A standin wife to show off to his family. A future mom… for his dead girlfriend’s child.

I pulled out my phone and posted anonymously on his favorite tech forum—the one he checked religiously.

I used to think his obsession with that site was just a nerdy hobby. Now I saw it for what it was: every single thing in his life revolved around Macey.

The woman he never once mentioned to me.

Well—except for once. It was during one of our rare moments of physical contact. He was drunk, pushed me against the wall, rough and clumsy.

I thought it was messy, desperate foreplay.

But then he slurred, “Macey…” I laughed it off. Thought he was just being kinky, roleplaying maybe.

Then he cupped my face, stared at me—and in an instant, sobered up.

Expressionless, he shoved me aside and walked straight into his study. Didn’t say another word.

Now everything made sense. All the pieces fit.

Even pretending to be Macey wasn’t enough. To him, I wasn’t worthy. Not to touch. Not to share a bed with. Not even to exist as a substitute.

I crouched behind the coffin, fighting every instinct in my body not to cry.

Night after night, I tried everything I could find online to seduce him. Dennis was never interested. He never responded to my touch, never gave in to any attempt at intimacy.

The rare times he did show any reaction—flushed cheeks, a slight stir—he’d abruptly make an excuse to take a shower, or retreat to his study to "work," leaving me alone in bed, humiliated.

Starting today, I’m done waiting. If he wanted to make a dead woman pregnant, fine. I’d help him achieve that dream—in the most terrifying way possible.

As Dennis walked our guests out, I slipped back into the bedroom, quietly but quickly.

“Ann?” His voice floated in from the living room, warm and gentle—deliberately so.

My entire body shuddered.

“Are you okay? Not feeling well?” He touched my forehead, the picture of a concerned husband. That same man who'd been whispering to a corpse in our basement not half an hour ago.

The whiplash between the two sides of him made my skin crawl.

“You seem fine,” he said after a moment, sitting beside me on the bed. “How about we go to that clinic and get your uterus checked? You’re not getting any younger. Gotta make sure everything stays in good shape.”

He gave me a soft smile.

“I know it’s been hard on you, but once I figure out how to make this work, you’ll carry our child. I promise.”

“Okay,” I smiled back, forcing my voice to stay steady while my fingernails dug deep into my palm.

He reached over and ruffled my hair, almost playfully. “As long as you behave, you’ll get the best of everything.”

Behave? What an interesting choice of words. What did “behaving” mean, exactly?

Being a docile surrogate? Quietly giving birth to his dead lover’s child, then what? Getting “taken care of,” the way he took care of my cat?

As soon as he turned away to grab his coat, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to an old friend from college—someone I could still trust.

“Can you help me install some cctv in the basement? When no one’s home. I’ll text when I leave the house. Just be fast and discreet.”

He replied almost immediately. No questions. Just a simple, “Got it.”

Meanwhile, Dennis was zipping up his coat and answering a call. “Nick? Yeah, I was just about to take Anna to that clinic you recommended.”

“Wait—what did you say? There’s what on the forum?” he responded.

I saw his expression shifted into panic, but he caught himself quickly when he noticed me watching from across the room. And just like that, his mask went back on.

“Ann, I’ve got some company stuff to deal with.”

Dennis rushed into his study and locked the door behind him. A few seconds later, my phone lit up with a notification.

The anonymous forum post I had made earlier had just received a new comment:

[Poster! hurry up, tell us! How do you get a dead woman pregnant?]

The username was SweetAnnon. Dennis had taken the bait. He couldn’t help himself—he was desperate to know how to make a corpse carry his child.

Most of the other comments were from normal people, horrified or confused:

[Poster! says nothing. Starts off with a creepy line and just ghosted. What kind of horror story is this?]

[Making a dead woman pregnant? Maybe fix infertility first. I’m dying laughing.]

[And here we go—two lunatics in one thread. Isn’t there some guy on this forum obsessed with this exact thing? Perfect match!]

Dennis was infamous on the forum. Every day, he posted offers of huge payouts to anyone who could provide a method. Not a single day missed.

Now users were starting to connect the dots.

[Wait… this has to be bait, right? Targeted at that guy?]

[No way. Hahaha—this Poster is trolling him for sure.]

[Check the latest reply—LOL they totally fished that SweetMace dude out!]

With Dennis now active in the thread, the post exploded in popularity.

People started egging me on, clearly entertained by the twisted game unfolding in real time.

[C’mon Poster, spill it. I need to see if your plan is crazier, or if his is.]

[If this actually gets him to send money, please update. I’ll post one too!]

From the other side of the wall, I could hear Dennis pacing frantically in the study.

[Getting a dead woman pregnant? It’s actually pretty simple. Just transplant her womb into a living body. Let the living carry the dead.]

Seeing my seemingly serious reply, the comment section was crowded.

[Are you insane? A dead person’s uterus is just rotting tissue—how would that even work? It’d kill the host!]

[This is beyond stupid. Anyone who believes this needs help.]

[What kind of horror movie plot is this?]

Dennis, though, didn’t hesitate. He replied instantly. [Thank you! If this works, I’ll pay a hundred million.]

He didn’t care how absurd my reply was. As long as there was even a chance to bring Macey’s child into the world, he would do anything. After all, the cost was nothing to him. Just one disposable woman he never loved.

Moments later, Dennis burst out of the study, eyes wild with adrenaline. “Ann! Let’s go—right now. Fullbody checkup today.”

“Actually—better idea. You should be admitted. Stay for full treatment, prep your body properly. Don’t worry about packing—I’ll bring you anything you need!” Without waiting for a reply, he scooped me into his arms and carried me out the door, as if every second mattered.

In all the six years I’d known him—three years of dating, three years of marriage—he’d barely ever touched me. And now? He held me nonstop the entire way to the hospital, carrying me like I was precious cargo.

Denny didn’t realize this, of course. But this would be the last time he ever laid hands on me. One week from now, I’d disappear from his world completely.

At the hospital, he placed me gently onto the bed and kissed my forehead like a doting husband.

“I’ll go handle your admission paperwork, okay?”

He rushed out before I could respond, heading straight for the doctors’ offices.

I followed quietly, careful not to be seen—just in time to hear how he really saw me.

“Don’t waste my time with ethics. You’re the best hospital in the country,” Dennis snapped at a doctor, his voice low and charged with excitement. “Uterus transplant surgery—you have the tech. When can you do it? I’ll donate three entire buildings to your department.”

“Mr. Cunningham, this goes against everything we stand for,” the doctor shot back. “Implanting a deceased uterus into a living woman would trigger fullsystem infection. It’s completely unethical—and medically impossible.”

“Money isn’t the issue,” Dennis' voice rising with impatience.

“Mr. Cunningham,” the doctor cut in. “This is a hospital. Not an execution chamber.”

SLAM.

A loud crash echoed from the office as Dennis pounded his fist on the desk.

The next moment, Dennis’s voice dropped to something gloomy, “Dr. Anderson, don’t forget—I have the power to end your medical career. Wherever you go, whatever hospital you try to join, I’ll destroy it.”

“I’ve come to you about Macey so many times. You know what she means to me.”

“Anyone who tries to stop me from having a child with Macey... deserves to die!”

Silence fell across the room.

Finally, Dr. Anderson let out a weary sigh and asked, “Even if I were willing… does your wife agree to this? Why her? Why risk her body?”

“She’s your wife, Mr. Cunningham. If you’re that determined, find a death row inmate or someone who—at the very least—makes this slightly less horrific, morally speaking…”

Dennis cut him off with a cold laugh. “And what makes a death row inmate worthy of lying next to Macey on an operating table?”

“Anna lives in my house. Spends my money. Wears the title of Mrs. Cunningham. The least she can do is fulfill a wife’s basic duty.”

He said it like he was talking about a couch. Like I was something he bought—and now wanted to repurpose.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.

Three years of sleeping beside this man. Three years of thinking we were building a life. And none of it meant anything?

Why did it have to be me? Even when the doctor offered alternatives—other bodies, other options—Dennis refused. He was set on using mine. In that moment, I knew, with terrifying clarity—he never loved me.

Dennis' affection was staged. The tenderness? A lie. Even that wedding vow—“I’ll spend the rest of my life treating you right”—was nothing but a lure to pull me into his trap.

Right then, my phone buzzed with a new message. It was from my college friend who finished installing the cctv back at the basement.

He’d attached a photo too. Macey’s corpse.

[The woman in the photo... looks a lot like you.]

The first time I found the basement, I was too shocked and scared to really look at Macey’s face.

Now, staring at that photo, I finally saw it clearly: She looked almost exactly like me. Maybe a 90% match.

And just like that, it all made sense. I was never his partner. I was a standin. A breathing photograph. A vessel for his grief—and his obsession.

Later that day, after Dennis left the hospital, I found Dr. Anderson. “I need you to help me stage something. I want to fake my death on the operating table.”

His eyes widened. “Mrs. Cunningham—?”

“I heard everything,” I cut in, locking the door behind me. My tone left no room for argument. “Whatever Dennis promised you, I can match it. Whatever he used to threaten you, I can do the same.”

“But unlike him, I’m offering you a choice: Help me fake my death and walk away with clean hands… or become an accessory to murder.”

Dr. Anderson frowned. “You should go to the police—”

I shook my head with a bitter smile. “You really think that’ll work? This man kept a corpse hidden in his basement for three years. He’s not just sick—he’s delusional. Who else would believe a fantasy about getting a dead woman pregnant?”

He went quiet. Then, slowly, he nodded.

I laid out the entire plan—every detail—and watched as cold sweat began to form on his forehead. “Mrs. Cunningham, you…”

“Call me Ms. Ward,” I cut in.

“Ms. Ward… he never should’ve crossed you,” the doctor said.

Dennis thought I was just a lamb waiting for slaughter. He must’ve forgotten that the first time we met, I wiped the floor with him on the fencing strip.

One week from now, during the surgery he arranged, I’ll remind him what hell feels like.

He had told the doctors I was going in for IVF preparation. I played along, pretending to be the perfect, docile wife. The surgery was scheduled for a week later.

I let him sign the admission papers. I let him tuck me into the hospital bed. I even thanked him with a smile so fake I nearly choked on it.

It was a relief, honestly—not having to go home, not having to keep pretending to love the man whose very presence made my skin crawl.

I mean, three years… I shared a roof with a necrophile.

Now alone in my private VIP hospital room, I connected my phone to the hidden basement camera feed. I curled under the blanket and watched the man who thought he was orchestrating everything.

On screen, Dennis knelt beside the casket, his fingers gently tracing the bluish outline of Macey’s cold, lifeless cheek.

“Macey… just a few more days and Anna will carry our baby. You’re finally going to be a mom. We’ll paint the nursery your favorite pale blue. Just like you always wanted.”

Dennis leaned down and kissed the corpse on the lips. Three years of marriage and I had never received a kiss that gentle from him.

On the screen, Dennis kept talking in a soft, dreamlike voice—like the dead woman in front of him was only sleeping. He said once the baby was born, he’d name her Sweet Mace. He said once he’d “taken care of” me, he’d take Macey to the Maldives to go scuba diving, just like she always wanted.

I watched in silence and backed up the footage.

Every ounce of that socalled “devotion” would one day become the blade I’d drive into his throat.

In the days that followed, Dennis rarely came by the hospital. When he did, he was distracted, glued to his phone, endlessly refreshing the forum thread.

One time I tested him, saying I felt tightness in my chest. He didn’t even look up.

“Talk to a nurse or something,” he muttered.

I understood. My final value to him was nearly over. Once I carried Macey’s child to term, the “incubator” would be discarded like trash.

The fewer visits, the better. It gave me the space I needed.

Alone in my hospital room, I spent every day working from my laptop, finalizing everything for my new identity.

My college friend came through like a miracle worker.

Within a week, I had everything: a new name, fake university records, government ID, even a full set of household documents.

The name on my new identity card was Gloria Spring.

He said he was wishing for my new peace with the name. That he hoped I’d live the rest of my life with the quiet calm of a spring.

Then came the day of the surgery.

Dennis showed up unusually early. He couldn’t sit still, pacing the room with an energy that was almost manic.

A nurse came in to administer the preop injection. Dennis reminded her, “Make sure it’s general anesthesia. I don’t want her to suffer through it awake.”

I looked up at him and noticed the bloodshot veins in his eyes. No doubt he hadn’t been sleeping—probably too busy thinking about his precious Macey.

He caught my gaze and softened his expression with a fake tenderness. “Just relax and get some rest, Ann. When you wake up and you’ve recovered… we’ll finally be able to have our child.”

My stomach twisted. Regardless, I nodded without saying anything.

The truth was, Dr. Anderson had already told me in advance: the anesthesia would only be partial. Just enough to fake unconsciousness in front of Dennis.

I closed my eyes and felt the prick of the needle as the drug entered my bloodstream.

Moments later, as my breathing slowed and my body stilled, I heard Dennis say to the surgical team, “Macey’s body has been delivered. Be careful during the operation—don’t damage her uterus.”

“I still need her body in good condition.”

Silence.

Then his voice again, darker now. “If anything happens to Macey’s body, your hospital won’t survive the week.”

A sharp pain clenched my chest. I was his wife. And yet he never said a single word of concern for me. To him, I wasn’t even worth as much as a corpse.

Dennis tried to insist on staying to watch the surgery, but for the first time, Dr. Anderson pushed back, “No unauthorized personnel in the OR, Mr. Cunningham. Respect the protocol.”

The metal door slammed shut. And the moment it did, I opened my eyes.

Across the sterile curtain, Dr. Anderson gave me a subtle nod. “Ms. Ward,” he said calmly. “Are you ready?”

I sat up and pulled the IV out of my arm.

On the table beside me was a body bag—unzipped halfway—revealing the face that looked eerily like mine.

It was Macey.

The nurses and assistants carefully lifted her body onto the surgical table I had just vacated. I lay down in the nowempty body bag. The one meant for her.

As of today, Anna was dead.

“Let’s proceed with the ‘operation,’” I instructed.

The makeup artist, dressed as a nurse, nodded and got to work.