I Love My Wife…or at Least She Tells Me I Love Her

I loved my wife… I mean love her? Truthfully, I can barely remember the first time we met.

I think it was a dive bar.

Or maybe a strip club somewhere off the interstate. The kind of place with stained red carpet and cigarette burns melted into the edge of the counter. Every time I try to remember it clearly, the details change. The walls change colors. The music becomes louder. Faces blur together like wet paint dragged beneath a thumb.

But I remember the feeling.

I remember what I was before her.

I was thirty-three years old and rotting from the inside out.

A month earlier, I’d caught my girlfriend of ten years in bed with my best friend. Funny enough, the betrayal itself didn’t hurt the most. It was the look on their faces when they saw me standing in the doorway. Not guilt. Not shame. Just annoyance. Like I had interrupted something inconvenient.

After that, my life collapsed quietly.

The apartment smelled like stale beer, dirty laundry, and the sour metallic scent of old takeout left too long in the trash. Days bled together beneath drawn curtains while dust gathered over everything I owned like a second skin. I stopped answering calls. Stopped shaving. Stopped opening mail. Some mornings I’d stand motionless in the shower for an hour, letting lukewarm water hit the back of my neck while I stared at the tile and tried to remember what being happy felt like.

I started spending my nights driving nowhere.

That’s what led me there, wherever there really was.

I remember rain tapping against neon-lit windows. Purple and red light bleeding across rows of liquor bottles. The air thick with perfume, cigarette smoke, sweat, and fryer grease. A woman laughed somewhere behind me, loud and hollow enough to sound painful. Country music crackled through blown speakers overhead.

I sat alone at the bar turning a whiskey glass between my fingers while thoughts darker than I’d ever admit to circled the inside of my skull like vultures.

Then she sat beside me.

Not walked over.

Not approached.

One second the stool next to me was empty.

The next, she was there.

I remember freezing the moment I noticed her.

She wore a black dress that clung to her like wet ink. Her dark hair spilled over one bare shoulder in soft curls, almost unnaturally perfect beneath the flickering neon glow. Her skin looked pale enough to belong underwater, smooth and luminous against the dim filth of the room.

But it was her eyes I remember most.

They didn’t look human.

Not in an obvious way. There were no glowing pupils or monstrous features. They were simply… wrong. Too still. Too deep. Like looking through a window into someplace cold and endless.

Yet I couldn’t stop staring.

The smell of her drifted toward me slowly. Vanilla, smoke, and something faintly sweet underneath it all.

Something rotten.

Like flowers left too long in standing water.

“You look lonely,” she said softly.

Her voice slid into me like warm oil.

And God help me…

I think some part of me loved her before she even finished the sentence.

Then suddenly, we were married.

At least, I think we were.

That’s the terrifying part.

I can’t remember a single date. Not one movie. Not one conversation that lasted longer than fragments drifting through my mind like smoke. No first kiss. No proposal. No memory of placing a ring on her finger.

Just… absence.

Like someone tore entire chapters out of my life and glued the ending together afterward.

All I have are the photographs.

They cover the house in silver frames and thick black albums stacked across marble tables. Wedding photos. Honeymoon photos. Pictures of us smiling beside oceans I don’t remember visiting and restaurants I swear I’ve never stepped foot inside.

In every single image, she looks radiant.

And I look…

Happy.

Or at least close enough to fool the camera.

Sometimes I stand in front of those pictures for hours studying my own face like a detective examining evidence from a stranger’s murder. The smile on my face never reaches my eyes. My posture always seems stiff, almost puppet-like. Like someone told me where to stand and how wide to grin.

But it’s my family that unsettles me most.

At first glance they look happy. My mother crying during the ceremony. My uncle raising a champagne glass. My younger sister hugging me beneath strings of golden lights.

But the longer you stare…

The more something feels wrong.

Their smiles look strained.

Tight.

Forced.

My mother’s mascara is smeared beneath her eyes like she’d been crying long before the ceremony started. My sister looks pale enough to be sick. In one photo, my father is staring directly at me with an expression I still can’t explain.

Fear.

Not fear of her.

Fear for me.

The house itself only deepened the feeling that something wasn’t right.

It was enormous. Far beyond anything either of us should’ve been able to afford. A sprawling gothic estate hidden deep beneath dead pines at the edge of town where fog clung low across the ground every morning like breath hovering over a grave.

The place looked less like a home and more like a cathedral built for mourning.

Black marble floors stretched endlessly beneath vaulted ceilings. Dark wood walls drank in the dim amber light cast by antique chandeliers overhead. Long crimson curtains hung over towering windows, thick enough to suffocate the moonlight trying to slip through. Even during the day, the house felt trapped in permanent twilight.

It was beautiful in the same way a coffin can be beautiful.

Cold.

Perfect.

Dead.

And she adored it.

She moved through those halls like she belonged there more than the house itself. Bare feet gliding silently across marble floors. Black silk robes trailing behind her like spilled ink. Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night and find her standing near the bedroom window staring out into the woods for hours without moving.

As if she were listening to something beyond the trees.

The strangest part was…

I never once saw her work.

Not a job.

Not a paycheck.

Nothing.

Yet money never seemed to matter.

The fridge was always full. The lights stayed on. Expensive gifts appeared around the house without explanation. Tailored clothes hung waiting for me in the closet before I even realized I needed them.

Whenever I asked how she paid for any of it, she’d just smile softly and brush her fingers along my cheek.

“Don’t worry about those things,” she’d whisper.

“I take care of you.”

And somehow…

That answer always felt enough.

The first time I truly noticed something was wrong was when I found the door nailed shut.

Not the front door.

Not the back door.

Those still opened. I think.

No, this door led somewhere deeper. The basement, apparently. Though I hadn’t even known the house had one. Then again, the place was so massive and twisted with endless hallways and rooms that I still hadn’t seen all of it. Some parts of the house felt unfinished, like it was still growing around us while we slept.

I found the door hidden behind the dining hall beneath a narrow staircase I could’ve sworn hadn’t been there before.

The wood was black and swollen with age. Rusted nails had been hammered all around the frame in frantic clusters, some bent sideways as if whoever placed them there had been in a hurry. The air near it felt colder than the rest of the house. Not normal cold either. Damp cold. The kind that crawls beneath your clothes and settles into your bones.

And there was a smell.

Sweet.

Rotten.

Like flowers left on a grave too long.

I stepped closer.

My hand slowly reached toward the handle.

Then her voice cracked through the hallway like a whip.

“HONEY!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

The sound hit me with this strange pressure, sharp and sudden, like a knife dragged across piano wire. For a split second, I could’ve sworn she sounded angry.

Not annoyed.

Not upset.

Hungry.

I turned around too fast, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

But there she stood at the end of the hallway smiling at me.

Radiant.

Perfect.

Her black dress hugged her pale skin like spilled ink beneath the dim chandelier light. Dark curls framed her face softly, and her eyes glimmered with that same impossible warmth that always made my thoughts feel slow and heavy.

Like sinking underwater.

“I made you dinner, baby,” she said sweetly. “Come help me set the table.”

The anger I thought I heard vanished instantly beneath the softness of her voice.

Maybe I imagined it.

God, that smile…

It pulled at me.

Not emotionally. Physically.

Like invisible hooks buried somewhere deep inside my chest tightening toward her. I wanted to investigate the basement further. Some instinct buried beneath all the fog in my head screamed at me to open that door.

But her gaze held me in place.

Warm.

Adoring.

Possessive.

And suddenly the basement didn’t seem important anymore.

“Yes, babe,” I heard myself say quietly. “Of course.”

My body moved before my mind fully caught up.

Like a puppet tugged gently by unseen strings, I followed behind her down the dark hallway while the nailed-shut basement door disappeared slowly into shadow behind us.

I knew I had to see what was behind that door.

But I had to be careful.

Stealthy.

I had to wait until she wasn’t home.

The problem was… she was always there.

Watching.

Lingering.

Helping me.

Caring for me.

Sometimes I’d wake in the middle of the night and find her sitting at the edge of the bed simply staring at me in the dark with that soft smile stretched across her lips. Other times she followed me silently from room to room, humming gently while her fingers trailed across my shoulders or through my hair.

Never hostile.

Never cruel.

Just… constant.

Like a shadow pretending to be a wife.

One afternoon I finally made an excuse.

“I’ve really been craving that vanilla fudge brownie ice cream from Trader Joe’s,” I told her. “The specific one.”

She smiled immediately.

“Of course, baby.”

“I think I’ll stay home though,” I added quickly. “I’m feeling a little under the weather.”

That made her pause.

Only for a second.

But I saw it.

Her eyes studied me carefully, almost too carefully, like she was peeling my thoughts apart layer by layer beneath my skin.

Then came the smile again.

Warm.

Sweet.

Perfect.

“Okay, my love,” she said softly. “You get comfy. I’ll be right back. I won’t be long.”

She leaned down and kissed me.

Her lips were warm and impossibly soft. The moment they touched my skin, heat spread through my body like sunlight pouring through frozen glass. For a brief second, every fear inside me vanished.

Then she left.

The second I heard the front door shut, my body snapped into motion.

Forty-five minutes.

Maybe an hour.

That’s all I had.

I grabbed a hammer from the tool shed outside and rushed back into the house, my pulse thundering so hard I could hear it in my ears.

The basement door stood waiting at the end of the hallway.

Silent.

The air around it felt colder now.

Wrong.

I wedged the claw of the hammer beneath the first nail and pulled.

The wood shrieked.

The nail fought back like it had roots buried deep inside the frame. Rust cracked apart slowly as I tore it free inch by inch.

One nail.

Then another.

Then another.

Each one clanged against the floor like a gunshot.

Sweat rolled down my neck despite the freezing air. By the time I reached the final nail, my hands were shaking violently.

I ripped it free.

Silence.

The door slowly creaked inward.

Darkness breathed out from the opening.

Not air.

Breath.

Cold and damp carrying the overpowering smell of mildew, wet stone, and something sweetly rotten underneath it all.

I stepped inside.

The staircase descended far deeper than it should have.

Each step groaned beneath my weight like old bones shifting inside flesh. The elegant wooden walls of the house slowly disappeared behind me, replaced by jagged rock and slick stone dripping with moisture.

The deeper I went, the less it resembled a basement.

It was becoming a cave.

Stalactites hung overhead like rotten teeth. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling into shallow puddles coating the ground. The walls pulsed faintly beneath the dim light, almost breathing.

Then I saw the red glow.

Faint at first.

Accompanied by low humming.

Not music exactly.

More like voices trying to sing through sobs.

Pain and joy tangled together into one horrible sound.

I moved toward it slowly until the tunnel finally opened wide.

And I saw it.

An altar.

Black stone slick with thick red liquid that trickled from grooves carved into its surface. The blood flowed downward into a shallow pool surrounding the base where strange symbols had been etched deep into the ground.

Candles flickered everywhere.

Bones littered the floor.

Human bones.

Cages lined the walls.

Chains hung from the ceiling.

Some still swayed gently.

Then came the screaming.

Close.

Loud.

Violent.

Like a starving animal charging through darkness toward prey.

I froze.

Every muscle locked.

The sound grew closer—

Then her voice exploded through the cave.

“HOW DARE YOU DISOBEY ME!”

The entire cavern shook.

My ears rang violently.

Then everything went black.

I woke up in bed screaming.

Pain stabbed through my skull like an ice pick driven into my ears.

The room spun around me beneath dim candlelight.

“Oh baby,” she whispered softly beside me. “My poor baby.”

“What… happened?” I groaned.

“I came home with your ice cream and found you sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.” She brushed hair gently from my forehead. “You took a nasty fall.”

“No…” I whispered. “No, I saw it. The cave… the altar… blood…”

Her expression softened with concern.

“Oh honey,” she said gently, “you really must’ve hit your head hard. We don’t even have a basement.”

“Yes we do,” I snapped weakly. “Under the stairs. I’ll show you.”

I tried standing.

My legs immediately collapsed beneath me.

I felt hollow.

Drained.

Like something had sucked the marrow from my bones.

“Easy now,” she soothed. “You’re still recovering.”

Then she lifted me effortlessly.

Like I weighed nothing.

That terrified me more than anything else.

She sat me carefully into a wheelchair.

“Go ahead, baby,” she said sweetly. “Show me.”

She wheeled me through the hallway while my heart pounded harder with every second.

Finally we reached the spot.

I pointed weakly.

“There. Right there.”

She turned me slowly toward the wall.

Smooth black marble stared back at me.

No door.

No staircase.

Nothing.

“See?” she whispered.

Her hand rested on my shoulder.

Too tight.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to warn.

“Just our beautiful home.”

I slowly looked up at her.

For a split second

her eyes looked vertical.

Serpent.

Her smile stretched too wide.

And her teeth looked far too sharp.

Hungry.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to nod.

“It… must’ve been a dream.”

Her fingers tightened slightly.

Then relaxed.

“Yes,” she whispered with a smile.

“A dream.”

The days after that, I could barely walk.

My energy stayed low no matter how much I rested. Every movement felt heavy, like my body was slowly filling with wet sand. My arms looked thinner by the week. My ribs started showing beneath my skin. The sharp angles of my collarbones pushed against flesh that had gone pale and sickly.

I was rotting alive.

At least that’s what it felt like.

The worst part was the exhaustion never truly ended. Sleep no longer felt restful beside her. It became something violent. Something suffocating.

Night after night I drifted through nightmares I could never fully remember after waking. Endless caves of breathing stone. Black water swallowing me whole. Pale hands reaching from darkness. Sometimes I heard screaming far away echoing through tunnels beneath the house.

Sometimes I heard my own voice screaming with them.

I’d wake drenched in cold sweat, gasping violently into the darkness while my heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt.

And every single time…

She’d already be awake.

Sitting beside me in her nightgown.

God, she always looked beautiful.

That was the horrible part.

Even through the fear and confusion, part of me still wanted her. Moonlight poured through the curtains in soft silver ribbons across her pale skin while black silk clung to every curve of her body. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid shadow, framing that impossibly perfect face.

She didn’t look real.

She looked sculpted.

Like something ancient had studied what men desired most and shaped itself accordingly.

But she never seemed to sleep anymore.

Whenever I woke suddenly in terror, she’d simply be sitting there watching me quietly with that soft smile on her lips, gently running her fingers through my damp hair.

“Go back to sleep, baby,” she’d whisper. “You need your rest.”

And I always obeyed.

What else could I do?

I barely had the strength to stand on my own anymore.

It felt almost deliberate.

Like punishment.

Punishment for breaking a rule I didn’t even know existed.

Then one night, I woke up because I couldn’t breathe.

At first I thought I was choking.

My chest convulsed violently as panic ripped through me. I clawed at my throat gasping for air that wouldn’t come. My vision blurred beneath tears as I forced my eyes open into the darkness.

And that’s when I saw it.

Something black stretched from her side of the bed into my mouth.

A thick, slick tentacle-like appendage pulsed slowly inside my throat, glistening beneath the pale moonlight. Veins twitched beneath its wet surface as it moved rhythmically, almost breathing.

Feeding.

I could feel it pulling something out of me.

Not blood.

Not air.

Something deeper.

Every pulse left my body weaker.

Colder.

Empty.

I tried to scream but couldn’t.

The thing suddenly slid backward with a horrible wet sound disappearing beneath the blankets beside her.

Then a pale hand shot from the darkness.

Cold fingers pressed firmly against my forehead.

“SLEEP.”

Her voice no longer sounded human.

It hit me like a hammer against my skull.

The room folded inward instantly.

And I was gone.

Then suddenly, one morning, my strength returned.

Not all at once.

But enough.

Enough that I could stand without collapsing. Enough that my legs no longer trembled beneath me when I walked. The fog in my mind had thinned just enough for me to feel like myself again… or at least something close to myself.

I remember stumbling into the bathroom and staring at my reflection for a long time.

I looked healthier.

Healthier than before.

But older somehow too.

Maybe it was the beard grown thick down to my collarbone from weeks trapped in bed. Maybe it was the grayness in my skin or the deep hollows beneath my eyes. I looked like a man pulled from the ocean after spending days underwater.

Not dead.

Just close enough to it.

Still, I wasn’t nearly as skeletal as I’d been during my “recovery.”

That’s when the thought first entered my head.

A cycle.

The weakness.

The feeding.

The recovery.

Over and over again.

Almost like livestock being starved and fattened before slaughter.

But she couldn’t let me die…

Right?

My wife loved me.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Perfect.

She wouldn’t kill me.

She always told me so.

“Baby, you love me.”

“And I love you.”

I believed her.

God help me, I did.

But somewhere deep beneath the warmth she wrapped around my mind, something small and terrified kept whispering:

Run.

Leave.

Days passed, and she began feeding me constantly.

Huge meals appeared at all hours of the day. Thick steaks glazed in butter. Fresh bread still steaming from the oven. Rich pastas swimming in cream sauce. Wine sweeter than anything I’d ever tasted.

The smell alone made my mouth water instantly.

And she’d sit across from me at the candlelit table watching me eat with those dark endless eyes.

Smiling.

“Eat up, baby,” she purred softly. “I need you happy and fat.”

Something about the way she said it made me pause.

I looked up at her slowly.

She only smiled wider.

So I forced myself to grin back and nodded like it was a joke.

But deep down, cold fear twisted inside my stomach.

I need to leave this place.

The thought came suddenly and sharp.

Something isn’t right.

But the second the idea formed, another feeling smothered it almost instantly.

Warmth.

Comfort.

Desire.

How could I leave her?

How could I run from someone so beautiful?

So loving?

Every time she touched me, my thoughts slowed like animals sinking into tar. Her fingers brushing my cheek could erase hours of fear in seconds.

I started realizing something horrifying.

It wasn’t just emotional anymore.

My body physically resisted thoughts of leaving.

Like she lived somewhere inside my bloodstream now.

I’d pace near the front door for minutes at a time trying to force my hand toward the knob while panic and guilt swelled violently inside my chest.

You’re overreacting.

She loves you.

You’re sick.

Nothing is wrong.

Just stay.

The reassurance came so naturally I almost didn’t notice it at first.

Until one night while lying awake beside her, staring into the darkness…

I realized the voice inside my head comforting me…

Wasn’t mine.

It was hers.

That’s when I decided I needed to run.

Run far away and never look back.

It all made sense now.

The cave.

The chains.

The blood.

The cages.

The hollow moans echoing through those tunnels every night in my dreams.

This wasn’t a marriage.

This wasn’t love.

And she sure as hell wasn’t some angel sent to save me from loneliness.

She was a parasite.

A beautiful one.

A demon wearing soft skin and a loving smile while feeding on me piece by piece to keep herself alive. And once I became too frail, too hollowed out to give her anything else…

She’d move on to the next man.

The realization poisoned everything.

Every kiss now felt predatory.

Every touch possessive.

Every “I love you” sounded rehearsed, like bait dangling above a trap I’d already stepped into.

But the worst part?

A piece of me still wanted her.

Even after everything.

Especially after everything.

I started planning my escape carefully.

I forced myself to eat every meal she gave me. Every steak dripping with butter. Every rich bowl of pasta. Every glass of wine that warmed my body and dulled my thoughts. I needed my strength back.

I needed enough energy to run.

Every day around the same time, she disappeared for an hour or two.

“To do chores,” she’d say sweetly.

Though I never once saw her buy groceries.

Never saw deliveries.

Never saw another human being near the house at all.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she’d whisper. “I’ll be right back.”

And every single time she kissed me before leaving.

Her hands would slide slowly around the back of my neck while her body pressed softly against mine, warm and sensual beneath silk fabric. The smell of vanilla and smoke clung to her skin like a drug.

Almost enough to make me forget.

Almost enough to make me stay.

Snap out of it, Ben.

I’d think desperately after the front door closed.

She’s killing you.

Over the following weeks, I started hiding supplies inside an old backpack beneath loose floorboards in the bedroom closet.

A flashlight.

A hammer.

Kitchen knives.

Bottled water.

Even though deep down I knew none of those things would help me against whatever she truly was.

Still…

It made me feel human again.

Like I had some control.

The plan itself was simple.

The second she left, I’d grab the car keys hanging beside the front door, get in the car, and drive until the house disappeared behind me forever.

Simple.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

But something deep inside me already knew—

Nothing about leaving her was ever going to be simple.

The day finally came.

She kissed me the same way she always did before leaving. Slow. Warm. Loving.

That morning she wore a long crimson dress that flowed around her body like spilled wine. The fabric danced around her legs as she walked toward the front door, dark curls swaying gently across her bare shoulders.

God, she looked beautiful.

Perfect.

My chest tightened watching her leave.

No.

Focus.

She’s killing you.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she whispered softly before stepping outside. “I’ll be right back.”

Then she kissed me one last time.

Her lips were warm enough to melt thought itself. Her hands slid around the back of my neck while her body pressed against mine, soft and familiar and terrifyingly comforting.

Almost enough to make me stay.

Then she was gone.

I waited ten full minutes after hearing the front door shut.

Ten agonizing minutes listening for footsteps.

Breathing.

Anything.

Nothing.

Finally, I moved.

I grabbed the backpack from beneath the floorboards and rushed through the house toward the front entrance. My pulse hammered violently inside my chest as I snatched the car keys from the hook beside the door.

The cold metal shook in my trembling hand.

This was it.

Freedom.

I burst outside and sprinted toward the car parked beneath the dead pine trees. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as cold air burned inside my lungs.

My hands shook so badly I could barely get the key into the ignition.

“Come on…” I muttered desperately. “Come on…”

The key slipped once.

Twice.

Then finally clicked into place.

Relief flooded through me.

“Yes…”

That’s when I heard breathing.

Slow.

Soft.

Directly behind me.

Every hair on my body stood straight up.

My blood turned to ice.

And then—

“What are you doing, Ben?”

Her voice came from the backseat.

I froze so completely I forgot how to breathe.

Slowly…

Slowly…

I looked into the rearview mirror.

She sat directly behind me smiling.

The red dress pooled around her legs like fresh blood beneath the dim light filtering through the windshield. Her pale hands rested neatly in her lap while dark curls framed her face perfectly.

But her eyes…

There was no warmth left in them now.

Only knowing.

Only hunger.

And somehow that hurt worse.

“Are you leaving?” she asked softly.

Her voice sounded wounded.

Like I had betrayed her.

My mouth opened but no sound came out.

I hadn’t heard the passenger door open.

Hadn’t seen her walk to the car.

Hadn’t heard footsteps.

It was like she had simply appeared there waiting for me.

Watching.

“I…” My throat tightened painfully. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

“Without me?”

The temperature inside the car dropped instantly.

“You love me,” she whispered.

Her voice layered strangely over itself now, deeper tones vibrating beneath her words like multiple mouths speaking together.

“We do everything together.”

Fear crawled violently through my stomach.

I gripped the steering wheel harder.

Then something inside me finally snapped.

“I’m leaving you!” I shouted. “I won’t be your toy anymore! I won’t be your food!”

Silence filled the car.

She stared at me through the mirror without blinking.

Then slowly…

Her smile disappeared.

And her face began to split open.

Then slowly…

Her smile disappeared.

The air inside the car grew heavy enough to choke on.

At first, I thought nothing was happening.

Then I heard the soft crack of bone.

Her body began to shift gracefully in the backseat, almost like someone stretching after sleep. Her spine arched slowly beneath the red silk dress while shadows crawled across her pale skin like living ink beneath glass.

Her eyes changed first.

The pupils widened until her irises drowned completely in black, glossy and endless like pools of oil beneath candlelight. Thin veins darkened around them like delicate fractures in porcelain.

Still beautiful.

God help me, she was still beautiful.

Then her smile widened slightly too far.

Not enough to look monstrous.

Just enough to feel wrong.

Her teeth sharpened subtly into elegant points behind crimson lips while her fingers lengthened against the leather seats, nails darkening into glossy black claws.

The crimson dress fused against her skin as though becoming part of her body itself, wrapping around her waist and chest like living fabric. Slits opened along her back with wet tearing sounds.

And from them emerged wings.

Not feathered.

Membranous.

Massive black wings unfolded slowly behind her like smoke made solid, thin veins pulsing faintly through them beneath the dim gray light. They brushed against the roof of the car with soft scraping sounds as they spread wider and wider.

The smell of vanilla vanished.

Now she smelled like rain, blood, and midnight flowers blooming over graves.

Her beauty became overwhelming then.

Inhumanly so.

Every feature too perfect to belong to anything earthly. Skin smooth as polished marble. Lips impossibly red. Eyes hypnotic and ancient all at once. She looked less like a creature from Hell and more like a dark goddess dragged screaming from some forgotten religion.

And somehow…

That terrified me more.

Because part of me still wanted her.

Even now.

“You were supposed to stay with me forever,” she whispered softly.

Her voice no longer echoed with rage.

It sounded hurt.

Almost heartbroken.

Then she tilted her head slightly, black curls falling across one pale shoulder as her wings folded gently behind her.

And for one horrifying moment…

She looked exactly like the woman I loved again.

Then she lunged.

The trance shattered instantly.

I grabbed the hammer from beside me and swung wildly with every ounce of strength I had left.

CRACK.

The hammer slammed against the side of her face.

She let out a shriek so piercing the windshield exploded outward in a spray of glittering glass. Agony ripped through my ears as warm blood streamed down my neck.

But she didn’t look injured.

Just shocked.

Like no one had ever fought back before.

Her black wings burst outward violently, tearing through the cramped interior of the car while claws scraped deep grooves into the leather seats.

And for the first time…

She looked angry.

Not seductive.

Not loving.

Hungry.

I threw the car door open and practically fell onto the gravel below. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs as sharp rocks tore through my palms and knees.

“Move,” I gasped to myself. “Move!”

Behind me metal groaned loudly as her wings unfolded from the car in one massive motion.

I scrambled to my feet and turned just enough to finally see her fully.

She stood taller than any human woman should’ve been, nearly brushing the low hanging pine branches above the driveway. Her crimson dress flowed around her unnaturally despite the still air while those massive black wings curled slowly behind her like a cloak woven from shadow.

Her feet never touched the ground.

She hovered inches above it.

Dozens of tiny black veins pulsed beneath her pale skin while her dark eyes locked onto me with something between rage and heartbreak.

And somehow…

She was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

That terrified me most of all.

“Ben…” she whispered softly.

Not growled.

Not screamed.

Whispered.

The sound slid through my body like warm poison.

“Please.”

I took another shaky step backward toward the woods.

She tilted her head slightly.

“You love me.”

My chest tightened violently.

Because she was right.

Even after the cave.

The feeding.

The lies.

The horror.

Some broken part of me still loved her.

Tears blurred my vision.

“Come back,” she pleaded softly.

For one horrible second, I almost did.

Then I remembered the cages.

The chains.

The screaming buried beneath the earth.

I clenched the hammer tighter.

“No,” I whispered.

Pain crossed her face.

Real pain.

Then the woods behind me groaned softly in the wind.

Run.

I turned and sprinted into the trees.

Behind me her voice echoed through the forest one final time.

“BEN!”

I didn’t look back.

Because I knew if I saw her face again—

I’d go back willingly.

I tore through the woods like a madman.

Branches whipped across my face hard enough to draw blood while roots twisted beneath the dead leaves trying to pull my feet out from under me. My lungs burned raw. Every breath tasted like iron and pine sap. The cold night air stabbed deep into my chest as I pushed myself harder and harder through the darkness.

I just needed the road.

Civilization.

Lights.

People.

Anything.

Behind me the forest exploded with noise.

Branches snapped violently high above the ground followed by the roar of rushing wind tearing through the trees. Then came the screech.

God.

That sound.

It echoed through the woods with this horrible mixture of rage and heartbreak, sharp enough to vibrate through my teeth. She moved through the forest impossibly fast, gliding between the trees like a bullet fired through darkness.

Closer.

Closer.

I could hear the powerful beat of her wings overhead mixed with ragged cries that almost sounded human beneath the fury.

Then suddenly

Agony.

White-hot pain ripped across my back as something slammed into me from behind. Flesh tore open beneath razor-sharp claws, heat exploding down my spine while blood soaked instantly through my shirt.

I screamed and collapsed hard against the forest floor.

Leaves and mud filled my mouth as my legs gave out beneath me completely.

The world spun violently.

I rolled onto my back just in time to see her descending through the trees.

Beautiful.

Even now.

Moonlight filtered through the pine branches above, washing her pale skin in silver while those massive black wings folded slowly behind her. Her crimson dress drifted softly around her body untouched by the dirt and blood surrounding us. Dark curls framed her face while tears glimmered in those endless black eyes.

She looked less like a demon and more like a grieving angel cast out of Heaven.

“I gave you a chance, Ben,” she whispered.

Her voice trembled now.

“We had something special. You loved me… and I loved you.”

“Fuck you,” I spat.

The words came out weaker than I intended.

And the worst part was

I didn’t mean them.

Pain crossed her face instantly.

Real pain.

Like I had stabbed something living inside her chest.

Then she began to cry.

Not monstrous shrieking.

Not rage.

Just quiet heartbreaking sobs.

“Fine,” she whispered softly.

“Have it your way.”

Suddenly her hand tangled violently into my hair.

Pain exploded through my scalp as she dragged me across the forest floor. Rocks scraped against my exposed back wound while broken branches clawed across my skin. Every bump sent blinding pain shooting through my body.

The cave.

She was taking me back to the cave.

I pictured the cages.

The chains.

The hollow moaning buried beneath the earth.

No.

No no no

I remembered the knife.

Still tucked into my belt.

With the last bit of strength I had left, I ripped it free and drove it upward blindly.

The blade buried deep into her thigh.

She screamed.

The sound shattered the silence of the woods as black blood spilled down her pale leg like spilled ink.

And God help me

The sound broke my heart.

She stumbled to one knee clutching the wound while her wings trembled violently behind her.

I should’ve run then.

But I didn’t.

I stabbed her again.

This time beneath the ribs.

Another scream tore from her lips, softer now, filled more with grief than pain.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out, tears streaming down my face. “I’m so sorry… but I can’t die here.”

She looked up at me slowly.

Moonlight shimmered through tears running down her cheeks.

And for a moment…

She looked exactly like my wife again.

No claws.

No wings.

No darkness.

Just the woman who held me during nightmares and brushed her fingers through my hair while I slept.

“We could’ve been happy forever,” she whispered weakly.

“My Ben…”

I hesitated.

One horrible, impossible second.

Then I ran.

And she never chased me.

That’s the part that still haunts me most.

She never got back up.

Never screamed.

Never hunted me through the woods again.

She simply stayed there kneeling beneath the trees watching me leave.

Maybe she was too injured.

Or maybe…

Deep down…

I truly broke her heart.

And sometimes late at night, I hate myself for that thought.

Because despite everything she did to me… despite the feeding and the lies and the horror buried beneath that house…

Part of me still believes she loved me in her own sick terrible way.

Maybe I would’ve died eventually.

Skinny.

Withered.

Drained hollow beside her.

But maybe life with her would’ve still been beautiful.

I think about that all the time.

In dreams.

Walking down crowded streets.

Sitting alone in silence.

The thought always finds me eventually.

I finally reached the road, barely conscious.

Blood soaked down my back and legs while my body trembled uncontrollably from exhaustion. I must’ve looked insane stumbling barefoot from the woods covered in dirt and blood beneath the headlights passing by.

I walked maybe another mile before my legs finally gave out beneath me.

The last thing I remember seeing was headlights rushing toward me through the rain.

Then darkness.

I woke up in a hospital two days later.

The nurse told me I was lucky to be alive. Said a mountain lion must’ve gotten ahold of me pretty badly.

I just nodded.

Because what the hell else was I supposed to say?

Actually it was my succubus wife who tried dragging me back to her underground feeding cave.

No thanks.

They asked if there was anyone they could call for me.

Family.

Friends.

My wife.

That question hit me strangely.

Because sitting there in that hospital bed…

I realized I never actually knew her real name.

Not once.

She only ever called herself pet names around me.

Baby.

Honey.

My love.

And somehow I never questioned it.

I told them there was nobody.

Left the hospital the same night.

Luckily I still had my wallet. About two hundred dollars in cash stuffed inside. Enough for a train ticket to Montana where my parents lived in a small town buried beneath endless pine forests and snow.

I’ve been here ever since.

Quiet life.

Quiet job.

Quiet home.

But every now and then…

I’ll see a woman somewhere.

At a grocery store.

A bar.

Walking alone through a park.

Always beautiful.

Always smiling.

And for one horrible second…

I see her again.

Those same hypnotic eyes.

That same impossible elegance.

That same warmth calling softly from somewhere deep inside me.

I never stare too long.

Never speak.

I nod politely and leave.

Then I go back home.

Back to my childhood room.

Back to safety.

I’ll never marry again.

Never love again.

Because no woman alive could ever compare to the affection I once felt in her arms.

And maybe that’s the cruelest thing she took from me.