People always talk about the end. The kiss. The ring. The vows. The tearful walk down the aisle, parents clapping like they hadn’t warned you about love your entire life.
But what they never tell you is that a happily ever after can rot from the inside.
We moved into the countryside in December. He said the city had too much noise, and we deserved quiet. A house tucked between woods and fog, with nothing but the sound of wind brushing the windows. I agreed because I wanted to be soft. To be loved gently. Because for once in my life, I didn’t want to fight.
"You'll love it here," Adrian said, kissing my forehead.
I smiled. "As long as you're here."
He laughed, but his eyes didn’t crinkle the way they used to. I missed that.
The house had three floors. A creaky staircase that groaned under our weight. A fireplace that coughed out ash like a smoker on his last breath. Still, I lit candles. I made the bed every morning. I learned the song of this place. But something about it never settled right. Like the house was pretending, just like I was.
It started with the guest room.
I was looking for extra blankets and noticed the scratches. Five of them, uneven, on the back of the door. They were faint but deep. Like someone had clawed it in a hurry. My brain whispered reasons: a previous owner, maybe a dog. But my gut twisted.
Later that night, I asked, "Did this place ever have pets?"
Adrian didn’t look up from his book. "Not that I know of. Why?"
"Scratches on the guest room door. They look... off."
He paused. "You’re overthinking again."
I looked at his face, serene and unreadable, and something cold brushed against my ribs.
I started hearing things. At night, when he slept beside me, I’d hear footsteps. Upstairs. Too heavy to be rats, too distinct to be imagination. Once, I swore I heard a girl sobbing. But when I crept through the halls, there was nothing. Just silence and the distant hum of the old radiator.
Adrian said I was tired. That adjusting to the silence would take time.
"You're spiraling again, love. You used to do this in college too. Remember?"
Yes. I remembered. I remembered how he held me during my breakdowns, how he whispered that he was my safe place. How he made me feel like I wasn’t broken.
But now I felt like he was studying me. His eyes lingered when I cried. When I screamed during nightmares, he would wake but not move. Just stare.
One morning, I found his study door locked.
"You never used to lock that," I said, trying the handle again.
He appeared behind me, startling me. "Just work files. Boring stuff."
I laughed awkwardly. "You never thought I'd understand boring stuff before."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, maybe I’m just getting older."
That night, he fell asleep before me. His laptop glowed on the nightstand. Curiosity or desperation—I don’t know which made me open it.
And there I was.
Videos.
Of me. Sleeping. Brushing my teeth. Reading. Crying. Even the one time I broke down in the guest room and screamed into the floor.
He had labeled them by date. Each file with little notes. "Increased tears today." "Smiled less than usual." "Did not ask about work."
I stared at the screen, bile rising. My mouth tasted like rust. When I turned, he was gone.
The bed was empty.
The bathroom light was on.
I closed the laptop. Put it back exactly as I found it.
The next day, I acted normal. Kissed him. Laughed at his jokes. Made coffee. But inside, I was screaming.
I called my sister from the garden. "Can you come visit? Please? Just for a weekend."
"Is everything okay?"
"I just... I miss you."
But the calls never went through. Neither did my texts. My emails bounced back. And every time I asked Adrian about the WiFi, he said, "You should take a break from the world."
The days folded in on themselves. Time became sludge. I stopped recognizing myself. I found more footage, more notes. He was documenting me. Like a subject. Like an experiment.
I tried to leave once.
Packed a bag. Walked to the front door.
Locked. Deadbolted. I didn’t even know we had a deadbolt.
I searched for the keys. He said he lost them. All of them.
"Don't you feel safe here?" he asked, brushing my hair back. "The world outside is cruel. I just want to protect you."
My voice shook. "Adrian, you're scaring me."
His eyes flickered. "You always said you wanted to be loved fiercely."
Love isn’t supposed to feel like a cage.
One night, the power went out. I crept into the hallway, holding a candle. The shadows looked alive. I heard movement downstairs and followed it. The study door was open.
Inside, maps. Journals. A board covered in my photos, post-its, schedules.
I wasn’t his wife.
I was a project.
Then I saw it. A box. Old. Dusty. I opened it with shaking hands.
Photos.
A girl. Same eyes. Same smile. She looked like me.
Only it wasn’t me.
She wore the same wedding dress. Same ring.
Then a newspaper clipping.
Missing: Clara Holmes, age 27. Last seen with fiancé, Adrian Vale.
Dated six years ago.
I screamed. Dropped everything. And ran.
But the doors were locked.
He found me curled on the floor.
"You found Clara," he whispered. "I hoped you wouldn't."
"What did you do to her?"
His expression softened. "She wasn’t perfect. But you... you have potential."
I lunged for the fireplace poker. Hit him. Ran.
The house came alive. Alarms. Lights flickering. I heard voices in the walls. Laughter.
Not just his.
Other women.
Other lives.
I found the basement. Hidden behind the pantry. The smell hit me first. Metal. Decay. Memory.
A row of wedding dresses.
All my size.
I vomited.
Behind me, the door slammed.
"I thought you'd be different," his voice echoed.
But I wasn’t. I was just the next.
And maybe... the last.
I woke up chained to a bed. My mouth was dry. The room was sterile, white, too white. Bright lights. A hum that never stopped.
Adrian sat beside me with a clipboard.
"You've been asleep for two days," he said gently. "You needed the rest."
"Where am I?"
"Somewhere no one can find us. Not even your sister."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because love isn’t enough. Structure is. Monitoring is. Reinforcement. Clara didn’t understand that. She became chaotic. Unstable."
"You killed her."
He blinked. "No. I released her."
That word—released—slithered into my ears like a worm.
I bided my time.
He brought me food. Washed my hair. Read aloud to me. Sometimes he wept.
"I just want someone who won’t break, you know?"
I pretended to listen. Pretended to forgive.
One night, I asked, "Can I go outside again?"
He stared at me for a long time. Then nodded.
He led me through a tunnel. Underground. The air was thick, like secrets clinging to my skin.
We emerged near the woods. Moonlight. I tasted it like water after drought.
"Just a few minutes," he said.
I smiled. Slipped my hand into his.
Then I ran.
Fast. Hard. I didn’t look back.
I heard him shouting. Footsteps. But I kept going.
And then—a road. A truck. Headlights.
I waved my arms.
The driver stopped. I screamed. Collapsed.
He took me to the police. I told them everything. Showed them Clara’s photos. The videos. The dresses.
They raided the house.
It was gone.
The woods were untouched. No house. No tunnel. No Adrian.
Just trees.
They said I hallucinated. Breakdown. Stress. Imagination.
But I know what I saw.
I know what he did.
And I know he’s still watching.
Because yesterday, in my mailbox, was a photo.
Of me.
Sleeping.
Labeled: Day One.
The end or is it just the beginning?
React
