That night, she slept on the couch. Around midnight, she woke up suddenly, unsure why. The house was still, but she felt something different—a shift in the air, a presence that wasn’t there before. Then she heard it: the back door creaking softly, like a whisper from the dark. She froze. Every muscle tensed. The sound stopped, then returned—a slow, dragging hinge. Her pulse raced as she turned toward the sound.
“Ken?” she called, voice barely above a breath. No answer. She reached for her phone, but her hands were shaking. Before she could dial, she heard the door close. Then silence again. She waited. Minutes passed. The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked. The air thickened. Then came the faint sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, moving down the hallway.
“Ken,” she said again, louder this time. Nothing. She stood up, heart hammering, and took one cautious step toward the hall. The light from the living room barely reached the corner where the hallway began. It was like staring into the mouth of something that could swallow her whole.
Then—faint but unmistakable—a man’s whisper: “Lilian.” She froze. The sound came from behind her. She turned, but there was no one there. The door to the backyard was shut. The shoe was still by the mat. And on the wall, the wedding photo had tilted again—crooked, the way it used to be.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. One message. No name. “I’m home.” The text sent a chill through her. She looked around the room, her eyes scanning every shadow, every dark corner. Then she heard the shower running upstairs. And just like that, the horror of their love story began again—predictable, terrifying, and endlessly incomplete.
“Ken?” she called, voice barely above a breath. No answer. She reached for her phone, but her hands were shaking. Before she could dial, she heard the door close. Then silence again. She waited. Minutes passed. The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked. The air thickened. Then came the faint sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, moving down the hallway.
“Ken,” she said again, louder this time. Nothing. She stood up, heart hammering, and took one cautious step toward the hall. The light from the living room barely reached the corner where the hallway began. It was like staring into the mouth of something that could swallow her whole.
Then—faint but unmistakable—a man’s whisper: “Lilian.” She froze. The sound came from behind her. She turned, but there was no one there. The door to the backyard was shut. The shoe was still by the mat. And on the wall, the wedding photo had tilted again—crooked, the way it used to be.
Her phone buzzed in her hand. One message. No name. “I’m home.” The text sent a chill through her. She looked around the room, her eyes scanning every shadow, every dark corner. Then she heard the shower running upstairs. And just like that, the horror of their love story began again—predictable, terrifying, and endlessly incomplete.
