CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I reached out to my husband's mistress and it was the worst mistake of my life" Creepypasta

Episode Date: November 17, 2023

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ChristianWallis: https://www.reddit.com/user/Christian...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

The festival season is Aangbroken, and that betekent modder. And so, ging Kim to come to combe On the same a waterdict tent,

a comfortable luggette, oh, so, snus, and Lupeartprint regalarze. Miao. Now, he has Kim not sure of the

modder, just like the dancing the modder man that, oh, wait just even, has he now only modder on?

Oh, yeah, only modder. DROG blithe? Goar for. Find what you need to you need

on Amazon.com. I wouldn't have believed he was cheating if it wasn't for the pictures. I've been cheating on before, and I think the number one tell is that cheaters like to spread the guilt around. They make mountains of every little molehill because they want to feel like the relationship was doomed and that's why they cheated, not the other way around. They find all sorts of silly reasons to fight you because it's better to tell people Oh, we were arguing and communication broke down

Instead of the truth, which is often I screwed a stranger That's my experience of being cheated on anyway I had one boyfriend who lost his mind Because I didn't answer my phone while on a night out What would have been a small deal Just a few weeks before Was suddenly proof that I was sneaking around

And couldn't be trusted Sure enough just a few days later I caught him at a Starbucks with some girl he'd met online Do you think he told his parents I left him because he had his hands up another woman's skirt?

Nope He said we've been distant for a while and arguing lots and in a moment of weakness he found solace and another woman he just left out the part where he initiated all those arguments but my husband never changed

not one bit didn't kiss me different didn't look at me different didn't change his habits not in any way at all wasn't like he started randomly showering when he got home or going to the gym at night instead of in the morning

my mother said she knew my father and started seeing someone else when she went to take his plate away and there was food left behind and soon after she caught him looking in the mirror and sucking in his gut I guess my point

A lot of the time when you realize you've been cheated on, you look back and see all sorts of little clues. But I never felt that way with my husband. It was just out of the blue. The envelope arrived, thick as a pack of cards, red lipstick on the back reading, You need to see what your man is up to. Inside were half a dozen polaroids of my husband, sleeping with an... another woman. Her face was obscured, but his. He had a strange look about him. Blank eyes, a strange expression, but it was so clearly him. I remember feeling so shocked that everything

took on a hint of the surreal. Sounds stupid, but for the first few seconds I stared at the photos, dumbfounded and just thought, good God. Where does that? he find the time? Dumb. Here I was facing proof of the ultimate betrayal and I was trying to figure out the logistics. It was a good point though in a weird kind of way. He worked nine hours a day

and only two days a week in the office and that was a 90-minute commute. His morning routine was to wake up at 6 a.m. Go for a run, cook breakfast, shower, shave, do the crossword, drive to work, I mean, really, there wasn't a lot of time where I thought he could even meet another woman, let alone build a whole new relationship. I didn't say anything when he got home. If it was such a good actor, I wanted to be one too, at least in the short term.

I wanted control of the situation, and most importantly, I wanted control of myself. Didn't want to burst into tears the second I challenged him. Still, I barely slept that night. I stayed up going through the mechanisms of it all. Was she an escort? I thought that might explain the time constraints. A man could get one of those off the internet. Real easy.

He wouldn't have to whine and dine anyone then. What would he need, really? Some cash and half an hour somewhere private? And let's be honest with ourselves. Men and women both. Half hour is a bit of an overestimate. For most guys I've been with, it's closer to a commercial break. I studied the pictures very closely, looking for answers to these weird questions.

From the looks of it, they were going at it in someone's living room. I figured he might have found a prostitute with her own place nearby, although I wasn't necessarily married to that idea. Really, my theory was that, whoever he found, found. They had to be pretty comfortable with no romance. In and out, you know. He was only out of the house two days a week. And I knew he really did go to the office because he was once late due to traffic and his boss called up furious and I had to offer up all sorts of excuses. Still, just to be sure, I started testing him in the following days. I'd call his desk phone at random and he was always

there. I even called up the receptionist and I said I wanted to send him some flowers for our anniversary. So was there a specific time I should avoid having the delivery guy turn up? And she said no. He was pretty much always at his desk, except for maybe 20 minutes at lunch. That meant whoever he was carrying on with. They had to be meeting up at lunch and doing it all in record time, which was pretty odd if you asked me. I mean, I had hard proof in my hands, so I couldn't doubt it. But yeah, it was odd to think of him sprinting out to some random woman's house. If this was an affair, how did it start?

What were the terms? What did they both get out of it? I mean, it wasn't like he had stopped showing affection to me. Don't get me wrong, after the first picture, I immediately withdrew all intimacy. But what I'm saying is, in the run-up to me finding out, it wasn't like we stopped doing it or even reduced the amount. I suppose he'd always had a bit of a high drive. We both had. I just found it strange. Whatever this affair was, it pretty much had to be only sleeping with each other and nothing else. But at the same time, why not just get a little more from me?

In the scheme of things He was ruining our marriage for like, what, 25% more? That struck me as weird too. In my head, I kept going over the whole scenario again and again. If it was just the more he wanted, why not just have it with me? I did this when my dad left, by the way, tried to rationalise it,

made it into a kind of mystery that had to be solved. Why weren't we enough? Was it because he wanted a son? Or because my mother and I were too close And had nothing in common with him? The other woman he left us for wasn't some young Bimbo either. She was my mother's age. So what was different about her?

What did this woman give him that his home life couldn't? I remember I saw her in the car once Sitting there while he came to the door to see me for an hour or two while mum went around back because she couldn't stand the sight of him and I'd expected some done-up blonde bimbo but no just another middle-aged woman

who even looked a bit like my mom did I say history repeats itself the woman in those polarites looked like me too hardly some young model I couldn't see her face it was always something blocking it but she had long brown hair

similar build, similar age. Sounds weird, but I think it would have hurt less if he'd been screwing some blonde in a cheerleader outfit. As it was, every time I looked at those photos, I couldn't escape the feeling that something very specific must be wrong with me, and it couldn't be some shallow physical thing. It was deeper than that, something he realized only after spending ten years with me.

Did I annoy him? on a personal level. Did he just look at me one day while I shave my legs and think gross, and that was that? He got the ick. He didn't get an upgrade, just a replacement, and somehow it just... I don't know. It felt worse. I considered revenge, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

So weird. I put up an Instagram picture that wasn't like the usual ones. Geez, men online don't need a lot to get going, do they? You go to idle sites and see the things women do there and you figure men must really need some messed up stuff to get turned on. But it turns out, there's always some guy waiting to slide into your DMs because you wore mon jeans or ankle socks. All it took for me was a picture in an oversized t-shirt

with my legs tucked underneath. You hardly saw any skin. I've seen more revealing adverts Didn't stop the messages coming in from total strangers And more than a few good friends and old flames I responded to none of them Not a single one They were flattering but I didn't once feel the urge to reach out

It's just Well it reminded me of the fact I wasn't star for attention in the first place I wasn't unhappy with it. my relationship. The Polaroids told me I was in enough, but I never once felt like it. A part of me wanted to bulldoze over this obstacle in our relationship, fill in the pothole, laying in tarmac, and just keep on using the road, like nothing had changed. But I didn't have it in me. Very little time had passed, and I already felt like I was going mad, like I needed to know

why the hell he'd done this? Every day was spent oscillating between gut-churning sadness and red-hot fury at the betrayal. Couldn't keep the act up forever. Sooner or later, I'd break. The performance wasn't perfect. He'd noticed the distance between us, kept asking if I was okay. Sooner or later, the answer was going to be a swift kick to the balls. hadn't the whole point of biding my time

been to get a handle of myself to not lose control and give him the upper hand that had been moot if I ended up charged with assault in the end I decided on a simpler solution I was going to speak to this other woman

maybe not head on my life isn't Jerry Springer wasn't going to kick the door down and scream you took my man But maybe I could just bump into her Just have a chat like Oh hey nice shoes Where'd you get them? What kind of work are you in?

Do you have some kind of nimble super technique to end marriages? I joke It's what I do when I feel uncomfortable And I felt very uncomfortable At the thought of finding this woman and talking to her I'm no spy Talking to strangers makes me anxious enough Let alone when the whole

whole encounter is a ruse because of some hitchcocking affair. Good news was, I didn't have to look far. One of the Polaroids had a house number and a few buildings in the background that I recognized. Took maybe 20 minutes on Google Maps to pin it down. Nothing difficult. I soon had an address, and it wasn't long before my husband had an in-office day, and I could go investigate. First thing I thought upon unseeing the house. Her house looked like a crack den. One of the windows on the top floor had been broken and boarded up. The door was wide open in the middle of the day.

The garden was an absolute mess of overgrown weeds, a random crap that looked like passers-by had tossed over the wall, but the owners had never cleaned up. It was just all very grey and dingy. It really did look like the kind of place drug dealers would squat. I even check the telephone poles for a pair of shoes hanging off the wires. I felt pretty sketchy waiting in my car, but it seemed to beat getting out for a walk. I kept thinking I was going to see a come or go, but it just never happened.

All I managed was to waste a few hours. I did take some time to compare the polarites to the living room window, and it was definitely the same room. Unfortunately, staring at those pictures riled me up. There she was on the sofa, bent over, hair hanging over her face. And there he was behind her. And here I was, in my car, meekly staring at the exact spot I'd been betrayed. It wound me up so bad that I got out of the car and felt a little closer to that Jerry Springer moment

I always told myself I'd never have. I think all the weeks of stress and wondering had started to wear me a bit thin, because I was already teary-eyed before I'd passed the garden gate. And my husband, who'd gotten home by now, was texting me, wondering where I was, and I kept ignoring him. Time was passing too quickly, when I just wanted it to stand still for a little longer. It felt like now or never This was the breaking point I had to know

If she was in there Or if there was some proof he'd been in there I had to know I knocked But got no answer Since the door was open I leaned around and had a little peek inside But it ended up nudging it with my elbow

And pushed it open even further The hinges let it out a terrible screech, like they've been standing still for weeks or even months. If someone wasn't there, they should have come running at the sound. But nothing. Once I was sure I was alone, I stepped inside and revised my earlier opinion. It wasn't a crack then. It was more like a crime scene.

Everything was, well, sort of clean. not destitute there were one or two paintings on the wall but the glass was so covered in dust I couldn't see anything of the actual images and the carpet looked filthy

but not gross just abandoned and left the fester there weren't cigarette butts everywhere a needle strewn over the place it was like a normal house that had just been left behind the main thing I could smell was mould and

damp, probably because rain had gotten in through the open door. Not really able to help myself, I went deeper into the house. I locked in the living room, the very same one in those photos, and saw the same thing I had before. A relatively neat room with a sofa and a TV that was covered in dust. Some of it had been disturbed in places, but not in. enough to suggest regular use. In the Polaroids, it had looked normal.

But in person, it was clear to me. It hadn't been lived in for years. Geez, I wondered, did they actually find an abandoned house to use? It was the only thing that made sense to me. Maybe the woman knew about it because she passed it on the way to work or something. But still, I had to wonder how a house could stay empty long enough for mould to settle in, but not for kids or junkies to move in too.

There was no graffiti. Some letter outside, I mentioned that, but no used condoms or broken bottles or anything like that. The kitchen was more of the same, so I went upstairs and soon had my suspicions confirmed. First bedroom on the right. Yellow police tape all over the day. doorframe, although it had since been torn down.

Now, it just hung there like old streamers from a party that had gone wrong. My God, I realized, it actually is a crime scene. Obviously, I looked inside. I think up until then, I'd fixated a little too much on my social anxiety. I kept expecting to bump into this woman and have some awkward conversation, either about Her screw my husband or me breaking into her home. But leaning into that room made me feel genuine fear. It was the sight of blood.

Even old dried brown blood soaked into an ancient bed spread. I'd never seen anything like it. Not in that quantity. And not strewn around so violently. The bed itself had been massacred. Gore-soaked foam and feathers had caked all around the stab marks in the mattress and there was blood all up the walls and ceiling. Looking at it gave me an immediate sense of what had happened.

Someone had laid there and another person had gone at them with a big knife, maybe kneeling over them. Just bang, bang, bang, one vicious downward thrust after another. I can't really put it in. into words just how vivid it felt. One of those scenes your brains can't help but put back together. Now, who the hell would want to sleep with someone in a house where that happened? Wherever this woman was, I decided she was a freak. I decided any confrontation I was going to have about this affair could be between my husband and me in the safety of my own home

where I could lock all the doors. I turned and left, hurried down the stairs, but only got halfway when I heard something strange coming from behind, a giggle that cut through the ambient sounds of my quiet footsteps and the distant traffic. Something about it made me freeze on the spot. It wasn't the laugh of a sane person. I already figured that if this woman lived here, she must have a screw loose. but hearing a chuckle behind me like that may my skin crawl.

A part of me wanted to avoid turning around, partly because it felt like I'd be coming face to face with a woman who destroyed my marriage, but also because I was starting to feel genuinely afraid. What the hell was this place? And who the hell would live here in these conditions? I don't know what got me to turn around in the end. courage maybe or just the desire to get it over with more likely

when I finally turned I saw a skinny woman standing on the top of the stairs hair draped over her face she certainly resembled the woman in the photos then again what had I really seen of her face

hair and that's largely what I could see of the woman in front of me hair wet and greasy, dripping down over her face to cover just about everything, except a blood-red grin and a dirt-smeared neck. Beneath that was a body right out of Oliver Twist, thin and scraggly, clothes hanging loose, bare feet

poking out over the top step. It's weird, but it was a toes that made me feel so uneasy. I don't like feet, and hers were like something strong. straight out of the hobbit, like she'd spent a whole life living in a ditch off the motorway and eating roadkill. We must have looked at each other for a whole minute before I worked up the courage to do something.

She certainly didn't seem bothered at all with the silence. I half suspected she would have stayed there all night looking at me atop the stairs. Excuse me? She squealed in a girlish imitation. Her voice, like nails and a chalkboard, had an almost physical presence to it that pushed me down one step. Without missing a beat, moving after me like a mirrored reflection, she followed down the stairs one step or so. I didn't, I didn't realize, she crooned while tilting her head left and right.

The impression I got right there was of a crow imitating speech. I'll just... She grinned, and I got a glimpse of blooded teeth. I could feel it, the tension, the palpable capacity for violence that lurked in the air. She oozed it out of every cell in her body, the promise of a thumbtack in a mouth full of blood. Any second now, I told myself,

and she's going to leap down onto me and bang, bang, bang, bang. one vicious downward thrust after another, just like that bed. Her hands were behind her back, and I had no doubt they were clutching something sharp. Screw this, I cried and turned, making for the door. It wasn't far, maybe five metres at most, but every single step felt like an eternity as I kept waiting to feel something at my back, the blade slicing between my shoulder blades, a hand latching onto my jacket and dragging me backwards, the shelf of a body leaping up onto my back,

slimy hands reaching out to slip my throat while the weight forced me to my knees. But I made it to the door free and clear and ran straight to my car. I didn't stop until I'd gotten in and locked all the doors. Even then, I only risked one brief glance up at the doorway and saw that it was empty, before I turned the ignition and slammed my foot down on the gas.

The festival season is aang broken, and that betekent mudder. And so, ging Kim to Amazon.com.com. On look to a water-dict tent, a comfortable luch bed, oh, so, knus. And lupart print regalaurser. Miao! Now, Kim, he has no longer to make over the mudder. Net so as the dancing the muddermand there.

Oh, wait just even. He has he now only mudder on? Oh, yeah. Allene, mudder. DROGELBELB? Gare for. Find what you need to have on Amazon.com.com.

I was crying as I stumbled through the front door. Unsure of what had happened, but terrified all the same. I wanted to know that I wasn't alone and cried out, but the house was quiet and empty. Lights off. No TV. No husband.

I went looking and found only a letter waiting for me on the kitchen island. Nothing elaborate. Certainly not the confession I initially expected upon seeing it. It was simple. Scrolled on a piece of A4 torn out of the home office printer.

He didn't sign it. He didn't need to. I need a few days to process this. Please don't look for me. We can talk when I come home. Next to the letter was a bundle of Polaroids and an opened envelope. You need to see what your wife is up to,

had been written on the back, and it was nearly identical to the one I'd received weeks ago. The photos were much the same, too. Only this time, the man's face was obscured, and the woman's clearly visible. She looked exactly like me. Not a matter of sisters, but twins, a doppelganger even.

although something behind the eyes felt out of place. This was my own face, after a night of meth or heroin maybe, and yet still, unmistakably mine. Of course, she was familiar for another reason too. There was no mistaking that eerie grin and greasy hair. I'd met her that afternoon. I'd seen her standing at the top of the stairs. crowing my words back at me like some puppet.

I couldn't begin to fathom what sick game was being played. I just knew that I had to get in contact with my husband. I tried his number, but it was hardly a surprise when he didn't pick up. I tried again and again and again until... Well, it must have been the 15th try when he finally responded. He didn't answer my calls directly. I wasn't lucky. But he did send a voice note.

Looking back, it seemed so obvious. I assume this started a few weeks ago, yeah? That's when you withdrew. At first I thought maybe I'd done something wrong. But as the days wore on, it became clear to me that something deeper is at play. Never in a million years did I expect this, though. I mean, maybe... I don't know.

There were times. I thought maybe you were pregnant. afraid after what happened last time. Geez, I thought it could have been anything, but not this. I need time, a day at least, before I even speak to you. This is the last you'll hear of me until I unblock you. Please, don't keep reaching out to me. I don't know if you want forgiveness, or just to blame me, or try and lie your way out of it.

But before any of that can happen, I need a day to gather myself. I'll speak to you when I want to speak to you. Not before then. I was so frustrated with this. I whipped my phone at the wall and began to cry, knewing the word stupid at myself over and over again, as I realized just how badly I'd been played. In hindsight, it was so obvious I could claw off my own skin with anger.

Yes, I'd pulled away. Yes, my behaviour had changed. Yes, I'd become irritable. I'm prone to arguing over the silliest little things. This whole thing had been a set-up from the start by that crazy woman, and I'd walked right into it. Who's to say there was even my husband in those photos? I mean, if I had a look alike, why not him?

If I just confronted him on day one, maybe we could have made sense of it. But as it was, I looked guilty as sin from where he was standing. Geez, I'd even lied to him about taking time off work. My behaviour was practically the poster chart for a cheating spouse. I don't know what was being planned here, but I knew something was deeply, profoundly wrong with it all. What the hell was the endgame for these sick freaks to ruin my marriage?

What the hell am I going to do now? I whispered in despair. What the hell am I going to do now? The words were so gentle, I wondered for a moment if they'd come from my own mouth. An echo, maybe even my own thoughts mistaken for actual words. But none of that was right, and I knew it. The words had presence in the world. More than that, they had a location behind me, slowly, desperately hoping that I shouldn't have to trust my own senses.

I turned to face the hallway I'd just come from. Empty. And yet, why did I get the feeling it had been occupied only a few seconds ago? Some sixth sense, perhaps. But knowledge that just because something looks safe doesn't mean it is. Something had just ducked back out of sight as I turned. I was sure of it.

But where? Our cosy little home suddenly seemed far too big for comfort. A doorway here, a stairway there. No lights, aside from what I'd turned on in the kitchen when I'd rushed in. Was this really the place where my husband had held my hand every time we waited for the doctor to call? Or where we sat and cuddled as I read and he played games? It was wrong. All wrong.

Hello? I cried out, desperately hoping that reality might suddenly snap back into place. But there was nothing. No echo. Just me. But could I trust that I was alone? My gut said no. There it was again.

That itch between my shoulder blades. The same crawling terror I'd felt in that house, knowing that woman might jump at me at any moment from a place atop the stairs. I tried to tell myself the paranoid thoughts should be ignored, but I still reached for a nearby knife and cried

out once more, if only to break the silence that felt painfully heavy. Hello, is anyone there? Quietly, I went out into the hallway and switched on the lights. They helped a little, but not enough.

From upstairs, a quiet thump, the muffled sound of something moving. I wanted to leave, but go where, and to what end? I told myself it could only really be her, couldn't it? And she was, after all, just a person. A thinner, scragglier-looking version of myself. I may have spent the last few weeks getting led around by the nose, but I wasn't some docile pet.

I was a person. I had agency, and I didn't want to be afraid anymore. Not in my own home. I gripped the knife harder, watched the light glint off its edge, then turned to face the stairs. I was frozen in time, unable to move towards the sound, but unwilling to just leave it all behind. Finally, I worked with the courage to speak,

to force out a few shaky and uncertain words. I know you're up there, no response, at least not verbal. The seconds ticked on and slowly, almost as if she was relishing it. Four corpse pale fingers curled themselves around the top step. I tried to picture the scene at large. The fact that for the last few minutes, me at the bottom of the stairs, her at the top, She had been lying with her whole body pressed flush to the floor Like some kind of spider

Waiting Just waiting The thoughts made me feel sick Like this was far worse than a simple home invasion And then came her face My face And I felt like this was just the beginning Of some kind of waking nightmare

It came peering out over the top, a grin as wide as my whole head, with a head cocked to one side like a disappointed puppy. She stared at me with this distorted expression, and then, in one fluid motion, she lifted the rest of her body into sight. What the hell are you? she hissed back. Her mouth didn't move an inch. Something behind that horrible smile. Something dark, wet and glistening seemed to vibrate. I felt lightheaded as I processed this. I felt my nerves turned to water.

My hand involuntarily loosen and the knife clatter to the floor. I'm not sure there was any conscious thought behind it. Any decision, rational or otherwise. The same heady punch of terror that propelled me is the same force that made me pee myself when I heard of feet scurring after me, the same that made me cry out like a damned child as she bore to the floor. It was only the pain of smashing my face into the cold tile that brought me out of the hysterical fear.

Looking back, I think, into what saved my life. A bright red splash of blood, A single tooth since scattering across the floor My tongue probing the empty space of a missing incisor The pain caused the kind of knee-jerk reaction And I kicked back as hard as I could I made some contact Not much

But it was enough to let me claw my way back onto my feet And run towards the door Mystery repeated itself it seemed Her behind me as I raced towards the nearest exit But this time it was different This time she didn't let me get away unharmed This time she drove a kitchen knife into the meat of my calf And it hurt like nothing else I'd ever felt

It sent me toppling over as I screamed in pain Turned my leg to jelly A bit of luck meant that I managed to reach out and grab the door handle To stop myself going down all the way But it took every ounce of willpower I had to hold myself there as I vented the pain in a gut-wrenching cry. With one hand I tried to stem the bleeding in my leg, while with the other I fumbled around to open the door.

It took a good few seconds, longer than I wanted it to, long enough for me to glance over and see her standing there, breathing so heavily her whole body shook. She might have been laughing, or maybe this was her. her imitating my cries of pain. I couldn't be sure. But I found myself hoping that I was going to wake up any second now.

That this was a nightmare. A gross perversion of my imagination cranked up to 11. The time just kept going. One hand desperately trying to work the key in the lock, the other clutching a lump of muscle that throbbed in pain. My skin slick with hot blood.

wet socks, slippery floor. Am I going to pass out? I wondered. What is she going to do to me if I do? She took a step towards me, savoring my weakness. I sobbed and kicked out with my one good leg. But this sad gesture meant I lost my footing and slid down to the floor where I sat, back against the door, and watched helplessly as she stalked closer. What do you want? I sobbed.

What do you want? She chirroped back at me from a frozen mouth. God, whatever was moving behind those awful teeth, it looked almost insectile. The last thing I remember before the pain became too much was a face closer than it should be and all lit up, impossibly bright by a swelling cascade of blues.

in reds. That face of hers, my face, it was haunting, bloodshot eyes that darted over my features, like a predator savoring its kill, and that mouth, and a chitinous thing that swirled within, slowly opening wider and wider.

I awoke, screaming, several orderlies, big men, pinning me down, As panicked nurses and doctors worked away at my leg, one of them told me I was safe, but it took an age for the words to sink in. It was only when I remember the lights that I began to calm. Red and blue.

A neighbor had called the police in response to all the noise, when the nurses explained what had happened, I cried with relief. Who would have thought I'd be so thankful for nosy neighbors? neighbors. They figured it might have been a domestic situation gone wrong. But when the cops turned up and found me bleeding all over the floor with a six-inch carving knife jutting out of my leg, they knew it was much, much worse. A home invasion, they told me. I wanted to correct them. I stammered out a kind of fumbled response about a woman in my home, and they nodded.

But how could I explain to them the madness of the last few weeks? When they told me about my missing clothes and jewelry, about the way someone had clearly ransacked the home for valuables, it was clear as day they made up their mind about it being a burglary gone wrong. The thought of her, rummaging through my things, disgusted me. The notion that she had gone rifling through my things. Of course, my clothes and jewelry were missing. That nightmare of a woman seemed to get a kick out of imitating me.

Did this mean the next time she appeared, jumping out of some dark closet or unfolding herself from the backseat of my car, she'd be dressed in my clothes? Clothes I'd once loved, now blooded and filthy. Jewelry my mother and father had given me draped around her neck. My husband, I asked the nearest policeman, once he was done with the questions, notebook folded, standing up. He was getting ready to leave. Have you heard from my husband? He is on his way, tired beyond belief. I fell backwards and began to cry.

The policeman, clearly aware of what I'd been through, let himself out without another word, and I lay there alone for what must have been ours. I think I passed out again, I just fell into a very deep sleep when I awoke. It was to the feeling of cold morning. morning light, filtering through the half-closed blinds. Slowly, I realized that I'd stirred to the gentle and reassuring sound of my husband's voice.

Hello? I smiled at the realization he had come, and the familiarity that the sound of his voice brought. The feeling of safety. After everything I'd gone through, it meant the world to me to have him so close again. I turned over and saw him standing there, facing away from me. Daniel? I tried to keep my voice clear. We got less than halfway through his name,

before it turned into a great big sob. Oh, thank God you're here. Who are you? I frowned. The choice of words confused me, but my husband didn't move or turn to face me. That in itself was enough to make me sit upright. Daniel? I repeated.

What are you doing in my room? Get the hell out of here. Dan? Jeez! This an exclamation made me jump. My heart rate spiked. Some machine close by began to screech. But still, my husband did not move. Jeez, what the hell are you?

He continued. Oh my God! He began to scream while remaining perfectly still with his hands behind his back, head tilted to one side. Just as suddenly as the crying out had begun, it stopped as several medics began to race into the room to check on me. My head grew light, the world began to spin. Slowly, at last, my husband turned to face me as the nurses crowded around asking a dozen questions. none of which I seemed to hear, I saw his face. God, his face.

A grin as wide as his head, woodshot eyes, greasy hair, and a sort of dazed, drug-addled luck. When he spoke one final time, his lips did not move, but behind that strange and warped mouth, there was the barely visible glint of vibrating black carapace. What are you?

He said, a dying rattle. One last exclamation before he turned to leave. The others in the room were oblivious to him, focused as they were entirely on me as a dozen alarms went off. As I watched him leave, a sickening realisation dawned on me. One that threatened to crowd out the last vestige of consciousness. That thing was his doppelganger,

and he had been repeating my husband's dying words. Right back at me.