MY HUSBAND ONLY TOUCHES ME WHEN MY MOTHER IS CALLING MY NAME IN A DREAM

For Claire, the line between nightmare and reality had been irrevocably blurred. The chilling pattern—a dream of her late mother’s voice, followed by the sudden, desperate passion of her normally distant husband, David—was no longer a one-time anomaly. It had become a recurring horror. As the phenomenon intensified, Claire’s confusion morphed into a calculated, terrified investigation, leading her to feign sleep in her own bed in a desperate search for answers, only to uncover a truth more sinister than she could have ever imagined.

A Calculated Performance of Ignorance

The morning after the second incident, the house was once again filled with an unnerving sense of normalcy. David awoke and greeted her with his usual tired smile, even making a lazy joke about her snoring. The stark contrast between his daytime persona and the strange, forceful man from the night before was profoundly disturbing. While he ate his breakfast, Claire decided she could no longer remain a silent party to the madness. “David,” she began, her voice carefully casual, “do you remember what happened last night?”

His reaction was a masterclass in deception. He paused, fork in hand, and blinked as if genuinely confused. “Nothing now. Did something happen?” he asked, his tone perfectly calm. But his eyes—his eyes told a different story. They refused to meet hers, flitting away to the wall, the window, anywhere else. He wasn’t confused; he was evasive. He carried his plate to the sink, the conversation dismissed, leaving Claire with the cold, hard certainty that he was lying. He remembered everything.

When Nightmares Bleed into Day

The knowledge of his deception began to poison every aspect of her life. The fear was no longer confined to the darkness of her bedroom; it followed her into the daylight. At her small shop, her mind was a world away, replaying the events of the night. She fumbled with customers’ change, her smile a fragile mask over a well of anxiety. Her distraction became so obvious that even her neighbors noticed, asking if she was unwell. She would simply say she hadn’t slept well—a profound understatement. The truth was, she had become terrified of sleep itself, fearing the dreams that no longer felt like her own.

Driven by a need to anchor herself in reality, Claire began to fight back. She bought a small notebook, a secret ledger she hid under her pillow. In it, she became the meticulous chronicler of her own haunting. She documented every occurrence: the date, the approximate time she heard her mother’s voice, and David’s subsequent actions. The entries painted a stark and undeniable picture. Three nights in a single week. Each incident was preceded by the dream. On every other night, silence reigned, and her husband was the same distant man she knew, lying beside her with a cold indifference.

The Whisper That Changed Everything

The notebook confirmed the pattern, but it couldn’t answer the terrifying questions that plagued her. Was her mother trying to warn her about David? Or was David involved in something spiritual, some dark ritual that used his wife as an unwilling participant? How could a dead woman’s voice possibly command a living man’s desire? Isolated by a secret too insane to share, her fear continued to fester in silence. She told no one, not even her sister, afraid of being dismissed as a madwoman.

One night, determined to find a clue, she devised a new plan. She would not allow sleep to take her. She lay perfectly still long after David’s breathing had deepened into what she thought was a deep slumber. She feigned sleep, her body rigid with anticipation, every sense on high alert. Soon, the familiar dream began to tug at the edges of her consciousness—her mother’s voice, desperate now, almost crying her name. Just as before, she felt the shift in the bed, the familiar motion of David turning toward her.

But this time was different. This time, she was awake. And this time, she heard it. Just before he touched her, David whispered something into the darkness, a soft, chilling confession not meant for her ears. She couldn’t make out every word, but one line came through with horrifying clarity.

“She’s here again.”

The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. Her entire body went cold. It wasn’t a dream controlling an unconscious man. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a recognized event. David was aware. He knew when the presence—her mother’s spirit—was in the room. He wasn’t a puppet whose strings were being pulled; he was a conscious actor in this terrifying nightly drama, and he had been lying to her all along.