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

The words, “She’s here again,” resonated through Claire’s mind, a chilling echo that refused to fade. It was a confession, an admission of awareness from her husband, David, that shattered the last vestiges of her denial. No longer could she dismiss the nightly occurrences as coincidence or delusion. David was not merely a passive participant in these strange, spirit-induced encounters; he was an active one. The revelation ignited a new, dangerous resolve in Claire: she needed undeniable proof, even if it meant sacrificing her own peace of mind.

A Test of Silence

The morning after David’s whispered words, a suffocating silence hung between them. David went through his routine, offering a casual inquiry about suya that Claire could only meet with a numb nod. Her voice was trapped in her throat, choked by the weight of her husband’s secret. She decided then that accusations were premature. She needed to observe, to confirm her suspicions without doubt. She would test the pattern, this time by staying awake, by refusing to allow her mother’s voice to bridge the gap between David’s unconsciousness and his strange, nocturnal passion.

That night, Claire waged a silent war against sleep. She lay awake, rigid and alert, listening to the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and David’s soft, even breathing. She didn’t dream. Her mother’s voice remained silent. And in the absence of the spiritual trigger, David remained untouched, undisturbed. He slept like a child, distant, not even rolling close. By morning, the space between them on the bed felt vast, an expanse of unspoken truths and chilling confirmation. Staring at her tired, red-veined reflection in the bathroom mirror, Claire saw the cost of her silent vigil.

For three consecutive nights, the pattern held. Claire remained awake, and David remained distant, sometimes scrolling on his phone until sleep claimed him, sometimes simply facing the wall. When she attempted to bridge the growing chasm with a gentle touch or a lighthearted joke, he would offer a weak smile, an immediate, unconvincing excuse of tiredness. The physical and emotional distance began to sting, twisting her thoughts, making her wonder if her own suspicions were pushing him away. Their home, once a sanctuary, had become cold, filled with an oppressive quiet that spoke volumes of their fractured connection. She would catch him watching her, a strange, calculating look in his eyes, as if he too were observing a secret.

The Breaking Point, The Whispered Prayer

One evening, unable to bear the silence any longer, Claire tried to talk. She sat beside him on the bed, her voice barely a whisper as she asked, “David, you’ve been quiet these days. Are you angry with me?” His forced smile, the one that never quite reached his eyes, was her immediate answer. When she confessed her hurt, admitting that he no longer touched her, his facade crumbled slightly. He sighed, dropped his phone, and rubbed his face. “Claire, you’re overthinking. Work has been stressful.” But his eyes, even as they pleaded for her to believe him, betrayed him. He wasn’t just tired; he was actively, deliberately avoiding her, and the realization left her heart aching, questioning her very being.

Later that night, as David finally drifted off, Claire made a desperate, silent plea for connection. She rolled closer, gently touching his arm, then holding his hand. He didn’t stir. He remained unresponsive, his eyes closed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling an unbearable sense of loss for something she couldn’t even name.

By the fifth night, Claire’s resolve was at its breaking point. Her body and mind were at war. She craved answers, but she yearned for peace even more. She promised herself that if her mother’s voice remained silent that night, she would wake David and force the truth out of him, consequences be damned.

But she didn’t get the chance.

That night, for the first time in nearly a week, Claire finally succumbed to sleep. And the moment she did, it returned. Her mother’s voice, louder, clearer, infused with a chilling urgency, called her name three times, shaking her violently awake.

Before her eyes could even fully open, David’s body was already moving against hers. It was the same rhythm, the same silent, trance-like motion. But this time, something new and utterly horrifying accompanied it. His lips were moving rapidly, whispering something. It wasn’t a casual murmur. It was fast, almost like a prayer—but a prayer that Claire instinctively knew was not directed at God. It was a secret, whispered incantation, a dark communication with the entity that commanded his desire, confirming her darkest fears about the presence in their bed and the unholy ritual that bound her husband.