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

The dark, whispered prayer was the final piece of evidence Claire needed. Her husband, David, was not an unconscious puppet in a supernatural drama; he was a knowing participant. The realization left her cold, but it also armed her with a grim resolve. The time for silent observation was over. As morning broke, she prepared to confront the man she married, determined to tear down the wall of denial he had so carefully constructed around their haunted lives.

A Confrontation Built on Gaslighting

As David prepared for his day, toweling off from his shower, Claire finally spoke the question that had been burning within her. “David,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart, “why do you always touch me whenever I dream about my mother?”

He stopped, his body half-turned, the picture of feigned innocence. A hollow laugh escaped his lips. “Claire, which kind question be that? You and these your dreams sef.” But she refused to be dismissed. She pressed on, laying out the undeniable pattern, the perfect timing that defied coincidence. As she spoke, she watched him closely. He rubbed his neck, sighed, and delivered the classic lines of a gaslighter. She was “overthinking.” She was “stressing.” She was thinking too deeply about “things that don’t matter.”

The conversation was a masterclass in psychological manipulation. Every one of her valid concerns was twisted and thrown back at her as a sign of her own instability. When she asked if he thought she was crazy, he offered no denial, only a dismissive silence as he finished dressing, signaling that her feelings were not worthy of discussion. The quiet that followed was not one of peace, but of containment—the heavy, oppressive silence people use to suffocate truths they don’t want exposed.

The Desperate Search for a Clue

After he left for work, the house felt like a cage. Claire was trapped with her thoughts, replaying the morning’s conversation, dissecting every word, every gesture. The slight tremor in his hand as he picked up his shirt, the flicker of fear in his eyes before he smiled—these were the tells of a liar. His calmness wasn’t genuine; it was a carefully worn mask.

Driven by a desperate need for tangible proof, she began to search. She went through the small drawer on his side of the bed, her hands sifting through his personal effects. She found nothing overtly sinister—a watch, old receipts, a list of phone numbers. Yet, the absence of evidence did nothing to calm her spirit. She knew the proof she was looking for wasn’t something that could be hidden in a drawer. It was hidden behind her husband’s eyes.

When David returned that evening, he was armed with a peace offering: her favorite roasted corn. He joked about her sour expression, another attempt to trivialize her fears and paint her as moody and unreasonable. She accepted the gift, forcing a smile, but the gesture felt hollow, a calculated move in a game she was only just beginning to understand.

A Smile in the Dark

Later that night, as he slept, Claire’s investigation continued. She leaned over him, studying his face in the faint moonlight. He looked peaceful, too peaceful. As she watched, his lips began to move again, forming silent words. And then, something new happened, something that sent a fresh wave of horror through her.

He smiled. It was a slow, deep, and utterly terrifying smile of satisfaction, the expression of someone pleased with a secret only they understood. She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding against her ribs. Who was this man, and what dark joy was he experiencing in his sleep? The smiling stranger beside her was far more frightening than the passionate one.

The next morning, after another failed attempt to get the truth, he tried a different tactic: affection. He touched her shoulder, his voice soft. “Claire, don’t let small dreams cause problem between us. You know I love you.” It was a plea for her to abandon her quest, to accept the comfortable lie over the terrifying truth. But when she looked him in the eyes and asked him to be honest, the mask slipped again. The weak laugh, the nervous swallow—he was afraid. And his fear was all the confirmation she needed.

A Command in the Night

That night, Claire was prepared for a fight. She lay in bed, feigning sleep, her body coiled like a spring. She resolved that if her mother’s voice came, if he dared to touch her, she would unleash the storm of questions he had been so desperately avoiding.

But the night remained silent. Her mother’s voice did not call. Instead, another sound cut through the darkness. It was David, whispering again. She strained her ears, desperate to catch the words. This time, there was no prayer, no indecipherable murmuring. It was a clear, concise command, spoken into the empty air of their bedroom. And it was not meant for her.

He said, “Don’t stop her.”

Her body went numb. He was not talking to the spirit. He was talking about her. He was communicating with a third, unseen party, instructing it not to interfere with her mother’s spiritual visit. The realization was catastrophic. This wasn’t just a haunting. It was a conspiracy, and she was the unknowing centerpiece.