Since I got pregnant, my husband has been acting strange.
At first, I thought it was just excitement — he had always dreamed of having a child, more than anything in the world.
But little by little, something in his behavior began to chill me to the bone.
Every night, exactly at midnight, he would wake up, rise slowly, and come kneel by my bedside. He would press his ear against my belly with a tenderness that, at first, touched me.
Until I realized… he wasn’t listening. He was whispering.
His voice was so low that I had to hold my breath to catch a few words — long, incomprehensible sentences, like a secret prayer or a murmured conversation from within a dream.
Sometimes, I could make out fragments:
“Obey me… she is the vessel… don’t hurt me.”
And on other nights, even more disturbing words:
“It’s almost time.”
I tried to laugh it off when I told my friend Amara. She said it might be some kind of paternal connection.
But fathers don’t whisper at midnight, with tears in their eyes.
Fathers don’t wake up smelling smoke… when they’ve never left the house.
The worst began three weeks ago.
That night, I opened my eyes, awakened by a silence that was far too heavy… and I saw him, crouched at the edge of the bed… 👇👇👇👇
👉 The rest of the story in the first comment 👇👇👇👇
The worst began three weeks ago.
That night, I woke up and saw him crouched near the bed, drawing strange symbols on the floor with what looked like a red liquid.
When I asked him what he was doing, he gave me a faint smile:
“It’s to protect you… and the baby.”
[…]
The next day, I decided to leave.
But at the door, I found a small clay jar, sealed and wrapped in a white cloth.
My name was written on it — in his handwriting.
When he came home, I asked him what it was. His face went pale.
“Did you touch it?”
“Yes.”
He screamed, beside himself:
“Why?! Do you want something bad to happen to you?!”
He locked himself in the bathroom. I heard the sound of terracotta shattering… then nothing.
That night, he didn’t sleep. He sat beside the bed, staring at me without a word.
His gaze was empty, intense, and I was afraid he no longer had control over himself.
In the morning, I opened my eyes and found, next to me, a pool of red liquid.
My stomach hurt terribly.
I screamed so loud the neighbors came knocking on the door.
But when they arrived, Richard was gone.
The red substance was still there, but there was no trace of him.
At the hospital, they told me I had miscarried.
The doctors said it was due to pregnancy complications and stress.
But I knew what I had seen. I knew what I had felt.
He had been obsessed, paranoid, convinced that the baby was in danger.
His actions, his whispers — none of it was normal.
Since then, Richard has been missing.
The authorities think he fled — maybe to escape his own demons, or the law.
For me, every night remains a waking nightmare.
Every sound, every movement, every minute that strikes midnight brings me back to that fear, that tension, that red liquid I saw and smelled.
Even as I try to rebuild my life, I know a part of me will always be marked.
Every shiver I feel, every sudden silence in the house reminds me that he was there — obsessed, convinced he was protecting the baby… when in reality, he was destroying everything around him.
Now, I live with that constant fear.
I no longer sleep without the light on, and sometimes I hear noises that make me believe he’s still here — that his obsession never truly disappeared.
I tell myself it’s just my imagination, that it’s stress, that it’s all over.
But deep down, I know… he left a trace.
A trace that nothing will ever erase.
