The night before my wedding, I woke to soft moaning. At first, I thought I was dreaming—until I realized my fiancée wasn’t in bed.

The sound came from the bathroom. Through the half-open door, I saw her sitting on the toilet, legs apart, head tilted back, smiling faintly as if touched by invisible hands. But she was alone. No phone, no toy—nothing.

When she noticed me, she quickly composed herself, brushed past without a word. I was rattled—especially since she had insisted on celibacy until marriage. And now, on the eve of our vows, I’d seen something I couldn’t explain.

The next morning, she suddenly demanded her own private room after the wedding. Confused, I asked why. She glared, “If you can’t respect that, maybe we shouldn’t get married.” I begged her not to ruin the day, and she reluctantly agreed.

We went through with the ceremony.

The Wedding Night

That night, her room was locked. No answer when I knocked. The next morning, she emerged covered in bruises. “What happened?” I asked. She smiled thinly. “I fell while taking off my shoes.”

But when her blouse shifted, I saw a long red mark across her back—like a whip’s lash. She only laughed at my concern.

Later, when I tried to consummate our marriage, she pushed me away. “I’m not in the mood.”

Soon, I overheard her moaning again—this time mixed with sobs. When I checked, she lay on the floor, wide-eyed, staring at something behind me. She muttered, “It was a movie on my phone.” A lie.

That same day, I glimpsed a pale figure in the dining room mirror. When I turned, nothing. Moments later, she appeared, smiling sweetly. “Baby, let’s sleep together tonight.”

Hopeful, I leaned in to kiss her, but she recoiled, fear in her eyes, before forcing a smile.

The Ritual

That night, she lit red candles around the bed, whispering strange words. She pushed me out. “Relax. Let me set the mood.”

Later, when I returned, an icy wind swept through the room. My body froze, desire vanished. No matter what we tried, nothing worked. Our first night ended in silence and shame.

Weeks passed. I could no longer perform—my body felt dead from the waist down. Strangely, she now begged for intimacy. Tests showed nothing was wrong with me.

One night, I woke bruised, with a strange tattoo-like script etched on my chest. She admitted, “I did it while you were asleep.” But I wasn’t a deep sleeper. How could she mark me permanently without me noticing?

The Revelation

Days later, she handed me juice. Minutes after drinking, my vision blurred. Before collapsing, I saw a shadowy man standing behind her.

When I woke, the mark on my chest was gone. Soon after, I found her in a hidden room, caressing her belly in front of a mirror, whispering, “We’re going to be a family now.”

My heart stopped. We had never been intimate—so whose child was she carrying?

Through my camera lens, I saw him: a tall figure with horns, hands on her stomach. To the naked eye, only her reflection.

That night, for the first time, she invited me into her bed. But as I climaxed, I saw him inside her—sharing her with me.

From then on, he followed me—shadows at work, in dreams, even in my car. One night, I looked into my rearview mirror and saw him reaching for me. Terrified, I crashed into a river.

Impact. Darkness.

Then I woke—gasping, drenched in sweat. Just a nightmare.

Or was it?

From the bathroom, I heard her moaning again—alone.

Now I can’t shake the question:

Was it only a dream— Or a warning of the life I’m about to enter?

The End