John had been living a lie for nearly a year. To his wife, Emma, he was the devoted husband, always charming and attentive. To Claire, his mistress, he was a passionate escape from a mundane life. But keeping up this double existence was becoming increasingly perilous, and John knew he had to tread carefully.
One crisp autumn evening, he devised what he believed was a flawless plan. Emma had been feeling unwell, and John offered her a warm bowl of soup, secretly laced with sleeping pills. Within the hour, she was asleep, leaving him free to slip away unnoticed.
Time with Claire passed in a blur of excitement and stolen passion. But as midnight approached, an uneasy feeling gnawed at John. Ignoring it as guilt, he kissed Claire goodbye and began the drive home.
Pulling into the driveway, something felt off. Every light in the house was out, save for the eerie glow of a streetlamp casting shadows across the living room. A chill ran down his spine, but he attributed it to the cold night air.
Inside, a heavy silence greeted him. His footsteps echoed through the hallway, heart pounding with every step. When he reached the bedroom, he froze.
Emma wasn’t in bed. She stood in the center of the room, eyes wide and fixed on the wall. Her skin was pale, her expression twisted in terror. But what made John’s blood run cold was the message smeared across the wall in a dark red: “I KNOW.”
Panic surged. Was it a joke? Had Emma discovered his affair? Logic screamed that she should have been asleep.
“Emma,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Emma, are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her body swayed slightly, eyes locked on the wall. As John cautiously approached and touched her shoulder, she blinked rapidly, her gaze registering fear and recognition.
“John?” she murmured hoarsely. “What happened? I… I don’t remember anything.”
John swallowed hard, deciding to play along. “You must have been sleepwalking, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to bed.”
He guided her carefully, avoiding her probing gaze, and tucked her in. But as she drifted back to sleep, John examined the wall more closely. The message wasn’t blood—it was wet red paint, hastily applied.
The night stretched on. John sat alone in the living room, haunted by the words, realizing that his double life might be unraveling sooner than he expected.
