My Husband Killed Me In His Dreams

I was dying again.

The knife was cold against my skin, its edge pressing into me as though it were determined to break through.

I could feel everything.

The cold metal.

The burning in my chest.

The numbness spreading through my fingers.

Even though some part of me knew I was dreaming, my body refused to believe it.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out.

My throat tightened as I struggled for air. I wanted to move, to run, to fight back, but my body felt impossibly heavy. It was as if something had pinned me to the floor.

Someone stood above me.

Sebastian.

My husband.

The man I loved.

He looked down at me with an expression I couldn't understand. His face was twisted with fear, pain, and something that looked painfully close to guilt.

There were tears in his eyes.

And in his hand was a knife.

Blood slowly dripped from its silver blade onto the floor.

I stared at him, desperately searching his face for an explanation.

Why was he looking at me like that?

Why was the man who held me every night standing over me like my executioner?

"Sebastian..."

My voice came out as a broken whisper.

His eyes met mine.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then his lips trembled.

"I'm sorry."

The knife rose.

Panic exploded inside me.

"No!"

I jolted awake.

A scream tore from my throat as I shot upright in bed. My head spun, and I immediately pressed a trembling hand against my chest.

My heart was pounding so violently that it hurt.

I dragged in one breath, then another, trying to convince myself that I was safe.

It was only a dream.

Only a nightmare.

But my skin still felt cold where the blade had touched it.

I looked around the bedroom.

Darkness surrounded me. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the night, while the air conditioner hummed softly in the background.

Everything was familiar.

Our bedroom.

Our bed.

My husband beside me.

Then an arm suddenly wrapped around my waist.

"Serena."

I flinched.

Sebastian.

He was awake now.

"What happened?"

His voice was low and rough with sleep.

I turned toward him.

His dark hair was messy, and his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Concern immediately replaced the sleepiness on his face as he looked at me.

For several seconds, I couldn't speak.

The man from my nightmare was sitting right in front of me.

Alive.

Calm.

Real.

I swallowed hard.

"You killed me."

His expression froze.

"What?"

"In my dream."

He stared at me for a moment before pulling me gently against his chest.

"It was just a nightmare."

I pressed my face against him, trying to steady my breathing.

His heartbeat was slow and steady beneath my ear.

Normal.

Nothing like the frantic rhythm pounding inside my own chest.

"I keep having the same dream," I whispered.

"I know."

I immediately pulled away.

"You know?"

Something shifted in his eyes.

He looked away.

It lasted only a second, but I noticed.

"How?"

"You've told me before."

I frowned.

Had I?

I searched my memory, but nothing came.

"I don't remember telling you."

Sebastian reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair away from my face.

"You were half-asleep when you told me."

His answer sounded reasonable.

Still, something about it made me uneasy.

"Go back to sleep."

I studied his face.

"What if I dream it again?"

"You won't."

His answer came with strange certainty.

I frowned.

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm here."

He leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

Normally, that would have comforted me.

Tonight, it didn't.

Because no matter how tightly I held onto him, I could still see the knife.

I could still feel its cold edge against my skin.

And I could still hear his voice.

I'm sorry, Serena.

I closed my eyes and tried to push the image away.

Eventually, sleep found me again.

But the nightmare didn't return.

When morning came, sunlight spilled across the bedroom, warming the floor and chasing away the darkness of the night.

I sat at the edge of the bed for several minutes, staring blankly at the floor.

The nightmare was already beginning to fade.

That was how dreams worked.

They came intensely, terrified you, and then disappeared piece by piece once morning arrived.

But this one felt different.

I could still remember the room.

Perfectly.

I slowly looked around our bedroom.

Cream walls.

A large window overlooking the garden.

The painting above our bed.

Everything was exactly where it should be.

Then I remembered the room from my dream.

Dark blue walls.

A tall antique mirror beside the window.

A small wooden table near the door.

None of those things existed here.

I rubbed my arms.

Maybe my mind had simply invented them.

That had to be it.

There had to be a logical explanation.

I stood and walked toward the bathroom.

I had almost reached it when something caught my attention.

The bedroom door.

I stopped.

There was a long scratch running across the wood.

My stomach dropped.

For a moment, I simply stared at it.

Then I stepped closer.

The scratch was deep.

And fresh.

Slowly, I reached out and touched it.

My fingers trembled.

I had seen that scratch before.

Not in real life.

In my dream.

It had been there.

In the exact same place.

A chill traveled down my spine.

I stepped backward.

"No."

The word escaped before I could stop it.

"What is it?"

I spun around.

Sebastian stood in the doorway of the bathroom, already dressed in a black shirt and trousers.

I quickly moved away from the door.

"Nothing."

His eyes shifted toward the scratch.

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his face.

Surprise.

Recognition.

Fear.

Then it was gone.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He walked toward me.

I watched him carefully.

"Did you do that?"

His gaze settled on the scratch.

"No."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know."

The answer came too quickly.

I narrowed my eyes.

"You don't?"

"No."

He walked past me and opened the door.

The hallway outside was empty.

He looked both ways before turning back toward me.

"Maybe one of the housekeepers damaged it."

"At this hour?"

He didn't answer.

I folded my arms.

"Sebastian."

He looked at me.

"Yes?"

"Have you ever seen that scratch before?"

A pause.

It was brief.

But it was there.

Then he shook his head.

"No."

I stared at him.

I didn't believe him.

I couldn't explain why, but something inside me kept insisting that my husband knew more than he was telling me.

And for the first time, a disturbing thought entered my mind.

What if the dream wasn't as meaningless as I thought?

That evening, I tried to forget about it.

Sebastian took me out for dinner.

He talked about work, and I listened as best as I could. I laughed when I was supposed to and smiled when he reached across the table and held my hand.

Anyone watching us would have thought everything was perfectly normal.

But my mind kept returning to the bedroom door.

The scratch.

The dream.

The strange room I had never seen before.

And Sebastian's reaction when he saw the mark.

By the time we returned home, I had almost convinced myself that I was imagining things.

Maybe the scratch had always been there.

Maybe I had seen it before and simply forgotten.

Maybe my dream had borrowed details from some forgotten memory.

There had to be a logical explanation.

There always was.

That night, Sebastian fell asleep beside me.

I lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

I listened to his breathing and tried to reassure myself that there was nothing to fear.

He was my husband.

He loved me.

And nightmares couldn't hurt me.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

I closed my eyes.

And slept.

⸻

I woke in the middle of the night.

My eyes opened slowly.

The room was dark.

For a moment, I didn't know what had woken me.

Then I heard it.

A whisper.

"Serena."

Every muscle in my body went rigid.

I slowly turned my head.

Sebastian was standing beside my bed.

His back was facing me.

He wasn't moving.

"Sebastian?"

He didn't answer.

I pushed myself upright, my pulse beginning to race.

He remained completely still.

There was something unnatural about the way he stood there.

Then he spoke.

His voice was barely audible.

"I'm sorry, Serena."

My blood ran cold.

Because his eyes were closed.

And in his hand...

was the knife from my dream.