The journal sat on my kitchen counter like a loaded gun.
I'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, coffee growing cold in my hands. Trying to convince myself the rust-brown stains were anything but what they looked like.
Old fountain pen ink. Spilled wine. A child's art project gone wrong.
Not blood. Never blood.
The first entry burned behind my eyes:
๐๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ 15๐ต๐ฉ - ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ค๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฐ๐จ๐ณ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ด. ๐ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฏ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฎ, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ท๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ช๐ด๐ด๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ. ๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ. ๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ. ๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ. ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ฆ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ด๐ฌ๐ถ๐ญ๐ญ ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ต๐ช๐ญ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ฌ๐ฆ. ๐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ช๐ต ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ง๐ข๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ธ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ช๐ง๐ฆ ๐ง๐ฆ๐ญ๐ต ๐ง๐ข๐ฎ๐ช๐ญ๐ช๐ข๐ณ. ๐๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ.
Daniel's handwriting. Daniel's careful, precise script that I'd watched him use to fill out patient intake forms and grocery lists and birthday cards.
Daniel's words describing things that made my skin crawl.
The garage door rumbled open. I slammed the journal shut, shoving it into the drawer where we kept takeout menus and dead batteries.
My hands shook as I arranged the stack of mail on top, creating a barrier between the journal and the world.
"Mara?" Daniel's voice carried from the mudroom. "Can you help with the groceries?"
I forced brightness into my voice. "Coming."
He stood by the car, bags balanced in his arms, looking perfectly normal. Perfectly safe.
The afternoon light caught the silver in his hair, and I thought of the photograph I'd taken this morningโhis sleeping face, unguarded and beautiful.
Had those same hands written about screaming? About knives that felt like home?
"You okay?" He studied my face with the careful attention he'd once used on patients. "You look pale."
"Just tired." I took two bags, noting the ordinary contents through the thin plastic. Milk. Bread. Apples. The domestic architecture of innocence.
We moved through the kitchen in practiced synchronizationโhim unpacking, me finding homes for each item. Seven years of marriage had taught us this dance.
But now every movement felt choreographed, performed for an audience of one.
The journal pulsed in its drawer like a heartbeat.
"Oh, I almost forgot." I kept my voice casual, arranging oranges in the fruit bowl. "Janet called about the Henderson party. She mentioned that poor girl who died last monthโClara something."
Daniel's hands stilled on a box of cereal. "Clara?"
"The student. The one they found on the cliff trail." I watched his face in my peripheral vision. "Clara Nguyen, I think? Janet said she was taking classes at the community college."
The cereal box slipped from his fingers, hitting the counter with a hollow thump.
When I looked at him directly, his face had gone chalk-white.
"I... I don't..." He gripped the counter edge, knuckles standing out like broken bone. "Nguyen?"
"You've never heard of her?"
"No. I mean, maybe. The name sounds..." He pressed his palm to his forehead. "God, I can't think. Why can't I think?"
I'd never seen him like this. Daniel prided himself on his memory, on being the kind of therapist who remembered every patient's story, every detail that mattered.
But now he looked lost, unmoored, as if someone had reached into his head and scrambled the wires.
"Danny, sit down." I guided him to a kitchen chair, noting the way he trembled under my touch. "You're scaring me."
"I'm fine." But his breathing was shallow, rapid. "Just... tired. I've been tired lately."
"When's the last time you slept through the night?"
He looked up at me with eyes that held too much white. "What do you mean?"
"You've been restless. Tossing and turning." I crouched beside his chair, taking his hands in mine. Cold. Too cold. "Sometimes I think you're awake, but when I ask you questions, you don't answer."
"I don't remember that."
"That's what worries me."
He pulled away, running both hands through his hair. "I should call Dr. Reeves. Maybe adjust my medication."
"What medication?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Daniel's mouth opened, then closed. His eyes darted toward the stairs, toward our bedroom, toward spaces I couldn't see.
"Anxiety," he said finally. "For the anxiety."
But I'd found his prescription bottle last month, tucked behind aspirin in the medicine cabinet. The label was faded, but I'd made out enough: ๐๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ข๐ป๐ฆ๐ฑ๐ข๐ฎ. ๐๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ด๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ. ๐๐ณ. ๐๐ถ๐ค๐ข๐ด ๐๐ข๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ๐ฏ, ๐.๐.
Dr. Vaughn. The name that appeared on half the Haven Creek medical records before the fire.
"Daniel," I said carefully. "Who's Dr. Vaughn?"
His face went blank again. That same terrible emptiness I'd seen this morning, as if someone had pressed delete on entire sections of his memory.
"I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know who that is."
---
That night, I pretended to sleep.
Daniel had gone to bed early, claiming exhaustion, but I could feel the tension radiating from his side of the mattress. His breathing never settled into the deep rhythm of true sleep. Instead, he lay rigid, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.
I counted minutes on the bedside clock. Thirty. Forty-five. An hour.
Then the mattress shifted.
Daniel sat up slowly, carefully, the way someone moves when they're trying not to wake a sleeping partner. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing steady, as he eased out of bed.
His feet found the floor without sound. He stood there for a long moment, and I could feel him watching me. Waiting.
Then he moved toward the door.
I cracked one eye open. Daniel stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light, wearing only pajama pants. His posture was wrongโtoo straight, too purposeful. Like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings.
He walked away, and I waited ten heartbeats before following.
The hallway was empty. I crept to the top of the stairs, listening for movement below. Nothing. Then I heard itโthe soft creak of the back door opening.
I ran to the bedroom window that overlooked our yard.
Daniel stood on the deck, perfectly still, arms at his sides. His face was tilted up toward the moon, eyes open but unseeing. The silver light washed over his skin, making him look carved from marble.
He was sleepwalking.
I'd read about it in college psychology classesโthe way trauma could fracture sleep, create alternate states of consciousness. But reading about it and seeing it were different things entirely.
Daniel stepped off the deck onto the grass, moving with eerie precision. He knew where he was going, even unconscious. His feet found the stone path that led to the back gate, to the trail that wound through the woods toward the cliffs.
Toward the place where Clara Nguyen had died.
I grabbed my camera and followed.
The night air bit through my thin nightgown as I crept after him, keeping to the shadows. Daniel moved like a ghost through the trees, never stumbling, never hesitating. As if he'd walked this path a hundred times before.
The trail opened onto the cliff road, and Daniel turned north, toward the section locals called Dogleg Curve. The spot where the hiking trail bent close to the edge, where the fog rolled in thick and sudden.
Where three bodies had been found in the past two months.
I raised my camera, adjusting for the low light. The moon was nearly full, casting everything in stark silver contrasts. Daniel's profile was sharp against the darkness as he approached the curve.
๐๐ญ๐ช๐ค๐ฌ.
The sound seemed to echo in the still air. Daniel stopped.
He turned, and even from fifty feet away, I could see his eyes were open. Not the blank stare of a sleepwalker, but alert, searching. He scanned the treeline where I hid, and for a terrifying moment, I thought he'd spotted me.
Then his gaze moved on, and he continued walking.
I followed for another ten minutes, documenting his route with careful shots. He paused at the exact spot where Clara Nguyen's body had been discovered, standing at the cliff's edge like a monument to loss.
Then he turned and walked home.
I beat him back to the house, slipping into bed just as his footsteps reached the back door. He moved through the house quietly, checking locks, turning off lights. The routine of a man securing his territory.
When he returned to bed, he settled beside me with a soft sigh. Within minutes, his breathing had deepened into genuine sleep.
I lay awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the journal hidden in our kitchen drawer. About the medication prescribed by a doctor Daniel claimed not to remember. About the way he'd walked to the murder site as if drawn by invisible threads.
And about the photographs I'd taken in the darkness, capturing my husband in places he shouldn't be, at times he couldn't remember.
Evidence of what, I wasn't sure yet.
But as morning light crept through the curtains, one thought crystallized with terrifying clarity:
I was sleeping next to a man who wandered in the dark, drawn to places where people died.
And I was the only one who knew.
---
๐ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฑ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ญ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ข๐ง๐ต๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ข๐ต ๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ฐ๐ง๐ง๐ช๐ค๐ฆ. ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ณ๐ช๐ด๐ฑ, ๐ค๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ, ๐ถ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ช๐ข๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆโ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ถ๐ด๐ฃ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ, ๐ข๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ญ๐ช๐ง๐ง ๐ต๐ณ๐ข๐ช๐ญ ๐ข๐ต 2:47 ๐๐, ๐ด๐ต๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฆ๐น๐ข๐ค๐ต๐ญ๐บ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐๐ญ๐ข๐ณ๐ข ๐๐จ๐ถ๐บ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ญ๐ข๐ด๐ต ๐ฃ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ.
๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ค๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ญ ๐ง๐ณ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ, ๐ฎ๐บ ๐ฉ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ด ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐จ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฐ๐จ๐ณ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฉ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ค๐ญ๐ช๐ง๐ง'๐ด ๐ฆ๐ฅ๐จ๐ฆ, ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ข๐ด ๐ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ. ๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด๐ฆโ๐ข ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฃ๐ญ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐น๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐ข ๐จ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ต๐ญ๐บ ๐ด๐ฆ๐ค๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐ช๐ฎ๐ข๐จ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ข๐บ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต๐ฉ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ช๐ณ๐ด๐ต.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ญ๐ฐ๐ค๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ. ๐๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ด๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ฏ๐จ๐ญ๐ฆ. ๐๐ถ๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ, ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ข๐ญ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ.
๐๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ข๐ด ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ญ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ช๐ฏ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ง๐ณ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฆ. ๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐'๐ฅ ๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฐ๐จ๐ณ๐ข๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ถ๐จ๐ฉ ๐ ๐ค๐ฐ๐ถ๐ญ๐ฅ๐ฏ'๐ต ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ.
๐๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฐ'๐ฅ ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฅ ๐ง๐ฐ๐ณ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฌ๐ด.