"The Haunting Within"

//TW: explicit description of harm and gore//

Adrian thought he had everything under control. A successful career, a beautiful suburban home, and a marriage that, while imperfect, seemed solid. But that night—the night he raced home, his heart pounding and his mind a storm of chaos—everything changed.

The images began on his drive back from the supermarket. He saw flashes: a gleaming chef's knife, blood spreading across the floor, and his wife Emma's horrified face. He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the thoughts. "It's not real," he whispered. But the more he tried to dismiss them, the clearer they became.

By the time Adrian reached home, his shirt was soaked with sweat. He slammed the door shut, locking it behind him, as if the act could keep the horrifying images at bay. He washed his hands religiously to get rid of that imaginary red, and it stopped, those images stopped... but that was just the beginning. 

The next day, just after leaving his work place they came back. The night was suffocatingly still as Adrian bolted through the streets, his heart racing like a drumbeat of doom. The images in his head clawed at his sanity: blood pooling on the pristine tiles, a scream that echoed like a banshee's wail, and his wife's wide, horrified eyes. He burst into his small home, locking the door behind him with trembling hands.

Adrian's breaths came in ragged gasps as he surveyed the living room. Nothing seemed out of place, but the scenes in his mind wouldn't relent. They screamed at him, demanding attention. His hands trembled as he touched his shirt, half expecting to see bloodstains. Nothing. Yet the metallic smell of blood lingered in his nose, and his palms tingled with a phantom wetness.

"I killed her," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I know I did."

Adrian's eyes darted to the kitchen, his feet dragging him toward the counter. The chef's knife gleamed in the soft light, mocking him. He could see himself grabbing it, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle. The memory replayed in vivid detail: slicing through chicken breasts for dinner before the argument exploded into chaos.

It started small, as these things often did. A glance too long, a laugh that lingered in the wrong place. Adrian had accused her—Emma, his wife—of cheating. She had laughed at first, incredulous, then furious.

"You're insane," Emma had spat. "You're making things up in your head!"

But Adrian couldn't stop. His mind churned with images of betrayal, of her with another man, and his voice grew louder.

"Don't lie to me!" he had shouted, his hand gripping the knife without realizing it.

Emma's face twisted in anger. "You're pathetic!" she had screamed, stepping closer, her finger jabbing at his chest.

And then, the snap.

The memory was a blur, but the sensation wasn't. Adrian remembered the knife plunging into her stomach, her gasp of shock, the resistance of muscle and bone against the blade. He could still feel the sickening warmth of her blood spilling over his hands, the way her body convulsed as he struck again and again.

He had dragged her outside, dumping her lifeless form into the pool, where crimson tendrils seeped into the water.

Adrian stumbled to the patio door, throwing it open. The pool was calm, the water glinting under the moonlight. No blood, no body. He paced around the edge, scanning for any trace, but there was nothing.

His breaths grew shallow. "Where is she?"

Adrian's mind raced. Maybe he had cleaned it up in a panic. Maybe he had buried her. He checked the garden, dug through the flowerbeds with his bare hands, but the soil held no secrets.

The images grew louder in his head, as if mocking his confusion. He scrubbed his hands under the kitchen faucet, the scalding water burning his skin. It wasn't enough. He scrubbed harder, until his flesh turned raw and red.

Unable to bear the torment, Adrian drove to the police station, his mind a storm of guilt and madness. He stumbled to the front desk, his voice cracking as he confessed.

"I killed my wife," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I can't find her body, but I... I did it. Please, lock me up."

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, but Adrian's detailed confession left no room for doubt. He described every gruesome moment—the argument, the knife, the sensation of her organs resisting the blade, and the lifeless way her body floated in the pool.

They placed him in a holding cell, tying his hands to keep him from hurting himself. For a moment, Adrian felt a flicker of relief. At least here, he thought, he wouldn't have to see the images. But he was wrong.

The visions became more vivid. Emma's face appeared, blood trickling from her eyes, her lips mouthing silent accusations. Adrian screamed, thrashing against his restraints. He begged the officers to clean the blood that wasn't there, his voice hoarse with desperation.

He scrubbed the floor with his bare hands, muttering about the stains no one else could see. The officers watched, baffled and horrified.

The police searched Adrian's home and property, expecting to find a scene of unspeakable violence. But there was nothing. No blood, no body, no evidence of a crime.

They expanded their search, questioning neighbors, checking for missing persons. A call to the authorities in Adrian's former state revealed that he had recently finalized a divorce with his wife. Emma was alive and well, living hundreds of miles away.

The revelation left the police stunned. Adrian's confession was detailed, his guilt palpable. But there was no crime, no victim.

When they told Adrian, he refused to believe them. "You're lying," he spat, his eyes wild. "I know what I did!"

But without evidence, they had no choice but to release him.

Adrian returned home, his mind a shattered mess. The images of Emma's bloodied face followed him, growing more grotesque with each passing day. He locked himself inside, scrubbing every surface until his hands bled. He poured rubbing alcohol over his skin, the burning sensation a twisted penance for his imagined sins.

The sound of running water became a constant in the house. Adrian washed himself over and over, convinced he was tainted, unclean. He tore at his flesh, peeling away layers in a futile attempt to rid himself of the phantom blood.

Neighbors reported hearing strange sounds: the relentless scrape of scrubbing, the hiss of water, and Adrian's muttered apologies to someone who wasn't there.

By the time anyone thought to check on him, it was too late.

Adrian's body was found in the bathroom, surrounded by bloody towels and bottles of cleaning supplies. His skin was raw and peeling, his fingers worn to the bone from endless scrubbing. His face was frozen in a twisted expression, somewhere between anguish and relief.

The room was spotless, every surface gleaming under the harsh light.

On the mirror, scrawled in blood, were the words: "I'm clean now...I am sorry"

Adrian's story baffled those who heard it. Some called it a psychotic break, the result of suppressed guilt or unresolved trauma. Others whispered about curses or hauntings, about the darkness that can consume a man's mind.

Would things have been different if he went to the hospital instead? He will never know. 

Do you see a Adrian around you?