The Voice

"Hun?" I called out as this odd behavior tore me away from the show. That's when I remembered that there's a restroom right next to his "man cave." He never uses the Master Bathroom when gaming because that restroom is so much closer and more private.

"Paul?" I called out as he didn't emerge from his closet. For a while I wanted to laugh as I thought the game invasion went poorly and this was some half-hearted breakdown. That like a little kid he was going to hide in the closet to get away from his online bullies.

"What?" Paul then said, sounding very annoyed as he entered the bedroom door. He stood there, headphones on and a game controller in his hand looking at me with an upset expression. His body was even lightly trembling like he was in the midst of some exciting moment.

I still don't know how I didn't piss myself right there. Never in my life had I felt so scared. And Paul sure as hell didn't know what to do as I started to freak out. For a good minute I screamed and shrieked about him being in the closet. Poor bastard had no clue what I was even talking about as I just couldn't calm down after witnessing that.

That night Paul checked his closet multiple times, as well as my own and there was nothing there. I even worked up the courage to search his closet. I just couldn't explain what I saw, but I knew I saw it.

As I sip the whiskey I wish Michelle hadn't left. Now more than ever I feel like she is the only one that could help. Because that wasn't the last time I saw Paul walking to the closet. I've seen it multiple times now. And the last time I recognized what it was, I made sure to watch as he walked to the closet, opened it and stepped inside. I watched in horror, trying to see some sign that it wasn't really Paul. But it was him. Wearing the same clothes, walking the same way but never acknowledging or looking at me.

I would love to say that Paul has been a tremendous help, but he hasn't. When he had his own freaky incident, he just brushed it off. I had been painting the utility room one morning since the walls there were such an ugly color when Paul burst in, naked as can be. He said for me to go ahead and bend over the washer and pull my pants down as he didn't have a lot of time before he had to go to work.

When I asked what in the hell he was talking about, he told me how I had texted him that I wanted this. He went on to say how he got multiple text messages from me, telling him to come down and fuck me silly. That I wanted it rough and violent without any sort of protection. That he should choke me to the point of nearly passing out.

Of course I sent no such texts, nor would I ask that of him. Now, not to dive too deep into personal matters, but I would be love to have sex like that. Only Paul isn't that type of lover. He loves to please but I doubt he could do anything to willing hurt me. But none of that matters.

I demanded he show me these texts when he accused me of messing with him. Of course when he got his cell, the messages were not there. At first he kept saying how it was a mean prank to give him blue balls, but even he had to admit there was no way I could have made the messages disappear. He searched his cell all over for those messages, but it was like they never existed.

Even with that happening, Paul really hasn't believed me. In fact, I've presented him with a few pieces of proof which he seems more than willing to pretend it isn't true. Proof like a recording of my name being called in the middle of the night when I'm asleep. Or video of the top of "the other Paul's" head when he walked into the restroom. That's another thing, whatever is doing this seems to know exactly where the cameras are positioned because the other Paul has never been captured on screen.

To shut Paul up, I went to a few doctors to get checked out and see that what was going on wasn't me. That my brain or emotions were not making me see shit. Hell, for one week it seemed that all I did is go to doctors, take tests and run around. Paul just doesn't want to believe something is wrong here.

My hand grips the glass that has only a little bit of whiskey left I bit tighter as I get mad at myself for not stopping Michelle. It would have been so great to have someone that understands. I have no one at all to talk about this stuff with. No friends nearby, nor family. I was an only child and my parents passed away years ago. And the one friend I did try to discuss this with broke down laughing, thinking I was trying to be funny.

Figuring now is as good as time as any, I pull out my cell and start to move through my contacts list to find the real estate guy's number. My cells suddenly flies out of my hand due to my body jerking as I hear my name said in Paul's voice again. It's faint but I still hear it as it comes from the upstairs, knowing there's no way it could be Paul.

"Fuck this," I damn near shriek and move towards the front door. I can't take this anymore. I don't know what the voice coming from the upstairs means and I don't want to know. It's bad. Whatever the reason, it's bad.

I know we don't have the money to move, not that Paul would agree to that, but I have to get out of the house. I have to leave here, even if for just a few minutes. I need a break. I need to feel safe.

"What...what the h-hell?" I stammer, my fear going through the roof as I try to open the front door. The door's locked. Impossible. The deadbolt is locked when I know it wasn't. I was able to open it to talk to Michelle. On purpose I didn't even lock the doorknob.

I pull on the door over and over, trying to open it even if it seems clear the deadbolt is engaged. I do this, hoping against hope that it's just jammed. It's just not possible it could be locked. To lock the deadbolt you need a key because Paul purchased the deadbolts that uses keys on both sides, instead of a latch. I know I didn't lock it because I don't even have my keys on me. They are upstairs. And I never lock the deadbolt for this very reason, it traps you inside. That's why I only use the doorknob lock which has a latch. How the fuck did it get locked?

"Shit. Shit. Shit," I repeat, my fear getting so bad that I am close to panicking. Turning I look around the living room, expecting to see something I know shouldn't be there. Thankfully there's not, but damn it, it's quiet. Far too quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

It seems pretty clear that to get out, I'll need my keys from upstairs. The backdoor is certainly deadbolted because it's always deadbolted. We rarely go out there, so there's no point in not locking it like that. In short, to get out, I'm going to have to go upstairs...where the voice is.

Despite hearing the voice so many times over time, not once did I go and investigate. I stayed my butt upstairs where I turned the TV loud. Never did I go check it out because that's what it felt like it wanted. It felt like a trap, with me as the rat and the voice as the cheese. It wanted me to go investigate.

Standing where I am, I listen to the quiet house, my heart pumping and fear running rampant. Times like this freak me out because I don't know what to do. I mean, sure, I looked online tons of times about what I should do about demons or ghosts, but it's not like there's a real step by step guide. Just tons of people saying what they think you should do, none having any true experience or proof.

I'm not a church person so that sort of rules that option out. I mean, what would I do if I was? Go to some church, talk to the priest or whomever is in charge and tell them there's something in my house and I would love them to get rid of it? They would think I'm crazy. I would think I'm crazy.

Paul did say one thing that sort of helped, not that he meant to. Of late all he's really wanted to do is pretend everything is fine and have sex. His sex drive has amped up, which I guess is his way of dealing with the situation. Only the idiot doesn't understand that if I'm terrified, I'm not going to be in the mood to fool around. But the one thing Paul that made me think is when he asked me what I thought "It" wanted.

From that statement, I did try to figure out what the voice wants. My guess would be for me to go to it, but why, I don't know. If this was a horror movie, I would say to possess me, maybe even kill me. Whatever it could want, it isn't going to be good.

Trying to think logically, my choices are to either hide right here until Paul gets home in like six hours, or go upstairs and get my keys. Granted I don't mind waiting, but that seems, well, cowardly. I doubt I could mentally stand to feel that pathetic or cowardly for too long, even if I'm deathly scared. If I only knew what to do or how to fight, it would help.

"R-R-Rebecca?" I hear Michelle's voice. Only her voice doesn't come from upstairs or anywhere in the house, but behind me.

Confused by this, I turn around to look at the closed front door. There's no window on it, making it impossible to see outside. Suddenly there's a frantic knock on the other side of the door, where I hear Michelle call my name again.

My heart leaps into my throat when I know it's Michelle. She came back. Oh holy hell am I ever glad that she did. Oh thank you, thank you, thank you.

"Michelle!" I call out, overjoyed that she's returned. I then grab hold of the door as if going to attempt to push or pull it off the hinges.

"I'm sorry, really sorry for taking off like that. It's this place, what it did, and-" Michelle starts to apologize on her side of the door.

"It's ok, I understand. Michelle, it's locked me inside! I can't open the door," I cut her off rather rudely by yelling, wanting her to know the trouble I am in. I even pound on the door as if this would help.

"Oh crap. Are you ok? Has it done anything to you?" Michelle asks, very worried. My heart leaps as she believes me. There's no questioning that I don't know how to use the door, or that I'm having a breakdown. She knows, just as I do, that there's something evil fucking with me.

"N-No, no. But it's somehow locked the door, and my keys are upstairs. And...I heard the voice calling from up there. Michelle, it's never called from up there," I inform her, my voice cracking as I show how scared I am. Showing her that I don't want to go upstairs. That I can't go up there.

"Crap," Michelle repeats several times upon hearing this piece of info. I can hear the uncertainty in her tone as she probably doesn't know what to do either. That this is about as bad as it can be.

"Michelle, did you find out what it wanted? How did you and your husband beat it?" I ask, thinking that this could be the only thing that could help now. I want to know these answers. I need to know these answers.

"My husband and I beat it?" Michelle laughs as if this thought is preposterous. There's a long pause, then I hear her laugh again, making it sound like she thinks I'm not taking this seriously. Like I'm joking around. It's rather distressing as it doesn't match how I thought she would act.

"Rebecca, my husband is dead. It ripped him apart," Michelle states, not in her sheepish way, but in a confident and disturbing way.

Hearing this hits me hard. If I was a man, I could probably say it hurts like being kicked in the balls. It makes me pause, where all the blood seems to rush for my head. It hits hard, nearly taking my breath away. It does this because I think I underestimated just how much trouble I am in.

"Michelle, how do you know my name?" I ask, trying to gather my confidence to sound brave. I don't remember telling her my name, nor her asking. So how did she know it?

"Michelle?" I call out after several long moments of silence. My heart pounds as I wait for what she is going to say. Is she going to laugh? Or apologize and say she looked who purchased the house online?

"Michelle, you there?" I call out again, my fear level getting dangerous. It's only now I begin to wonder if the voice can make it sound like it is coming from outside. If that was really Michelle.

"Oh...dear," I gasp very softly as I spot something troubling in the living room. My eyes widen and my body starts to tremble upon seeing it. Treating it like a rattlesnake that's ready to attack, I start to inch backward, prepared to run.

In the far corner of my living room, right where the wall and bookcase meet, is Paul. He's facing the corner, his back to me. He's wearing the same clothes he had on this morning, complete with that damn ugly shirt.

I gulp again as I see Paul isn't looking directly in front of him. His head is tilted back nearly all the way so I see the top of his head. If I didn't know better, I would say he's looking at the ceiling. But his head is slightly tilted, making it look like it's a very uncomfortable stance.

Paul can be goofy. Paul can be a dork. Paul can be an asshole, but one thing Paul never is, is strange. Standing like that isn't something the man would ever do. And he wouldn't sneak into the house unannounced to do it. He knows how freaked out I've been and would never make fun of it.

I'm not stupid enough to call his name or interact with...whatever that thing in the corner is. It may look like Paul, but I know it's not. I've no clue what it is, if it's real, if it's solid or just in my head. All I do know is there's no great pulsing evil coming off it, but I don't need there to be. All I need is for the fucker not to move.

Backing up slowly I keep my eyes on the figure. If the damn thing dares to move, to turn around, I'm gone. I'll run as fast as I can to one of the bathrooms which has locks on the doors.

Whatever it is doesn't move at all, like it is a mannequin or something. I keep expecting it to twitch, or spin around or do some other creepy shit, but it doesn't. It just stays like that, in that uncomfortable pose. This messes with my head as I keep questioning if it is really there. Like it's some figment of my own mind.

Moving into the kitchen, I lose sight of whatever it is. Seeing no choice, I move quickly through the kitchen and towards the stairs. As I walk, I become like the terminator, looking all around, expecting some god awful thing to attack me. This isn't the first time the thing has appeared to me, but it is the first time it's done so downstairs, so there's no telling what else it may do.

Running up the stairs I keep searching, scared for what I may see come at me. I make my way into the bedroom where I poke my head in first to make sure there's nothing in the room. When it looks clean, I move in where I spot my keys on the dresser. I walk over and happily grab them.

Right before I leave, I spot something on the bed. Thankfully it isn't a severed head or anything like that, but a rose and a note. This is something Paul does when he's trying to be sweet. Granted he normally does it on my birthday or an anniversary, but it is something he's done before.

Paul's sweet gesture seems somewhat tainted given the situation. Normally I would gush and think what a sweet man he is, but the timing seems strange. It's no where near close to any important date, so why would he leave this? Something about the note doesn't seem, well, right.

Moving over, I grab the folded note. Sure enough, it is a note written in Paul's handwriting. I would know that horrid scrawl anywhere.

I quickly read over the note and get even more confused. I have no doubt Paul wrote it, because it is written with his normal ADHD mind that goes all over the place. But it's still strange. In it he apologizes for arguing with me last night. That he's thought about it and agrees that we shouldn't use condoms any longer. That as man and wife, it would be considered normal to do as nature wants.

Very confused by this, I happen to spot his waste basket on his side of the room and sure enough, his condoms are in it, like he's throwing them out. In fact, I see the packaging ripped open on most of them, like he was making sure they couldn't be used.

The problem is, we never had any sort of conversation like that. In fact, I would be against doing that as I really don't want kids. At least not at the moment. So why would he think we've had such a conversation when we didn't?

Feeling like I'm missing that one puzzle piece to finish the puzzle, I look at the note again. I just don't get this. I can't even think of a conversation we've had that was anywhere near that topic. The only thing sort of related is how horny Paul has been of late.

One thing does push to the front of my mind. It seemed like a stupid throwaway thing, but now I see that maybe it meant something. Maybe. I don't know. It's all just so...weird.

About a week ago Paul woke up telling me about this hot dream we had. Where the two of us had the best sex ever. The sort of sex that leaves bruises and marks. Rough sex. Kinky sex. He kept going on and on about how real it felt. That he can't believe it was just a dream. He repeatedly asked if it really happened as he swore he found cuts on him where he said my nails dug in.

I thought it was just his way of saying he wanted to try new things in the bedroom, which I'm down for, but now I'm wondering if it is somehow related to what's happening with the house. But how? Is the house wanting Paul and I to have kinky sex? That seems unlikely. Very unlikely. But what if this is how it is affecting Paul?

What would it gain by Paul fucking me without a condom? The only thing I can think of is that I could get pregnant. Who would care about that? I mean, I would care very much and so would Paul, but I've never in my life heard of a ghost or whatever this is, trying to get couples to have a baby. So what the fuck is the point? It just doesn't make any sense.

"Hiiiiiiiiii honeyyyyyyy," a low, almost hissing voice greets. The voice tenses my entire body because it sounds like the air is being let out of some object.

Looking from the note, I turn my attention to the bedroom doorframe. There I see Paul, smack in the middle of the doorframe, looking at me.

"OH SHIT!" I scream out, backing up to the wall as Paul scared the shit out of me. In instinct I reach out and grab hold of the alarm clock, fully meaning to throw it. I hold it back, cocked to defend myself for a moment before seeing who it is.

"P-Paul?" I ask confused, my jaw trembling. It takes a fraction of a second to realize that through I do see my husband in the doorframe, it's not my husband. It looks like him perfectly, but I know it's not. Maybe it is because of the soft smile he has. Paul has never smiled like that before. He has a mischievous smile. It's the smile I fell in love with.

"Reebbbbeeeccccaaaaa," the Paul-thing says in that long, drawn out way that is the creepiest thing I've ever heard.

Gulping, I feel my body want to freeze. It wants to become paralyzed where I'll be helpless. That fear wants me to lose my mind and not be able to think. The fear wants me to give up.

Whatever that thing is, it's in front of the only way out. It's blocking my way to freedom, and it's not like I have any sort of real weapon. Hell, I'm not even sure a weapon would work on the damn thing.

"W-What you doing...honey? Why are you home?" I ask, playing as if it is Paul. I don't know if it can tell I already know it's not him or not, but I have no fucking clue what else to do. My fear is that if it does figure that I know, it may attack, so maybe by playing dumb I can talk it away or something.

"Toooo sllleeeeeeep," Paul answers, his eyes first flicking to the bed, then turning his head so they follow. His eyes then land back on me where his head turns right after.

The way it talks makes it hard to understand it. It takes me a moment to figure that it said, "to sleep." Sleep? Why does it want to sleep?

"Oh, ok. Well...go...go right ahead. Get you some s-sleep honey," I stammer, motioning to bed as if this is perfectly normal. That my husband frequently comes home in the middle of the day to take a nap.