In the spine-chilling horror story, “My Wife Likes To Play With Me,” Mark, a devoted husband, confronts an unsettling shift in his quiet life. A strange encounter sparks creeping psychological dread when his wife, Sarah, begins acting unlike herself. What starts as an odd moment spirals into a haunting mystery. Step into this eerie narrative of supernatural terror, where the familiar turns sinister under the weight of an unseen gaze—perfect for fans of creepy fiction online!
Sarah and I have been together eight years, married two. She’s my everything—sharp as a tack, kind to a fault, steady as hell. No weird shit, no red flags, just us—normal, boring us. I can’t scream that loud enough.
She’s not the type to fuck with me, never has been. Pranks? Scares? She’d rather die than play along. I’m the horror junkie—podcasts, movies, the works. She hates it. Early on, I begged her to watch The Exorcist with me. She lasted twenty minutes, pale as a ghost, before snapping, “Mark, turn this shit off! It’s fucked up!” That’s Sarah—serious, no bullshit. So this? This gut-punch insanity? It’s not her.
She’s never cracked mentally. No breakdowns, no family curse of crazy. Eight years, and I’d have seen a goddamn hint, right? But now, I’m staring at a stranger wearing her skin.
It started two months back. I was late for work, fumbling in the kitchen. The coffee pot gurgled, spitting black sludge into a chipped mug. I burned my toast—again—too wired about a deadline to care. Gulping the bitter crap, I bolted for the garage. Halfway down the hall, I saw her.
Sarah peeked from behind the laundry room door—just her eyes, wide as fucking saucers, locked on me. Blonde hair hung limp against the frame, the rest of her a shadow. I jolted, coffee searing my lips.
“Fuck, Sarah!” I barked, wiping drips off my shirt. “You trying to kill me?”
No answer. Then—zip—she ducked back, footsteps skittering like a rat toward the living room.
“Sarah?” I yelled, heart thumping. “What’s your deal?”
Nada. I peeked around—empty, just the hum of the house. “Love you, you freak!” I called, forcing a laugh as I slammed the door. A giggle echoed—high, wrong. Not hers.
You May Also Like: The Ivanov Directive | Horror Story
Weird as shit, but not priest-worthy. I figured she was screwing with me, a rare dip into my horror-loving world. By lunch, it was gone from my head. Home that night, she was Sarah again—chopping onions, asking, “How’s work, babe?” I didn’t mention it. No point.
Three nights later, it hit harder. I woke at 2 AM, mouth like sandpaper. The house was dead—moonlight slashing through blinds. I staggered to the kitchen, grabbed the OJ jug, and chugged straight from it. Mid-gulp, that prickling hit—eyes boring into me.
I looked down. Sarah’s face grinned up from behind the island—pale as death, lips stretched into a rictus, eyes unblinking, wild. A Cheshire fucking cat on crack.
“Jesus FUCK!” I screamed, juice splattering. Pure terror, not annoyance—she looked wrong. She giggled—shrill, unhinged—and scuttled back on all fours, hands slapping tile like some feral beast. Gone before I could blink.
“Sarah, what the fuck?!” I roared. “This ain’t a game!”
Silence. My chest heaved. I stood there, frozen, waiting for her to lunge. Nothing. Upstairs, she was in bed, curled tight, breathing slow. Asleep? Bullshit. I loomed over her. “You awake, you psycho?” I hissed. No twitch. I climbed in, expecting her to pounce. She didn’t.
Morning came. She shuffled down, bleary-eyed. I handed her coffee, kissed her cheek, and probed. “What was that last night?”
She frowned. “What?”
“You—under the island, grinning like a goddamn lunatic,” I said, pointing.
She laughed—hard, spilling coffee. “Mark, you’re fucked in the head! Too many horror stories?”
“I saw you,” I insisted, faking a grin.
“You’re the creep,” she teased, wrapping her arms around me. “Love your crazy ass anyway.”
We laughed. I doubted myself—sleep-deprived hallucination? But that grin, those eyes… they clawed at my brain.
It got worse. She’d peek everywhere—behind the couch, through the blinds, once from the attic hatch, her face half-lit, grinning like a deranged toddler. Each time, I’d yell, “Sarah, why the fuck are you doing this?” She’d giggle—high, broken—and scamper off. No answers, just that stare.
You May Also Like: Red-Room.exe | Horror Story
One night, I caught her in the guest room closet. I’d gone for a blanket; the door creaked open. There she crouched, eyes glinting, mouth gaping in a silent, ecstatic scream. “Sarah, talk to me!” I snapped. “What’s this shit?” She hissed—low, guttural—then slammed the door shut. I backed off, skin crawling.
Two weeks of peace followed. I thought she’d burned out. We were watching TV—some dumb reality show—when I jabbed, “No more hide-and-seek, huh?”
She smirked, eyes dark. “Maybe I’m just too good now, Marky.”
“Real funny,” I said, gut twisting. Was she serious?
Paranoia sank its teeth in. I checked corners, flinched at shadows. Was she lurking, unseen? I felt like a nutcase—scared of my own wife. After a month with no peeks, I relaxed. Bad move.
Five days ago, it exploded. Sarah was at her friend’s. I was home, blasting music, cooking a shitty burger. Around 9 PM, I hit the shower. Steam choked the air; water pounded. That watched feeling crept up—heavy, suffocating. I rinsed soap from my eyes and looked.
Sarah’s head stretched past the curtain—full-on in the shower, hair dripping, eyes red as hell, mouth a gaping, drooling maw. Mascara ran like black veins down her cheeks. She shouldn’t have been home.
“FUCK!” I screamed, slamming against the wall. “Sarah, STOP!”
She giggled—wet, unhinged. “Peekaboo, Marky!” she rasped, voice like gravel. “Found you!”
“Get out!” I roared. “You’re fucking insane!”
Her grin widened—teeth bared, feral. She pulled back slow, curtain rustling. The door slammed—hard, mirror rattling. I locked it, panting, dripping wet. An hour I sat there, listening. A moan—faint, raw—seeped through. “Sarah?” I yelled. “Fuck off!” Silence.
I grabbed my phone, keys, and bolted—half-naked, towel flapping—to my car. Texts poured in: “Where’d you go?” “Mark, I’m worried!” Like she wasn’t a goddamn nightmare. I floored it to my brother Jake’s, 40 minutes away.
Jake and his wife, Mia, opened the door. “Christ, Mark, you’re soaked!” Jake said, tossing me sweats.
“Fight with Sarah,” I muttered. “She’s lost it.”
“Lost it how?” Mia asked, eyes wide.
“Fucking terrifying,” I said. “Can I crash?”
“Yeah, man,” Jake said. “Couch is yours.”
I lay there, shaking. Couldn’t sleep. Her face—drooling, red-eyed—burned behind my lids. She’d been in the shower, grinning like a psycho. How long had she watched?
Next morning, I spilled to Jake. “She’s hiding, staring—cut the shit last night.”
“Prank?” he asked.
“No,” I snapped. “She’s fucked up.”
“Talk to her,” Mia urged. “She’s still Sarah.”
“She’s a monster,” I said.
I stayed another day, dodging her calls. Texts piled up: “Love you.” “Come home.” “Where are you?” Normal shit—like she hadn’t gone feral. I turned my phone off, stewing.
Night two, I woke at dawn on their couch. That feeling hit—watched. I stared at the ceiling, dread pooling. My eyes slid to the window. Sarah’s face pressed the glass—drooling, grinning, eyes like bloody pits. Streaks smeared the pane.
“Fuck you, Sarah!” I roared, slamming the glass. “Go home, you crazy bitch!”
Her grin stretched—impossible, grotesque. “Marky… peekaboo!” she croaked, voice echoing inside my skull.
Jake stumbled down. “What’s—” He saw her and froze. She twitched, mouth closing slow, then—gone. Just drool trails.
“She was here,” I gasped. “Fucking watching me!”
“Dream, man,” Jake said, shaky. “No footprints outside.”
“She’s real!” I yelled. “I’m done.”
I called out sick and hid at Jake’s. Midday, I rang her mom, Ellen—cold, prickly bitch. “Ellen, it’s Mark. Sarah’s fucked—hiding, grinning, scaring me shitless.”
A long silence. “What do you want?” she snapped.
“Any history? Mental shit?” I pressed.
“Get her help,” she said, voice cracking. “Real help. Don’t call again.” Click.
Real help? Doctors? Exorcists? I stewed, lost. Jake and Mia pushed me to confront her. “She’s sick,” Mia said. “Fix it.”
You May Also Like: The House That Feeds | Horror Story
“She cut me,” I said, showing my cheek’s scar. “She’s dangerous.”
“Give her a chance,” Jake said. “We’ll go with you.”
The next morning, we drove back. Her car was gone, door ajar. The house reeked—rotting meat, thick and rancid. “Fuck’s that smell?” Jake gagged.
“Her,” I muttered.
Inside, it was a tomb—curtains shut, air dead. Glass crunched—our wedding photo, smashed on the stairs. Sarah’s smile in the frame mocked me. We searched, yelling her name. “Why check under shit?” Jake asked.
“She hides,” I hissed.
Upstairs, the bathroom was untouched—the shower curtain was wet, though. The bedroom was hell—sheets shredded, drawers gutted. The closet stank worse. I opened it. Birds—dozens—gutted, feathers matted with blood, eyes gouged out, lined up like trophies. I retched.
“Fuck me,” Jake whispered. “She’s a psycho.”
Under the bed, she lurked—curled, bloody hands trembling, grinning like a fiend. “Marky!” she chirped, high and manic. “Peekaboo, motherfucker!”
“Sarah, what’s wrong?” I choked. “Why this?”
“Fun, fun, FUN!” she screeched, head bobbing. “Watch you squirm!”
“Help me fix you!” I begged.
She lunged—glass shard slashing my arm. “Bleed, Marky!” she cackled, drooling blood. I fell, screaming. Jake yanked me up. “Run!”
She chased—crawling, snarling, “Mine, mine, MINE!” I shook her off at the door, her nails raking my back. We hit the car, Jake on 911. She stood on the porch, grinning, glass dripping red.
ER stitched me—14 in my arm, 5 in my back. Police found the birds, but no Sarah. “Restraining order,” they said. “Stay away.”
I’m at a motel now, an hour out. Locked in, typing this. Four hours ago, my phone buzzed—unknown: “I found you.” A photo—her eye, bloody, staring.
I called Ellen again. “She attacked me!” I yelled. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Help her,” she croaked, breaking. “Please… help.” Hung up.
Help? How? She’s a nightmare—grinning, cutting, hunting. Jake thinks it’s a prank gone wrong. “She’s not human anymore,” I told him.
A knock just hit—slow, deliberate. My gut’s ice. Another. The phone buzzes: “Look, Marky.” Through the peephole—her eye, red, drooling grin beyond. “Peekaboo,” she whispers.
I don’t scream. Can’t. My throat’s locked, air trapped like cement in my chest. The peephole’s tiny lens warps her face—her eye bulges, bloodshot veins pulsing, the grin below it splitting her lips into cracked, oozing slits. Drool slides down the door, thick as pus. She’s here. Fucking here. An hour from home, middle of nowhere, and she’s right outside.
“Marky…” her voice scratches through the wood, low and wet. “Open it. Let’s play.”
I stumble back, my phone slipping from my hand. It hits the carpet—muted thud. The knock comes again—harder, rattling the chain lock. “Peekaboo, you fuck!” she shrieks, giggling that jagged, broken-glass laugh. “I see you!”
I grab a chair, jam it under the knob. “Fuck off, Sarah!” I yelled, voice cracking. “I’ll call the cops!”
She laughs—louder, unhinged, like a hyena choking on blood. “Cops? Oh, Marky, they can’t catch me. I’m too good.” A scrape—nails? Glass?—drags down the door, slow and deliberate. “Open up, baby. I wanna see you bleed again.”
My skin’s crawling, every nerve screaming run. But where? Out the window? Backroads at night? She’d be waiting—grinning, drooling, that shard in her fist. I snatch my phone, hands shaking, and dial Jake. It rings. Rings. Voicemail.
You May Also Like: The Edge of Nothing | Horror Story
“Jake, she’s here!” I hiss. “Motel—Room 12. Get the fucking cops, now!” I hang up, eyes glued to the door. The scraping stops. Silence. Worse than her voice—silence means she’s moving.
A tap at the window. My head snaps left. The curtain’s drawn, but a shadow shift—her shadow, hunched, twitching. “Marky…” she sings, muffled. “I’m everywhere, baby. Always watching.” Another tap—sharper, like metal on glass. “Wanna see my new trick?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. I back against the wall, scanning the room—grimy bed, flickering lamp, locked bathroom door. No weapons, no escape. The tap turns to a pound—glass creaks. “OPEN IT!” she screams, voice splitting into a guttural howl. “I’ll carve your fucking eyes out!”
The window holds—for now. I dial 911, whispering, “Emergency—motel off Route 17, Room 12. My wife’s trying to kill me. She’s outside—armed, crazy. Hurry.” The operator’s calm voice asks questions; I barely hear. A crash outside—trash can? Footsteps crunch gravel, circling.
“She’s moving,” I choke. “Please, fast.”
“Stay put, sir,” the operator says. “Officers in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes? I’ll be dead in five. The door rattles—the chain clinks. “Sarah, stop!” I yell, desperate. “What’s wrong with you? Talk to me!”
Her laugh cuts through—raw, rabid. “Talk? Oh, Marky, I’m done talking. Wanna taste your fear—mmm, it’s so good!” A thud—her body against the door? “I’m coming in, baby. Ready or not!”
The chain holds, but the wood groans. I grab the lamp and yank its cord-free—pathetic weapon, but it’s something. Footsteps again—gravel to grass, fading. Did she leave? No way—she’s toying with me. My phone buzzes: unknown. A video. I shouldn’t look. I do.
It’s her—outside, under the motel’s neon sign, grinning into the camera. Blood smears her face, her teeth red-streaked. She holds a bird—dead, eyeless—stroking its feathers. “Marky,” she croons, “this is you soon. All empty. All mine.” She crushes the carcass, giggling as gore drips. The video cuts off.
I gag, phone shaking. Sirens—distant, faint. Hope? Or too late? A creak from the bathroom. My blood freezes. The door’s locked—I checked. Didn’t I? Another creak—slow, deliberate. She’s inside. She’s been here.
“Marky…” her voice slithers from the bathroom, soft, mocking. “Peekaboo…”
I clutch the lamp, inch toward the door—main door, escape. The bathroom handle rattles. “You thought you’d hide?” she hisses, louder. “I’m always here, you dumb fuck!” A bang—wood splintering. She’s breaking through.
I fumble the chair away, unlock the chain—fuck the lamp, I drop it. The motel door swings open; cold air hits. I run—gravel biting my feet, lungs burning. Headlights—cops? Jake? I sprint toward them, waving. “Help!” I scream.
A shadow moves left—fast, low. Sarah—crawling, glass shard glinting. “MINE!” she shrieks, lunging. I dodge, tripping into the dirt. She’s on me—nails in my shoulder, breath hot and rancid. “Bleed, Marky!” she laughs, shard slicing air.
Tires screech—doors slam. “Police! Drop it!” a voice booms. Sarah freezes, head twitching, grin fading to a snarl. “NOW!”
She bolts—inhumanly fast, into the woods. Flashlights chase her; shouts echo. I collapse, sobbing, blood pooling from my shoulder. A cop kneels. “You okay?”
You May Also Like: The Slit-Mouthed Woman | Horror Story
“No,” I gasp. “She’s… she’s not my wife.”
Ambulance. Stitches—eight more. They don’t find her. Woods are empty, they say. Bullshit. She’s out there—watching. Jake arrives, pale. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry,” he says. “Thought you were exaggerating.”
“She’s a demon,” I mutter.
“Hospital?” he asks.
“Motel,” I say. “Can’t stay here.”
New motel, two towns over. I bolt the door and check windows—twice. Sleep’s a joke; every creak’s her. Morning comes—gray, heavy. I call Ellen again, desperate. “Ellen, she’s hunting me,” I plead. “What is this?”
Silence. A sob—hers. “Mark… I warned you. Get help—real help. Not doctors.” A pause, then, “She’s… not Sarah anymore.” Click.
Not Sarah? What the fuck does that mean? I pace, replaying her words. Real help—priests? Shamans? My head’s splitting. Jake texts: “Cops got nothing. Stay safe.” Safe? Nowhere’s safe.
Midday, I grab a coffee from a diner nearby—greasy, dim. Eyes on me. I scan—no Sarah. Just a waitress, staring. Too long. Her lips twitch—almost a grin. “More coffee?” she asks, voice… familiar.
“No,” I snap, bolting. Outside, my car’s tire—slashed, glass shard wedged in rubber. A note under the wiper: “Peekaboo.” I spin—nobody. Run back to the motel, and lock myself in.
Night falls. I’m typing this, door barricaded. The phone’s dead—won’t charge. Power flickers. A scratch at the window—slow, deliberate. I don’t look. Can’t. But I hear her—whispering, giggling. “Marky… I’m so close…”
I’m trapped. No cops, no Jake, no Ellen. Just her—always her. The scratching stops. Silence. Then—a key in the lock. Turning. Slowly.
“Peekaboo,” she breathes.
I don’t have much time.
