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.

My breath caught in my throat.

Sebastian stood beside my bed with his eyes closed, completely unaware of me watching him.

And in his hand was the knife.

The same silver blade from my dream.

For several seconds, I couldn't move.

My mind desperately searched for an explanation, but every possibility felt more frightening than the last.

Maybe I was still dreaming.

Maybe this was another nightmare.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again.

Sebastian was still there.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Sebastian?"

He didn't respond.

His face remained strangely calm, almost peaceful, despite the knife hanging loosely from his hand.

I stared at the blade.

A thin line of moonlight reflected off its edge.

It looked exactly like the knife I had seen moments earlier in my dream.

The same shape.

The same silver handle.

The same narrow blade.

My fingers curled into the bedsheet.

I should wake him.

Every instinct inside me screamed that I should.

But another part of me was terrified of what would happen if he opened his eyes.

What if he wasn't really asleep?

What if the dream hadn't been a dream at all?

Sebastian suddenly turned toward the bedroom door.

I stopped breathing.

He began walking.

Slowly.

Quietly.

As though he knew exactly where he was going.

"Sebastian?"

Nothing.

He opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

I remained frozen for another few seconds before forcing myself out of bed.

The floor was cold beneath my bare feet.

I followed him.

I kept several steps between us, afraid to get too close.

The hallway was dark, with only faint moonlight coming through the tall windows.

Sebastian didn't turn on a single light.

He walked through the darkness without hesitation.

I watched the knife swinging slightly at his side with every step.

My stomach twisted.

Where was he going?

I knew the answer before we reached the end of the hallway.

His study.

The door was closed.

Sebastian stopped in front of it.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

Then he reached for the handle.

The door opened.

I frowned.

The study was normally locked at night.

Sebastian was extremely protective of that room. He kept important documents there, and even the housekeepers weren't allowed inside without permission.

Yet he walked in without hesitation.

As though the locked door had never existed.

I followed him.

The room was almost completely dark.

Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, falling across the desk and bookshelves.

Sebastian walked straight toward his desk.

Then he stopped.

I stayed near the doorway, watching him.

His head tilted slightly.

His hand moved beneath the desk.

I frowned.

What was he doing?

Then I heard it.

A small click.

Something inside the desk moved.

One of the drawers slowly opened.

My heart began beating faster.

I had never seen that drawer before.

Sebastian reached inside.

For a moment, his fingers disappeared beneath the darkness.

Then he pulled something out.

Another knife.

My stomach dropped.

I looked at the knife in his hand.

Then at the one he had just taken from the hidden drawer.

They were identical.

Completely identical.

I stared at them, unable to understand what I was seeing.

Why did Sebastian have two of the same knife?

Why had he hidden one?

And why had he walked here in his sleep carrying the other?

Sebastian suddenly moved.

He placed the knife in his hand inside the drawer.

Then he stood there, staring down at it.

His breathing changed.

It became slower.

Deeper.

His eyelids fluttered.

I stepped backward.

Sebastian's eyes opened.

He turned.

His gaze landed directly on me.

"Serena?"

I couldn't answer.

He looked confused.

Then his eyes moved around the room.

"What are you doing here?"

I swallowed.

"You walked here."

He frowned.

"What?"

"You walked here from our bedroom."

He stared at me.

"I don't remember that."

"You were asleep."

His expression changed.

"What?"

"You were sleepwalking."

He looked down at his hand.

Then at the open drawer.

His face slowly lost its color.

"I..."

He stopped.

I watched him carefully.

"You don't remember?"

He shook his head.

"No."

His voice sounded genuinely confused.

He looked at the knife inside the drawer.

"I don't remember opening this."

"You opened it."

He looked at me.

"Did I hurt you?"

The question surprised me.

"No."

His shoulders relaxed slightly.

Then he closed the drawer.

I stepped closer.

"Why is there another knife in there?"

"I don't know."

"Sebastian."

"I don't know, Serena."

His voice was firmer this time.

I studied his face.

He looked frightened.

Not angry.

Not defensive.

Frightened.

That scared me even more.

"Have you ever seen that knife before?"

He stared at the drawer.

"I don't remember."

I folded my arms.

"You keep saying you don't remember."

"Because I don't."

He rubbed his forehead.

"I was asleep. I don't remember leaving the bedroom."

I wanted to believe him.

But I couldn't forget what I had seen.

I pointed toward the drawer.

"Then why do you have two identical knives hidden in your study?"

He didn't answer.

The silence stretched between us.

Finally, he looked at me.

"Let's go back to bed."

I shook my head.

"I can't."

"Serena."

"I just watched my husband walk through the house in the middle of the night with a knife."

"I wasn't awake."

"That doesn't make it less frightening."

His expression softened.

"I would never hurt you."

The words should have reassured me.

Instead, they reminded me of the dream.

Sebastian standing over me.

The knife.

The blood.

And those final words.

I'm sorry.

I looked away.

"I need some time."

He nodded.

Neither of us spoke as we returned to the bedroom.

That night, I didn't sleep again.

⸻

The next morning, Sebastian left early for work.

Before he left, he kissed my forehead as though nothing unusual had happened.

"Try to get some rest."

I watched him walk toward the front door.

The moment it closed behind him, something inside me changed.

I knew I couldn't simply forget what had happened.

I needed answers.

I returned to the study.

The door was unlocked.

I stepped inside and closed it behind me.

For several seconds, I stood in silence.

I felt guilty for searching through Sebastian's things.

He was my husband.

I trusted him.

At least, I thought I did.

But there was a difference between trusting someone and ignoring something that terrified you.

I started with the desk.

I opened every drawer.

Documents.

Contracts.

Receipts.

Nothing.

I checked the cabinets.

Business files.

Old financial records.

Still nothing.

I searched the shelves.

Nothing unusual.

I was beginning to feel ridiculous when I noticed something.

One of the bookshelves looked slightly different.

A wooden panel wasn't sitting completely flush against the wall.

I walked toward it.

My fingers brushed over the edge.

Then I pulled.

The panel moved.

My heart began pounding.

Behind it was a narrow compartment.

Inside sat a small black box.

I took it out.

My hands were trembling.

I looked toward the door before opening it.

The box contained several things.

An old watch.

A few folded papers.

And a photograph.

I picked up the photograph.

Sebastian was standing outside a large mansion.

He looked younger.

Much younger.

But there was no mistaking him.

His arm was wrapped around the waist of a woman standing beside him.

She was smiling.

Sebastian wasn't.

There was something strangely familiar about the way she stood.

The shape of her body.

The length of her hair.

Something about her made my chest tighten.

I turned the photograph over.

Nothing.

I turned it back.

Then I noticed her face.

It had been scratched out.

Not once.

Not twice.

Someone had dragged a sharp object across it repeatedly until almost nothing remained.

I stared at the ruined face.

My stomach twisted.

Who had done this?

And why?

I looked at Sebastian again.

He had his arm around her as though they had once been close.

Very close.

A thought entered my mind.

One I didn't want to entertain.

Who was she?

I searched through the box again, hoping to find something that would give me an answer.

Nothing.

No name.

No date.

No explanation.

Then I heard a car outside.

My heart jumped.

Sebastian.

I quickly put everything back.

The watch.

The papers.

The photograph.

I returned the box to the hidden compartment and pushed the wooden panel closed.

I barely made it out of the study before I heard the front door open.

"Serena?"

His voice echoed through the house.

I stood in the hallway, trying to slow my breathing.

"Yes?"

"I thought you were resting."

"I was."

He looked at me for a moment.

Then his eyes moved toward the study.

My heart skipped.

"Were you in there?"

I forced myself to smile.

"No."

His gaze remained on me.

For a moment, I thought he knew.

Then he nodded.

"Come downstairs."

I followed him.

But the photograph stayed in my mind.

The mysterious woman.

The scratched-out face.

And the strange feeling that somehow...

I had seen her before.

That night, after Sebastian fell asleep, I quietly took the photograph from where I had hidden it.

I sat beneath the soft light of my bedside lamp and studied it again.

Sebastian.

The woman.

Her destroyed face.

I turned it over.

Nothing.

I turned it back.

Then I noticed something I hadn't seen earlier.

There was faint writing along the bottom edge.

My breath caught.

I brought the photograph closer to the light.

Four words had been written on the back.

My fingers went cold as I read them.

She was supposed to die.

I stared at the words until my eyes began to sting.

She was supposed to die.

My fingers tightened around the photograph.

Who had written that?

And who was "she"?

The woman in the picture?

I looked at her scratched-out face again.

A strange uneasiness settled over me.

I couldn't explain it, but the photograph felt personal.

Not simply because Sebastian had hidden it.

There was something about the woman herself.

Something familiar.

I placed the photograph on my bedside table and tried to sleep.

I couldn't.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her standing beside Sebastian.

Then I saw the knife.

Then the bedroom from my dream.

Then the scratch on the door.

My thoughts kept circling the same questions.

Who was the woman?

Why had Sebastian hidden her photograph?

And why did someone believe she was supposed to die?

Eventually, I got out of bed.

Sebastian was still asleep.

I quietly took my phone and walked into the bathroom.

I locked the door.

Then I searched for Sebastian's name.

I had already found the old article, but this time I searched more carefully.

I added words like wife, death, mansion, and ten years ago.

Page after page appeared.

Most were useless.

Then I found another article.

The headline made my heart stop.

BILLIONAIRE SEBASTIAN BLACKWOOD LOSES WIFE IN TRAGIC INCIDENT

I opened it.

My eyes moved quickly over the screen.

Sebastian Blackwood.

Married.

Wife.

Serena Vale.

The name immediately made my stomach tighten.

I read the article again.

Serena Vale, wife of billionaire businessman Sebastian Blackwood, was reportedly killed following a violent incident at the Blackwood family mansion ten years ago.

My hands went cold.

Violent incident.

Not an accident.

I continued reading.

The article said police had been called to the mansion shortly after midnight.

There had been blood inside the house.

A knife had been found.

Sebastian had been questioned.

The investigation had attracted attention because Serena had reportedly disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

I stopped reading.

My heart was beating too fast.

Disappeared?

That wasn't what Sebastian had told me.

He had said his first wife died.

I searched for another article.

Then another.

Some claimed Serena had died.

Others said her body had never been publicly identified.

The information was confusing.

But one fact remained the same.

Her name was Serena Vale.

I whispered the name.

"Serena Vale."

Something inside my head suddenly shifted.

A sharp pain shot behind my eyes.

I grabbed the sink.

A memory flashed.

A dark hallway.

Someone running.

Bare feet against cold marble.

A woman screaming.

Then a man's voice.

"Run!"

I gasped.

The vision disappeared.

I stared at my reflection.

My face looked pale.

"What is happening to me?"

I splashed water onto my face.

I tried to convince myself it was nothing.

A dream.

A random memory.

Anything.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't.

The next morning, I confronted Sebastian.

He was sitting at the dining table when I walked in.

He looked up from his phone.

"Good morning."

I didn't answer.

I placed the photograph in front of him.

His eyes immediately went to it.

Then I placed my phone beside it.

The article was open on the screen.

His expression changed.

"Where did you find that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Serena."

"Who is Serena Vale?"

He became completely still.

The room suddenly felt too quiet.

I watched him carefully.

He didn't ask why I was searching.

He didn't pretend not to know the name.

He simply stared at me.

Finally, he said, "She was my wife."

The words landed heavily.

I swallowed.

"Your first wife."

"Yes."

"She's the woman in this photograph."

"Yes."

"She's dead."

His eyes lowered.

"Yes."

I pointed at my phone.

"Then why does this article say she disappeared?"

He didn't answer.

"Why does it say the police never found her body?"

His jaw tightened.

"Because there were questions about what happened."

"You told me she died in an accident."

"I didn't want to discuss her."

"That isn't an answer."

He pushed his phone aside.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth."

His eyes met mine.

"I've already told you what happened."

"No."

My voice shook.

"You told me what you wanted me to know."

Silence.

I felt tears burning behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Why does she look like me?"

Sebastian looked at the photograph.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he whispered, "You look like her."

My chest tightened.

"How much?"

His eyes returned to mine.

"Enough."

I laughed bitterly.

"So you married a woman who looks exactly like your dead wife?"

"You're not a replacement."

"Then what am I?"

"You."

His answer was quiet.

"You are Serena."

I stared at him.

The words should have meant something.

Instead, they confused me even more.

"What was she like?"

Sebastian looked away.

"She was stubborn."

A faint sadness crossed his face.

"She argued with me about everything."

Despite myself, I almost smiled.

"Sounds familiar."

He looked at me.

For the first time that morning, something almost warm appeared in his eyes.

Then it disappeared.

"What happened to her?"

His face hardened.

"She died."

"How?"

He didn't answer.

"Sebastian."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to."

"No."

His voice was firm.

I stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because some things should stay buried."

A chill passed through me.

"Maybe they should."

I picked up the photograph.

"But this doesn't feel buried."

I walked away.

⸻

I spent the rest of the day thinking about what Sebastian had said.

You are Serena.

It should have been comforting.

Instead, it sounded like a warning.

I couldn't stop thinking about the strange flashes I had experienced.

The dark hallway.

The cold marble.

The screaming woman.

The voice telling someone to run.

What if they weren't random?

What if they belonged to me?

I returned to my room and searched through the few personal documents I kept there.

Birth certificate.

School records.

Old photographs.

Nothing seemed unusual.

Then I noticed something.

There was a gap.

A huge one.

I had photographs from childhood.

School photographs.

University photographs.

Pictures from different stages of my life.

But there was almost nothing from the years around ten years ago.

I stared at the empty space in the album.

Why?

I couldn't remember.

I tried.

I closed my eyes and searched my mind.

Nothing.

Just darkness.

A headache began forming behind my eyes.

I opened my eyes again.

My breathing had become shallow.

I had always thought my memory was normal.

Now I wasn't so sure.

I picked up my phone and searched for medical records.

Then I remembered something Sebastian had said months ago when I once asked about my old documents.

Some of your records were lost.

At the time, I hadn't questioned it.

Now I wondered why.

I returned to the study.

I needed answers.

I searched the shelves again.

This time, I wasn't looking for the woman.

I was looking for me.

And after nearly an hour, I found a folder tucked behind several old files.

My name was written on it.

SERENA BLACKWOOD.

My heart jumped.

I opened it.

Most of the papers were ordinary.

Insurance information.

Medical forms.

Identification documents.

Then I found something else.

A medical record from ten years ago.

My hands began to shake before I even opened it.

I unfolded the paper.

The first line made my entire body go cold.

Patient Name: Serena Vale.

I stopped breathing.

I read it again.

And again.

The name didn't change.

My name.

Or at least, the name that had suddenly begun appearing everywhere.

I continued reading.

The patient had suffered severe injuries.

Head trauma.

Major blood loss.

Emergency surgery.

The date was ten years ago.

My heart hammered in my chest.

I turned the page.

There were handwritten notes from a doctor.

Most of them were difficult to read.

But one sentence stood out.

I stared at it.

Patient survived.

My fingers went numb.

If Serena Vale had survived...

then Sebastian had lied to me.

I looked at the photograph in my other hand.

The woman whose face had been scratched away.

The woman Sebastian once loved.

The woman everyone believed had died ten years ago.

And suddenly, the question wasn't who she was.

It was much worse.

What happened to Serena Vale after she survived?