I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into Rohit's house.

The air was still and heavy, thick with a silence that felt… intentional. My best friend, usually a whirlwind of laughter and bad jokes, was slumped on the sofa. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, his fingers motionless. He didn't greet me. He didn't even look up.

"Rohit?" I called out.

Nothing. It was as if I were a ghost.

Then, she entered. A woman of breathtaking beauty, with a smile that didn't quite reach her cold, calculating eyes.

"You must be Rohit's friend," she said, her voice a silken thread. "I am his wife, Anya."

Wife? Since when? My confusion deepened as she turned to him, her tone sweet. "Darling, your friend is here. Won't you say hello?"

Rohit remained a statue, his gaze locked on the glowing rectangle. A flicker of irritation crossed Anya's perfect face before she smoothed it away.

The pitter-patter of small feet announced two children. They were pale, their eyes wide with a fear that seemed permanent. They clung to each other, whispering, "Papa…?"

No response from the man on the sofa. The children flinched as if struck, immediately looking to Anya for a command. With a subtle jerk of her head, she sent them scurrying away.

I watched this bizarre pantomime, my skin crawling. This wasn't the warm, chaotic home Rohit had always talked about. This was a mausoleum.

Anya’s patience finally shattered. "LOOK AT ME!" she screamed, her beautiful face contorting. When he still didn't move, she let out a wail—a heartbroken, pathetic sound—and fled up the stairs, her sobs echoing in the hall.

"I... I'll go check on her," I stammered, needing to understand, needing to do something.

I climbed the stairs slowly, the ornate carpet muffling my steps. With each step, her crying changed. The human grief twisted, warping into something guttural, ancient, and full of rage. It was a horrible, scratching sound that clawed at my ears.

I reached the top of the stairs and peered down the dark hallway.

There she was, hunched over. But it wasn't Anya. Her beautiful hair was falling out in thick clumps, littering the floor. Her skin stretched and sagged, wrinkling like parchment over a frame that was becoming gaunt and twisted. The silken robe she wore now hung on the form of a hunched, cackling crone with long, bony fingers.

Our eyes met. Hers were pits of bottomless malice.

I didn't think. I ran.

I slammed the living room door shut, my heart trying to batter its way out of my ribs. I turned to Rohit, ready to scream at him for getting me into this.

And for the first time, he was looking at me. His eyes were hollow, filled with a terror I had never seen.

"Say anything," he whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. "Do anything a husband should... and she drains your life to sustain her youth." He gestured weakly with his phone. "This... this silence is the only shield I have. The only way to be free is if she decides to leave me."

A slow, heavy creak sounded from the top of the stairs.

Thump. Drag. Thump. Drag.

She was coming down.

My breath hitched. The air grew cold. I could hear a dry, rattling whisper slithering down the hallway, promising things I didn't want to understand.

And then I woke up.