Married to the Parasite Bride / Chapter 7: The Claw Mark
Married to the Parasite Bride

Married to the Parasite Bride

Author: Hunter Farrell


Chapter 7: The Claw Mark

The next morning, when I woke up, my wife was still sleeping soundly beside me. Sunlight striped her face through the blinds. For a moment, I wondered if I’d dreamed it all.

I glanced at her neck. The red line had changed again. A thin branch—almost like a claw—jutted out near her chin, raw and angry. My stomach twisted.

I grabbed my phone, hands shaking, intent on snapping a photo to send to the expert from last night. I told myself I needed proof—anything to make sense of this.

I’d just opened the camera when—

“Honey, what are you doing?”

Her voice was soft, but it sliced through the quiet like a knife. My thumb hovered, my heart pounding.

Her eyes met mine—cold, expressionless. Something was off. A chill ran down my spine.

I tried to play it cool. “Nothing, I just thought you looked beautiful while sleeping. Wanted to set it as my wallpaper.”

My voice came out too high, too quick. I tried to look relaxed, leaning back like nothing was wrong.

She eyed me, suspicious, then pulled the comforter up to her chin, hiding her neck. “We’re an old married couple. What’s there to photograph? Be quiet, I want to sleep a bit more.”

Her words were teasing, but her eyes were hard. I nodded, not wanting to push it, and rushed into the bathroom.

I locked the door, my breath coming fast. The cold tiles grounded me. I stripped down, checked myself in the mirror—no marks, no bites. Nothing. But it didn’t reassure me.

If I hadn’t seen the red line on her neck change, I’d have thought last night was just a nightmare. My eyes were bloodshot, my face pale. I splashed water on my cheeks, trying to wake up.

I steadied my expression in the mirror, forced myself to calm down, then got dressed for a walk. It was an old habit—when things got tough, I’d walk the block, maybe grab a coffee. Anything to clear my head.

The online expert might be unreliable, but I knew there was a supposedly accurate psychic out in the suburbs. In the Midwest, every town’s got at least one—some neon sign promising palm readings for twenty bucks. I figured, why not?

But as soon as my hand touched the doorknob—

“Where are you going?”

Her voice was cold, flat, behind me.

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