"Martin!" He was immediately greeted with a tight hug, and he returned the embrace with a smile.
"I missed you, Sheila," he said, gazing at her gentle face. He couldn't resist giving her a passionate kiss.
Sheila responded to the kiss, deepening it. Martin eventually pulled away, looking into her eyes as he smiled and kissed her again.
"Let's continue this in your room," he whispered.
He carried Sheila upstairs. He didn't care that he had a wife and child waiting at home. His happiness, he believed, was here.
In her room, they warmed the cold bed. Naked, Martin ran his hands over Sheila's body, lingering on her sensitive places. Her soft moans encouraged him. He hadn't felt this kind of passion in a long time. Work wore him down, and at home, he had no desire—not with Sharlene.
Their marriage was a mistake, born from an unplanned pregnancy. He never wanted to be a father, and above all, he had never been attracted to her.
As his body moved with Sheila's, he whispered her name. A few minutes later, their pleasure reached its peak, and he collapsed on top of her, heart racing and breath ragged.
He kissed her again.
He couldn't kiss Sharlene like this—he felt disgusted whenever he tried. He regretted not being more careful. Now, he was tied to her.
Lying naked beside Sheila, he sighed.
"I thought you went home to your place?" Sheila asked.
He sighed again. "There was a wake."
"Who died?" she asked, confused.
"Sharlene's grandmother," he said flatly.
"Oh. Is that why you're here?"
"Yeah. But really, I came because of you," he said, smiling.
Sheila smiled back.
"Does your wife know about me?"
"She knows. Pretends not to. She doesn't want to separate—for the sake of our daughter, Ashley."
"So she's using the child to keep you."
"Exactly."
Sheila studied him. "Do you really love your daughter?"
Do I? he wondered.
"No," he answered quickly.
"You're cruel. Ashley's still your blood, Martin." She chuckled.
"I'd rather die than acknowledge that child," he muttered coldly.
"So if I get pregnant, would you accept our child?" she asked.
"That's different. I want us to have a child," he said, gently caressing her face.
"You're so sweet. That's why I want you here," she said, her voice enticing.
"You're making me want to do it again," he whispered. "Look, it's already hard again, sweetie."
"You're an animal in bed, hon," Sheila giggled.
Just as he was about to kiss her again, Martin froze. He felt a sharp, cold glare. He turned quickly.
There was no one. Just him and Sheila.
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked.
"Nothing," he lied. "Just my imagination."
He kissed her again and positioned himself on top of her.
Suddenly, they heard the sound of shattering glass.
Alarmed, they quickly pulled on their clothes.
"Is anyone else here, Sheila?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No housekeeper tonight."
"Stay here. It might be a thief or someone dangerous."
Before she could speak, he was already downstairs, heading toward the sound.
He saw no one. As he scanned the house, something caught his eye: a woman dressed in mourning, sitting on the couch, holding a broken mirror.
A chill ran down his spine. He rushed to the kitchen for a knife.
The woman stood. He ducked, hiding. He couldn't see her face—the lights were all off.
He looked down and saw strange footprints, left by her shoes. They looked like they were made of mud... and blood.
She murmured to herself, laughing eerily. Then she passed through the door without opening it.
Martin blinked. He peered through the window. The woman paced the yard, broken glass still in hand, laughing like someone possessed. She passed through the high gate as if it weren't there.
He questioned his sanity.
When he turned on the lights, the muddy, bloody footprints vanished.
"Martin?" Sheila called out, worried.
He scratched his head, still shaken. He returned upstairs and kissed her forehead.
"We need sleep," he muttered.
Sheila nodded. They lay beside each other like a real couple. She hugged him; he hugged back.
But Martin couldn't sleep. Not after what he had seen.
You need to sleep, Martin, he told himself.
He closed his eyes, trying to forget the horror that haunted him.