The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

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wife and I.
It scares me to think that this kind of thing
might have happened now and again through the ages.
How many of us are sleeping next to monsters? Or
could it be that I’m the one this keeps happening to?
That I keep on being re-incarnated to suffer this horrible
fate until I get it right? Neither thought really
brings me comfort.
So why am I talking about this then, and especially
in such detail? Because I do have to admit that,
as far as I know, she never hurt me or our daughter.
Because every day and every night that I stay here, I
remember how safe I felt sleeping, blissfully unaware
of the truth. And because I’d prefer to go back to that
bed, and sleep next to that thing rather than spend another
night in here. “No.” I remind myself. “Not back
to “that” bed; back to “my” bed. And “that thing”
is… was, your wife. But either way it’s too late. Here
I am. And he’ll keep me here. Because my plight
amuses him.
My wife was beautiful, and smart as a whip.
She looked exotic: like you couldn’t tell quite what
her ethnicity was; and that was alright with both of us.
She only had a couple of close friends, but she loved
to debate philosophy and she loved a well told story,
be it from a book, a movie, a tv show or any other
method of delivery. Honestly, she just had a lust for
life in general. Like me, she lived a pretty clean life,
preferred reading quietly at home to going out to party
in a club, and couldn’t stand country music. She had a
great job that she loved, and she was doing fine all by
herself.