MY WIFE ALWAYS REFUSED TO BATHE WITH ME… UNTIL I MISTAKEDLY THROWED WATER ON HER… AND MY EYES COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT I SAW…

From the first day my wife, Ifunwa, moved into my house, she was always extremely cautious about water touching her body.

She could go a whole week without bathing, unless I insisted. Even then, she would reluctantly go to the bathroom, close all the doors and windows in the house, and then lock herself in for hours.

She could spend up to two hours in the bathroom, and when she finally came out, her eyes were red and swollen. Her skin glowed almost as if it were polished, like gold.

At first, I thought she was just following an intense skincare routine. But I was wrong.

It all seemed funny to me at first.

Whenever we were outdoors and it looked like rain was about to fall, Ifunwa would get extremely nervous.

I would start rushing to leave, anxious to get home before a single drop of rain touched her.

I assumed she just didn’t like rainwater—some people are like that. Some claim to be allergic. But with her, things got more complicated. This story belongs to Grace Ochiba.

You know, I used to think that once we were married, my wife and I would bathe together, have those fun, naughty moments my married friends always talked about. You know, the playful splashing, the laughter, the shower romance…

But mine was different.

Every time we made love and I suggested we bathe together afterward, her reaction would change drastically. Her eyes would turn red, her face would tense, and sweat would start dripping from her forehead, as if she were hiding something… something deep. Written by Grace Ochiba.

“You don’t have to react like that. I was just joking,” she said, trying to ease the tension. “You can take your time and bathe alone.”

Then I would bathe alone, feeling disappointed.

I also began to notice that she never drank water, ever. Not even when the food was unbearably spicy. She said she drank water, just not when I saw her.

Who was I to doubt her?

Sometimes, after she finished washing the dishes, I would walk into the kitchen expecting to see the sink wet, or at least a few drops of water, but to my surprise, the sink was completely dry, as if it hadn’t been used in days. Instead, the dishes were sparkling, perfectly clean.

I wanted to ask her about it, but I held back.

“Maybe dry the sink with a rag,” I told myself and walked away.

But everything changed one strange day.

She hadn’t showered all day.

“You need to shower, honey. You haven’t showered since this morning,” I told her.

She made a sound of displeasure, got up reluctantly, and headed to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of running water, probably from the shower. Written by Grace Ochiba.

But my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what she was really doing in there.

I quietly put my laptop aside, tiptoed toward the bathroom, and just as I was about to turn the doorknob, her voice came through the door.

“Don’t you dare open that door while I’m showering… or you won’t like the results.”

Her voice was strange. Distant. Almost as if she wasn’t even in the bathroom…

Part 1: The Water that Should Never Be Touched

There’s a moment in every marriage when you start to question the things you once took for granted. Small details, habits, quirks—things that you thought were harmless become the things that gnaw at you, just enough to make you wonder if you really know the person lying next to you.

I had always thought Ifunwa was the perfect wife. She was beautiful, intelligent, caring—and yet, there were always these little things about her that didn’t quite add up. It started with the water.

I remember the first time I noticed it: we had only been married for a few months when I made a casual suggestion. We had spent the evening cooking dinner together, laughing, joking around as couples do. The night was warm, and when we were finished, I turned to her with a smile, “How about we take a shower together? You know, to relax after a long day?”

Her face immediately stiffened, as if I had suggested something deeply inappropriate. Her eyes widened slightly, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. Her response was so quick and filled with such urgency that it took me by surprise.

“I—I’ll shower alone, thank you,” she stammered, moving away from me quickly.

I didn’t know what to make of it at first. I thought maybe I had said something wrong, or maybe she just wasn’t in the mood. But the next time I suggested it, the same thing happened. Her response was more subdued but no less defensive.

“You don’t have to act like that, Ifunwa,” I said, a little confused. “It’s just a shower. You know, just to unwind a bit together.”

She smiled tightly, though I could see the discomfort on her face. “I’m fine, really. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not in the mood right now.”

But this was more than that. It was clear that something about the idea of sharing a shower was making her anxious—bordering on terrified, even. Still, I didn’t want to push her. Maybe she had a personal reason, a past experience that I didn’t know about. After all, we were still learning about each other.

It was then that I started noticing the other signs. Ifunwa never drank water, even during meals. I could set a glass of water in front of her, and she would never touch it. At first, I thought she didn’t like the taste of water, but she would drink other beverages—fruit juice, soda—but never water. If I asked her about it, she would brush it off with a quick, “I just don’t drink it, that’s all.”

I didn’t press her about it, though. I let it slide. After all, it was her choice. But there were times when it seemed a bit… odd. Every now and then, I would catch her standing by the sink, staring at the faucet, her hand hovering over the water, but never touching it. The sink would always be dry after she washed the dishes—no water splashes, no wet surfaces. She would wash the dishes with an almost ritualistic precision, wiping down every inch of the sink with a dish towel after she was done.

The first time I saw it, I assumed it was a fluke. But after a few weeks, I noticed it more frequently. The kitchen was always immaculate, but it was as if the water had never been used.

It wasn’t just in the kitchen. The strangest thing happened one day when I noticed her acting oddly about her own bath time. I had asked her to shower before bed. A simple request—one that any normal couple would make.

“You need to shower, honey. You haven’t showered since this morning,” I told her after dinner.

She sighed audibly and walked towards the bathroom with reluctance, but before she could close the door behind her, she glanced at me, her face suddenly tense.

“Don’t you dare open that door while I’m showering,” she said quickly, almost in a warning tone. “Or you won’t like the results.”

I was startled by the intensity in her voice. I didn’t reply immediately, but I stood there in the hallway, unsure of how to react. What could she possibly mean by that? I had never seen her behave this way before, and the words she had spoken carried a tone of dread that unnerved me.

I waited outside, confused. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. She hadn’t been like this the first few months of our marriage. She had been sweet, gentle, and open with me. But now, her body language was different. Her smile, once warm and welcoming, had become more guarded. She seemed to retreat into herself when I asked questions about the things that troubled me.

I decided to put it out of my mind, as usual. But this time, the unease stayed with me. I couldn’t shake it.

The next day, I walked into the kitchen after work to find Ifunwa sitting by the table, quietly eating her dinner. The tension from the previous night seemed to have faded, but I still couldn’t ignore the question in my mind.

“Did you… have a good shower?” I asked cautiously, trying to sound casual, though the weight of the previous night hung between us like a heavy curtain.

She smiled at me, the same practiced smile she had given me countless times before, but there was something unsettling about it now. “Yes, it was fine,” she said, her voice soft, but there was an edge to it, an almost defensive undertone that made me pause.

I wanted to ask more, but something in her gaze told me not to. So, I sat down across from her and quietly ate my meal, my thoughts consumed by her strange behavior.

The next few days were relatively quiet, but my growing suspicion started to eat away at me. I couldn’t ignore the oddities anymore. Ifunwa’s peculiar habits were starting to add up. Her reluctance to bathe with me, her refusal to drink water, her avoidance of even the slightest splash of it in the kitchen—it all felt too deliberate. She was hiding something, and I wasn’t sure what.

And then came that evening. The evening that would change everything.

Part 2: The Unraveling

After that evening, the weight of Oliver’s confession lingered like a dark cloud hanging over our lives. It was as if I could feel the shadows growing larger in our little apartment, creeping into the corners of the rooms where the sunlight used to shine brightly. The more I thought about the cult, the dark promises Oliver had made, and the ancient rituals he spoke of, the more I realized how little I truly knew about him. The person I had brought into my life—this man, this stranger—wasn’t the man I thought he was.

He had once been so charming, so easy to be with, but now, there was an unease in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. He wasn’t the same. And neither was I.

The next few days were filled with a silence that stretched too long between us. It wasn’t the kind of silence that spoke of peace or understanding, but one that wrapped around us like a thick fog, suffocating and dense. It was as if the words he had said to me that night—the truth—had sealed us into a place from which we couldn’t escape. Every time I looked at him, I saw the same haunting gaze, that same weight he carried that I couldn’t help but feel.

I tried to go about my days as if nothing had changed, working at the diner, cleaning the apartment, picking up groceries. But even in the mundane tasks, there was an ache in my chest. I kept replaying the details of the conversation in my mind, questioning everything. What had he truly gotten involved in? What did the cult want from him—and from me?

The cult had always been a whisper in the back of my mind, a distant fear that I thought only existed in books or on television shows. But Oliver’s words had made it real. It wasn’t just some distant rumor. It was something much darker. And the fact that he had been drawn into it willingly, that he had allowed himself to be consumed by it, terrified me.

One afternoon, as I returned from the diner, I was greeted by a familiar sight. Oliver sat at the small kitchen table, his face pale, his eyes downcast. But it wasn’t his appearance that caught my attention—it was the small, black ring he had placed on the table. The same one he had worn when I first met him, a ring that always seemed to be just a little too dark, a little too much out of place.

“You’ve been wearing that ring a lot lately,” I said softly, trying to keep my voice steady, even though the weight of the question made my throat tight. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Oliver?”

He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. He didn’t answer right away, but I saw the hesitation in his eyes. He was afraid. Afraid of what I might learn if I pressed him too hard.

“You’ve been wearing it too,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s part of the ritual.”

The words felt like a slap to the face. I had suspected it, but hearing him say it out loud made it real. The ritual. Our ritual. What had I gotten myself into? How had I been drawn into this world that I didn’t understand?

“I never asked for this, Oliver,” I said, my voice trembling with anger and confusion. “You never told me. You never told me what you were involved in.”

“I didn’t want to,” he replied softly. “I wanted to protect you, to keep you out of it. But now it’s too late. It’s never just about one person. It never has been.”

I felt a chill run through me. “What do you mean by that? What do they want from me?”

Oliver sighed, his gaze shifting downward. “They want your blood, Lena. They’ve always wanted it. And now you’re part of it too. You can’t escape it, not now.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat. The words didn’t make sense, yet they felt too real. The blood, the power, the promises—what had I been drawn into?

The Cult’s Mark

As the days went by, the truth of Oliver’s words settled deeper into my chest, a growing weight I couldn’t ignore. I became consumed by it, my mind unraveling as I pieced together the fragmented stories I had heard about the cult, the rituals, the sacrifices. Every night, I found myself awake, my thoughts racing, unable to sleep. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore. The diner, my work, my daughter—everything felt distant, irrelevant.

And then, one morning, I woke to find Oliver gone.

The apartment was eerily quiet. His things were still there—the jacket he had left on the couch, the shoes by the door, his bag, but he was nowhere to be found. His absence filled the room, heavy and suffocating.

I went to the kitchen, desperately searching for a note, for some explanation. There was nothing. I dialed his number, but it went straight to voicemail. My stomach twisted. I knew, somehow, that he had left without a word, without telling me where he was going or what he was doing. And the worst part was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to know anymore.

Part 3: The Final Choice

Weeks passed. I was left to pick up the pieces of my life, trying to make sense of what had happened, trying to make sense of Oliver’s disappearance. And then came the phone call.

I was sitting on the couch, my daughter Eliia next to me, when the phone rang. The caller ID read “Unknown.” I hesitated, my hand trembling as I lifted it to my ear.

“Lena?” the voice on the other end was unfamiliar, deep and distorted, as if someone was trying to mask it. But I recognized it instantly. It was Oliver.

“Oliver?” I said, my voice shaking. “Where are you? What’s going on? What happened?”

There was a long pause on the other end, and then Oliver’s voice came through, clear but cold.

“I’m sorry, Lena,” he said, his voice hollow. “I never wanted to pull you into this. But now… now I can’t stop it.”

“Stop what, Oliver? What’s going on?” I demanded, my chest tight with fear.

“They’re coming for you,” he said, his words chilling. “The cult. They’ll stop at nothing. And the worst part is… you’ve already been marked.”

I didn’t know what he meant by “marked,” but I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to be a part of whatever this was anymore.

“I’m not a part of this anymore, Oliver,” I said firmly, my voice strong, though my heart was racing. “I can’t be. I can’t live in fear.”

But Oliver’s response was something I hadn’t expected. “You’re already in it, Lena,” he said softly. “And you can’t escape. You never could.”

The line went silent for a moment, and then Oliver spoke again, his voice filled with sadness. “I’m sorry. You were the light I never deserved. But now… there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

And just like that, the call ended.

I stared at the phone in disbelief. What had just happened? What had I just heard?

The next morning, I woke up to find a strange envelope on the doorstep. It was thick, heavy, and sealed with an unfamiliar mark—an intricate symbol I had never seen before.

I opened it with shaking hands. Inside was a single piece of paper.

Your blood has been claimed. The ritual begins tonight.

A cold chill ran down my spine, my mind racing as I realized what this meant. The cult had found me. And there was no turning back.

I turned to Eliia, my daughter, and took her hand. I had to make a decision. The choice was mine to make.

But it was too late.

The Final Twist

That evening, as the sun began to set, the doorbell rang. I stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the door, unable to move. It was them. The cult. They had come for me.

I didn’t know what would happen next. I had no choice but to face it, to face them. I opened the door, and there, standing in front of me, was Milana.

Her smile was cold, calculating. “It’s time, Lena,” she said softly, her voice a whisper that seemed to vibrate with an ancient power. “Come with me.”

Behind her, the men in hoods moved in, their eyes gleaming in the dim light. The air grew heavier, thicker. The room was suffocating.

I took a step back, clutching Eliia’s hand tightly in mine. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, my voice steady, my heart racing. “I won’t be part of this anymore.”

Milana’s expression didn’t change. She stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “You don’t have a choice, Lena. It’s already done. Your blood has been marked.”

Just as she reached out to grab my arm, I heard a sound—a faint knocking at the door. It was soft at first, almost indistinguishable from the sound of the wind, but then it became louder, more insistent.

“Lena,” a voice called from the other side.

I froze.

It was Oliver.

I turned to Milana, my eyes wide with disbelief. “What is this? What’s happening?”

Milana’s face twisted with frustration, but she didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped back, her eyes narrowing.

The door opened, and there, standing in the doorway, was Oliver. But he didn’t look the same. His once familiar face was pale, gaunt, and his eyes were empty. It was as if something had drained him of life.

“Lena,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry. I tried to protect you, but… you’re too far in now. They won’t let you go.”

Suddenly, everything became clear. Oliver wasn’t just a victim. He had always been a part of the plan. A pawn in the game of something much larger, much darker.

The ritual wasn’t just about power or control—it was about binding us, about sealing our fate in blood.

“Oliver… no…” I whispered, my heart breaking as I realized what had truly happened. The man I loved had never truly been free. Neither of us had been.

As the door closed, the room grew darker, and the symbols that had been hidden in the shadows began to glow, marking the beginning of a new chapter.

But what kind of chapter? Only time would tell.

The End.