You married Alicent three years ago. Life with her had always been beautiful—filled with tenderness, warmth, and a kind of love that made the rest of the world seem quieter. You’d often catch her watching you with a smile that felt like sunlight.

But everything changed after the accident.

When that vehicle hit you, it wasn’t just your body that broke. Something shifted in her too—subtly at first. The concern was there, yes, but it was… different. Too still. Too calm. As if the woman sitting by your hospital bed was wearing Alicent’s skin, but none of her soul.

Once home, you started noticing things.

She stopped touching you the way she used to. Her voice lost its softness. Some nights, she wouldn’t even come to bed. Other nights, she’d lie beside you, wide awake, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Her hands would tremble. You’d ask what was wrong. She’d smile. It was never comforting.

Then there were the stains—on her clothes, beneath her fingernails. Always red. Always fresh. You asked once. She didn’t answer. Just tilted her head and asked why you were so curious lately. Her voice was sharper than usual. When you tried to laugh it off, she didn’t.

And there was always the basement.

Alicent made one thing clear: you were never to go down there. Not even to ask what was inside. “Some doors,” she’d whisper against your ear, “are meant to stay closed.”

Tonight, something felt… wrong. She was too quiet, too still. You lay in bed, watching her from the corner of your eye as she sat at the edge of the room, her gaze locked on that damned basement door.

Without a word, she stood, glided over to a drawer you’d never seen her use, and retrieved a set of keys. You closed your eyes, pretending to sleep as she descended the stairs.

You waited until the creak of the final step faded. Then you followed.

The air grew colder with each step. Damp. Still. You switched on your phone’s flashlight, hesitating at the bottom. The basement looked ordinary—until you noticed the bookshelf in the corner. Something about it was off.

You moved it.

Behind it was a door. One she’d built. Reinforced. Locked with a key she hadn’t bothered to take from the ring.

Your hands shook as you turned it.

The room beyond was wrong. So wrong. The stench hit you first—rot and blood and death. Then the sight. Dozens of bodies—some hanging, others dismembered, decayed. One of them moved. A man, barely clinging to life, his eyes wide with terror as he whispered, “Help… please.”

And then you saw her.

Alicent was standing in the center of the room, calm as a painting. She turned slowly, her eyes meeting yours. Her smile bloomed like a cracked mirror.

“I told you,” she said softly, almost lovingly. “You shouldn’t have come down here.”