The Night-Wife

Lucien and Genevieve had been married for four years, and in all that time, their affection for one another had never once diminished. If anything, it had grown quieter and more assured, settling into the small rituals of their daily lives. Lucien taught at the local school, where he was known for his patience with even the most troublesome pupils, while Genevieve devoted much of her time to caring for animals and preparing elaborate meals for her husband. She could spend an entire afternoon in the kitchen without complaint, experimenting with herbs and spices until she had made something she considered worthy of him. Lucien, for his part, never failed to notice the effort. He thanked her for every meal, even the simplest, and would often ask her to sit beside him while he ate, insisting that her company was the finest part of the evening. 

He was a deeply sensible man, possessing a gentle nature that made others feel instantly understood. He had that rare, quiet grace of listening without judgment, treating every small gesture of kindness not as a duty, but as a gift. During the dark years when Genevieve suffered through her agonizing episodes of insomnia, Lucien never once lost his patience or treated her exhaustion as a burden. He would rise beside her in the frozen quiet of the small hours, preparing a warm London Fog and sitting in gentle silence until the first grey light appeared at the windows...

Perhaps this was why he had been so careful not to trouble her when his hands first began to change. Lucien’s palms had begun to dry out and flake away. No matter how much cream Genevieve applied, the dryness would not stop; on occasion, skin would even slough off into her food. Though the sight of large flakes of skin in the meal turned her stomach, Genevieve took care not to show it to Lucien, well aware that it was entirely beyond his control. The physician had recommended zinc ointment, yet even that didn't help. 

It had been three full weeks. Three weeks prior, Genevieve’s years of insomnia had abruptly come to an end, despite her having done nothing differently. The first few days felt like heaven. When she realised she had finally been released from this years-long affliction by an act of God, she spent hours weeping in prayer, offering boundless thanks and gratitude. Indeed, her sleeplessness had reached a point where it seared her eyes raw, making it impossible for her to keep them open even during the day. She lived with bloodshot eyes, her mind fraying so thin as to be virtually nonexistent. She had spent so long deprived of sleep that one might almost say she had developed the nocturnal vision of a cat.

One night, she found Lucien asleep in his chair beside the dying fire. His spectacles had slipped down the bridge of his nose, and a book lay open upon his chest. One hand rested upon the arm of the chair, its fingers loose and peaceful. She watched him for a long time. She envied him with an intensity that frightened her. It was not merely that he could sleep, but that sleep appeared to trust him. It came to him without negotiation, without prayer, without the humiliating necessity of begging. His body surrendered to the night as naturally as a flower closed its petals, while hers remained obstinately, cruelly awake.

For one terrible moment, she wished to wake him. She wanted him to understand what it was to lie beside a sleeping body and feel that one had been abandoned on the wrong side of the world.

-

The first night she collapsed, she slept for approximately twenty-four hours. When she finally awoke from that first prolonged trance, the house was entirely silent. By the fifth day, Lucien’s palms had begun to peel. What had begun as mere dusting turned into thick, parchment-like scales that peeled away in long, brittle strips in a few weeks. Only then did the skin beneath begin to dissolve, exposing the raw, weeping tissue until the very centre of his hands almost seemed to hollow out.

Yet, they spoke of it only in passing, as if talking about the weather with a stranger. Indeed, after a time, a grotesque satisfaction had begun to take root within her. Genevieve stopped bringing it up altogether, fearing that drawing attention to it might somehow make it stop. She made sure it was Lucien who prepared their daily meals, finding the most exquisite gratification in consuming the small flakes of skin that drifted into her food.

One morning, Genevieve woke up feeling an uncharacteristic, almost radiant joy. Looking at Lucien’s hands, she noticed that only a few arteries were left holding his fingers to his hollowed palms. She felt a strange, thrilling surge inside her, a dark mix of deep affection and a fascination with his decay. It amazed her how he was falling apart with no pain at all, complaining only of a light itch now and then. They sat down for a simple breakfast of warm kedgeree. As Lucien reached across to pass the salt, his bare knuckles hit the butter dish with a dry, hollow click. Right then, a horrible smell filled the room, so foul Genevieve couldn’t even imagine where it came from. A second later, a freezing cold ran straight through her body. Every tiny hair on her neck stood up, and for a moment, she felt as if her bones might snap if she moved. 

A cold truth settled upon Genevieve, as if brought by some dark revelation. She had never knowingly struck a bargain with any evil entity. Yet in the agonizing depth of her former insomnia, during one of those weeping, endless nights, she had silently prayed to give anything, to sacrifice whatever was required, for just a single night of peace. Mara had heard that desperate surrender and accepted it as a binding vow. The miracle of her sudden sleep had never been a gift. 

It was a debt, and Lucien’s dissolving body was the price of her sleep. Over the past month, her quiet happiness had grown so absolute that all sense of gratitude had withered from her heart. But Mara had come to claim the fee. It required her to spend three endless hours each night, from the third hour after midnight until dawn, feeding upon Lucien’s skin. If she refused, her sleep would be taken from her. She thought of the years she had spent staring into the dark, of her burning eyes and the slow disintegration of her mind. She remembered begging for relief with such desperation that she had ceased to care what relief might cost. The neighbours already suspected Lucien suffered from a severe skin condition, so it would be simple enough to tell them he had succumbed to his illness. 

Then she looked at Lucien.

He was watching her with concern. He reached across the table, offering her his hand, as he had done on countless mornings. She took it. For a moment, she was herself again. She remembered their wedding day, his pretty laughter in the churchyard, the way he had held her through the worst nights of her illness. She remembered the promises she had made him.

At night, she sat in the living room with every lamp burning, listening to the clock. She told herself that the physician would find a remedy. That Lucien would recover. That Mara was merely a product of her exhausted imagination. At half past two, she began to pray.

At three, the lamps went out. Try as she might to resist, an insatiable hunger began to grow inside her. When midnight arrived, she sat in the dark, helpless and trembling as the clock seemed to tick with cruel speed. As the ticking brought the room closer to three in the morning, that same suffocating, glacial frost washed over her, and she knew Mara was waiting. 

A moment later, she heard Lucien call her name.

She wanted to answer.

This time, the cold refused to leave her body, locking her feet rigidly to the floorboards. Dragging herself from the sitting room to the bedroom like an automaton, she approached Lucien, who lay in a deep, undisturbed sleep. She knelt beside him.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered.

Telling herself that it would make no difference now, she began to feed upon his hands. Instantly, hot blood surged through her veins, warming her entire body. She knew full well how horrific it was, yet memories of those weeping, sleepless nights flooded her mind, driving the appetite forward. Lucien’s taste carried a sickeningly sweet delight that she found herself savouring in her mouth. At some point, Genevieve herself felt entirely erased, replaced by an insatiable hunger that made her wonder if the meat might taste even better cooked. In her trance, she devoured his arm up to the shoulder, until an abrupt force broke the spell. She collapsed to her knees, retching in agony, caught between absolute terror and the horrifying realization that she had never tasted anything so exquisitely sweet in her life. 

From the darkness came a faint, wet sound, almost like laughter. Genevieve stared at the doorway. There was no one there, yet she felt the presence of something vast and patient, something that had watched her feed and had found her hunger pleasing. Behind her, Lucien lay silent upon the bed. 

And Genevieve understood, at last, that Mara had never come merely to collect its debt. It had come to see what she would become.

“Not enough.”

The door opened on its own.