Chapter 1: The Wife Behind the Mask

I married a monster.

Sometimes, I catch myself thinking back to that first night after the wedding, lying next to Carter in the dark. I’d wait until his breathing evened out—the heavy, self-satisfied snore of a guy who thinks he owns the place. Only then would I slip out of bed and quietly wipe away every trace of makeup, careful not to let even a smudge linger. In the morning, before his alarm blared, I’d be up, sitting at my little vanity by the window, painting my face back to flawless perfection. It was like clockwork. A ritual, performed with the precision of someone who knows exactly what’s at stake.

I kept my routine tight. No room for mistakes, not in this house. The moment his eyes flickered open, I’d be there—hair brushed, lips painted, every blemish vanished beneath a mask of foundation. You’d think I was born this way, right? But in truth, it was just another performance. For Carter, for his audience, for survival.

My husband loved showing off on his Twitch stream, bragging that women should keep themselves looking like this.

He’d lean back in his gaming chair, headphones crooked, grinning at the camera as he told the chat, “See? This is how you keep a woman in line. She knows what I like.” The ring light would catch the gleam in his eyes, and thousands of viewers would eat it up—some cheering, some jeering, but all glued to the screen.

Someone dropped a warning in the chat:

[Run! Only vampires put on makeup in the middle of the night. The older the vampire, the thicker the makeup. If she keeps this up, she’ll be shedding her skin and drinking blood soon!]

The message scrolled by in neon green, lost in a flood of emotes and reactions. I hid a sly grin behind my hand—just a twitch at the corners of my mouth. The kind you get when you know something nobody else does.

Oops, forgot the concealer. Those bite marks are showing again. Classic rookie mistake.

I pressed my fingers to my throat, feeling the faint, raised edges beneath the makeup. A little extra powder, a dab of concealer—no one would know. Not unless they looked too closely. Not unless they were really looking for monsters in the ordinary.

My husband’s a predator. But honestly? I don’t care.

It’s funny, the things you get used to. Carter’s moods. The sharpness in his voice. The way he’d look at me—like I was both a trophy and a punching bag. I learned early on that indifference is its own kind of shield.

One time, I was ten minutes late getting home from the grocery store. In front of tens of thousands of viewers, Carter West yelled at me: “Where the hell were you? Get on your knees and think about what you did!” I bit my tongue.

I can still remember the cold tile biting into my knees as I knelt in the corner, the camera’s red light blinking like an angry eye. Carter’s voice echoed through the house, his words bouncing off the walls, amplified by the chat’s wild reactions. Some people laughed. Some people typed angry messages. But most just watched.

By the time I obeyed and knelt, the audience—who used to hate how meek I was—had already gone numb.

You could almost feel the collective shrug through the screen. Abuse, humiliation—just content now. Another episode in the endless reality show that was my life.

[Such a beauty with an abuser, and she even paid him $40,000 in wedding costs. What is this world coming to!]

[All for the clicks—making his wife dance in a bikini out in the snow in the dead of winter. Scum of the earth.]

[Let it go, guys. The lawyers already tried to help her, but she wouldn’t listen. She’s dead set on this guy.]

The chat was a storm of outrage and resignation. Old arguments flared up, then fizzled out. I’d seen it all before. The world loves a spectacle, even when it’s ugly.

Carter’s stream was all about filming me serving his whole family, turning my humiliation into a spectacle for internet fame.

He’d pan the camera over to me as I scrubbed dishes, folded laundry, or set the table, narrating my every move like a sports commentator. "Watch this, chat—she knows better than to slack off."

By the time he let me get up, the foundation on my knees had already rubbed off in a patch, exposing bright red, nasty bite marks.

The air stung my raw skin. But being seen—that stung worse. I snatched up my purse, clutching it tight against my legs, praying the camera wouldn’t zoom in.

Just another close call. I was good at hiding the evidence. Still, sometimes, even the best mask slips.

Normal foundation just doesn’t last—on the living or the undead. I let out a little sigh.

I’d tried every brand—drugstore, department store, even those expensive influencer collabs. Nothing could keep the truth covered forever. The irony? Not lost on me.

In the summer, it melts off even faster. Good thing the camera didn’t catch it. I calmly changed into a long skirt that covered my knees.

The heat was oppressive. Sweat beaded on my brow. But I kept my composure. Long skirts, cardigans, anything to keep the secrets hidden. I’d become an expert at dressing for both comfort and concealment.

On camera, my makeup was flawless. My looks rivaled any influencer’s. And I never showed a temper, no matter how hard I worked. That made all the male viewers jealous, begging Carter to share his secrets for keeping a wife in line.

They’d flood the chat with questions, some sincere, some laced with envy. “How’d you train her?” “My wife would never.” “You gotta write a book, man.”

My husband shamelessly bragged, “The trick with women is never to let them get too comfortable.” I rolled my eyes internally.

He’d puff out his chest, smirk at the camera. Drop lines like he was some kind of relationship guru. “Keep ‘em guessing. Never let ‘em feel safe.”

“I told her I like pretty women, so she never lets me see her without makeup. Always takes off her makeup after I’m asleep, always puts it on before I wake up.”

He made it sound like a badge of honor. Like I should be grateful for the privilege of meeting his standards. The chat ate it up. I could almost laugh.

“As a wife, that’s just what you do to meet your husband’s standards!”

Sometimes, I’d catch my reflection in the camera lens. Smile fixed. Eyes dead. But I never let it slip. Not once.

While some viewers praised and others cursed him, a bold message flashed by:

[Your wife’s a vampire. Only the undead put on makeup in the middle of the night.]

[Does she only do her makeup at 3 a.m.? That’s when the veil is thinnest, so the makeup lasts longer!]

The chat always had its jokers, but this one was persistent—the username popping up night after night. I almost looked forward to it. A little chaos in the monotony.

Carter burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. What kind of nonsense was that? I just watched, stone-faced.

He loved a good troll. He’d read the messages out loud, mocking the sender, egging on the crowd. “Yeah, sure, maybe she’s a werewolf too, huh?” I kept my expression neutral, but inside, I savored the absurdity.

The account was called @GideonGraves, a young ghost hunter according to his profile.

His avatar was a cartoon with a fedora and a wooden stake, tagline: ‘I see what you fear.’ Most people ignored him, but he never gave up. I wondered what it’d be like to be hunted by someone like that.

[You two have been married three years, right? That’s the limit for a vampire’s masquerade. Isn’t she spending more and more time on her makeup lately?]

[Vampires need to feed off people. Does she cling to you 24/7, can’t leave your side? And after every time you’re intimate, you get sick?]

The chat went quiet for a moment. Even Carter paused, frowning. The words hung in the air, a little too close for comfort. My heart thudded, just once.

He glanced at me, then back at the screen. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes, suspicion flickering in his expression. The tension was thick enough to cut.

It was true—before marriage, he’d been healthy and strong, but after, he kept getting sick. I was obsessed with his skin. Once, he burned himself with a cigarette and she nearly burst into tears.

He’d joke about it sometimes, how he’d never been so tired, how I hovered over him like a mother hen. But there was a nervousness now, something unspoken between us. I almost wanted to laugh.

[She wants to cry, but can’t. Vampires can’t shed tears. Have you ever seen her cry?]

No, he hadn’t. Carter started to panic. “Why should I believe you?” His voice cracked, hands starting to shake.

The camera caught the way his hands fidgeted, how his voice wavered. The chat noticed too. They latched onto the drama.

[Put some holy water in her makeup remover tonight. Holy water is pure; if a vampire uses it, her face will burn.]

[Whether she’s human or not, you’ll know at once.]

The idea seemed to amuse Carter. He played it off with a laugh. But I could see the doubt creeping in.

I calmly accepted the makeup remover my husband handed me. I didn’t flinch.

I met his gaze. Held the bottle with both hands. Smiled sweetly. “Thank you, honey.” My voice was soft, almost childlike. The kind of tone that makes people underestimate you.

Carter stared at me for a long time, then finally relaxed. “Look at you, such a pathetic doormat. Like you’d be a vampire.”

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He wanted to believe I was harmless, that he was still in control. I let him.

The ghost hunter was dead serious.

[Your whole family—three of you—were all born in the same month. That’s a rare linked fate. For a vampire, feeding on you is twice as effective.]

[Three days from now is your birthday. That’s when the vampire goes on a killing spree.]

The chat exploded with speculation—some calling it LARPing, others egging him on. But the ghost hunter’s words cut through the noise, sharp and chilling. I felt a shiver of anticipation.

Carter was an only child. After we got married, we lived with his parents in their old house. My mother-in-law was notorious for being stingy.

The house was a creaky, two-story relic in a faded suburb. The kind of place where the walls remembered every argument. My mother-in-law, Mrs. West, ran it like a drill sergeant. Every penny pinched until it squealed.

Whenever my husband couldn’t finish his DoorDash order, she’d let it spoil, then give it to me.

She’d stand at the fridge, frowning at the leftovers, then slide the cold, soggy boxes my way with a forced smile. “Waste not, want not, dear.” I forced a smile back.

Every day, she’d kindly leave me two dishes—one plain, one salty. “It’s for your own good. Too much oil will make you fat, and my son will lose interest!” I bit back a laugh.

I thanked her. After all, vampires don’t have a metabolism. Our stomachs don’t even move.

I’d pick at the food, pretending to savor it, nodding along to her lectures about beauty and discipline. Inside, I felt nothing but hunger—a different kind entirely. My mouth watered for something else.

Eat too much meat, and the hunger gets stronger.

I’d learned to avoid the rich stuff. Even a whiff of barbecue could send my senses reeling, teeth aching for something I couldn’t name. My throat would burn, my hands would tremble.

Last year, on Carter’s birthday, he actually gave me a little piece of barbecue. I forced it down, then spent half the night vomiting, losing half a year’s self-control. The taste haunted me for days.

I remember clutching the toilet, cold sweat slicking my back, biting my knuckles to keep from screaming. The taste lingered for days, a cruel reminder of everything I’d lost. I swore never again.

As I gnawed on salty pickles, I’d serve the best food and drink to my mother-in-law myself.

She’d beam at me, oblivious, piling her plate high while I nibbled on scraps. I played the dutiful daughter-in-law, every gesture calculated. I savored the anticipation.

Watching her get fatter and happier, I was satisfied. I imagined the feeling of sinking my teeth into her flesh when the time came, and barely kept from drooling. “As long as you’re happy and well, Mom, that’s all I want.”

Sometimes I’d catch my reflection in the kitchen window, lips curled in a private smile. The anticipation was almost as sweet as the act itself. My hunger sharpened.

Mood affects the flavor, after all.

A happy victim, a well-fed soul—the taste is richer, more satisfying. That’s something you never forget.