My husband and I stayed at his parents’ house for a week, hoping it would be a fun time to get closer. But when I couldn’t sleep and went to the kitchen at 2 a.m. for water, I saw something scary… something that showed who my mother-in-law really was when no one was watching.
The invitation came on a Tuesday while Chester and I were washing dishes after a long day at work. We’d been married 11 months, and his parents kept hinting about a visit for weeks. Their pushiness felt a bit strange to me.
“Mom wants us to come to Sage Hill for a week,” he said, scrubbing the same plate twice, not looking at me. “They miss me.”
I handed him another dish, watching his face. “When?”
“This weekend? I kind of said we’d probably come.” His voice had that hopeful sound he used when he really wanted something but was scared to ask.
I didn’t like that he decided without me, but I held back my annoyance. “Okay.”
Chester’s face lit up like I’d agreed to a big trip. Marriage is about give-and-take, right? That’s what I told myself.
My in-laws, Thelma and Vernon, were waiting on their porch when we arrived Saturday afternoon. Their house was on a quiet street where nothing big ever happened. I had no idea how wrong I’d be.
“There’s my boy!” Thelma called, practically bouncing as Chester got out of the car.
She was smaller than I remembered from our wedding, with silver hair fixed in perfect waves, probably from weekly salon trips. Her hug with Chester lasted a long time, like she was catching up on missed moments.
Vernon came over with a warm smile and shook my hand firmly. “Phyllis, great to see you again.”
But something in Thelma’s eyes when she looked at me made me think this week might not go smoothly. Her hug felt fake, like she was just checking off a box for “welcome daughter-in-law” instead of really meaning it.
“I’ve been cooking all morning,” she said, her arm still tight around Chester’s. “Pot roast,2 green beans, and apple pie. All Chester’s favorites.”
She made it clear the meal was for Chester, and I wondered if he noticed the hint.
Dinner was fancy, like something for important guests. Thelma steered every talk to Chester’s childhood or his job. When I tried to join in, she’d smile politely, but her eyes stayed cold before turning back to her son.
“Remember that huge fish at Miller’s Pond?” she asked, giving him more food before he finished his plate.
“Mom, that fish wasn’t that big!” Chester laughed, but I could tell he liked the attention.
“It was huge! Vernon, tell him how proud you were when he brought it home.”
I waited for a good moment to speak. “The food is amazing, Thelma. Can you share the recipe?”
“Oh, just something I made quick!” she said, waving it off. “Nothing special.”
But when Chester praised the same dish minutes later, it suddenly became a special family recipe from her grandma. The difference felt like a challenge.
Then the apple pie came out, and Thelma watched Chester’s first bite like she expected a big cheer. I felt like I was watching a show, but I didn’t know my part.
“Do you bake, Phyllis?” she asked, her voice sharp in a way I couldn’t place.
“I make chocolate cake that Chester likes.” I looked at my husband, hoping he’d agree.
“How nice,” Thelma said, but her smile felt mean. “Chester never liked chocolate growing up, did he, sweetie?”
Chester squirmed in his chair, stuck between us. “Well, I mean, I like Phyllis’s cake…”
“Of course you do, dear,” Thelma cut in smoothly. “You’re just being nice.” Her words made my chest tight with a feeling I couldn’t name.
The rest of the evening went the same, with Thelma quietly putting down everything I said. By the time we went to our guest room, I felt tired and uneasy.
Monday evening, Thelma suggested looking at photo albums with a big, fake excitement. She pulled out boxes from closets, each one neatly packed with pictures of Chester at every age and event.
“Look at this cute one,” she said, holding up a photo of teen Chester at a school dance. He wore a black tux, and next to him was a pretty blonde girl with a bright smile.
“Who’s that?” I asked, but Thelma’s face told me this wasn’t just any memory.
“Frances,” she said with a warm tone I hadn’t heard all week. “Such a sweet girl. They were close friends all through high school.”
The way she said “close friends” made me feel cold, and I tried to ignore it.
“What happened to her?” I asked, looking at the photo more than I wanted to.
“She’s a nurse now at the hospital in town. Still single, can you believe it? Such a great girl.” Thelma’s eyes shone. “We should meet up while you’re here. She’s like family.”
Her saying “still single” made my stomach twist with a bad feeling, like she was offering Frances as a better choice.
“Mom,” Chester said, but he sounded more amused than upset, which hurt worse.
I left quickly, needing air and space from Thelma’s pointed looks and careful words. Something was wrong in this house, and I felt it getting worse.
That night, I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning for hours. Every creak in the old house sounded loud in the dark, and Chester’s steady breathing made me feel alone with my growing fear. Around 2 a.m., I gave up on sleep and went to get water, hoping it would calm me.
The guest room was at the end of the upstairs hall, and I’d learned to walk quietly on the creaky floors. As I neared the kitchen, I heard a low voice in the quiet house, which surprised me.
I stopped at the kitchen door. It was Thelma, wide awake. I thought she might be talking to a friend on the phone. But as I got closer, her words were clear, and they made me freeze.
“Yes, the marriage happened like we planned. Don’t worry… she won’t be here long. I’ll take care of it myself.”
My heart stopped as her words sank in. Who was she talking to so late? What did she mean by “like we planned”? Was she talking about me and my marriage to Chester? And what did “she won’t be here long” mean? Fear swirled in my mind.
A chair scraped, and I heard the phone click down. My heart pounded so hard I thought it would give me away.
For a moment, I thought about sneaking back to bed and acting like I heard nothing. But I forced myself to get the water, pretending I was just sleepless.
The kitchen had one dim light casting spooky shadows. What I saw shocked me and changed everything I thought about sweet, loving Thelma.
She wore a dark robe I’d never seen, with a black scarf tied tight around her silver hair. A single candle flickered on the kitchen table, and spread out were photos that made my legs weak. They were my wedding and honeymoon pictures.
Some were whole, but others were burned to ash in a bowl by her arm. Thelma’s lips moved fast, whispering words in a strange language I didn’t know. It felt like a bad dream, and I wondered if I was still sleeping.
When she saw me in the doorway, she jumped like she’d been hit, her body stiff. But she calmed down fast, too fast.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said with fake cheer. “I was just praying for you. For you to have a baby soon. For good health.”
Her hand shook as she hid the bowl of ashes, but I saw bits of my face in the burned pieces. The sharp smell of burned paper filled the air, making me sick.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Just wanted water.”
“Of course, dear,” she said, but her smile felt wrong.
I grabbed a glass with shaky hands and ran upstairs without another word, my heart racing.
“Chester.” I shook my husband’s shoulder in the dark. “Wake up… please…”
“What is it, honey?” he groaned, squinting at me, confused.
“I need you downstairs now. Your mom was doing something weird in the kitchen. She had my pictures out, burning them while saying things in another language.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, trying to understand. “What are you saying?”
“She was doing some kind of ritual with my wedding photos. Please, come look.” My voice broke with fear. “I need you to see this.”
What we found downstairs would either prove I was right or make me doubt myself.
He sighed but got out of bed, following me downstairs slowly. When we reached the kitchen, it was clean and normal. No candle, no photos, no bowl of ashes. Just a faint smell of burned wax, like a hint of what I’d seen.
“I don’t see anything,” Chester said.
“It was here. All of it.”
“Maybe it was a bad dream? You’ve been stressed.”
“I wasn’t dreaming.”
“Let’s talk tomorrow,” he said.
The next morning, I packed while Chester showered. When he saw me folding clothes fast, he sat beside me. “We don’t have to leave.”
“Yes, we do.”
“I’ll talk to Mom about last night.”
“You believe me?”
“I believe something scared you,” he said as I stopped packing and nodded.
An hour later, Chester came back, looking worried but not convinced. “She doesn’t know what you’re talking about. Dad was asleep and didn’t hear anything.”
“Of course she said that.”
“She seemed confused. And hurt that you’d think she was hurting you.”
“One more day,” I begged. “I’ll keep watch.”
He looked at me. “Okay.”
That evening, Thelma seemed annoyed. “Maybe I should teach you cooking basics, Phyllis,” she said, passing potatoes.
“I can cook.”
“Of course, dear. But there’s always room to get better. Chester grew up with good home-cooked meals every night. He’s used to a certain way.”
Chester squirmed. “Mom, Phyllis cooks great.”
“I’m sure she tries. Some people are natural homemakers, others have… other skills.”
“What skills?” I asked.
“Working women like you. Very modern and independent. Not everyone can be the caring type men need.”
Every word sounded nice but felt like a hidden attack, and Chester didn’t seem to notice. By the end of dinner, I felt like I’d walked through a warzone of fake compliments.
The next two days were the same, with Thelma’s sneaky jabs disguised as care, making me doubt myself. Then Wednesday afternoon, Thelma said she was taking Chester to an eye doctor in town.
“We’ll be gone an hour,” she said with a fake smile, her eyes on me too long. “Relax and feel at home, dear.”
When their car left, I went upstairs to Thelma’s bedroom, heart pounding with fear and determination. I felt bad searching her things, but I had to know what I was dealing with after what I saw.
In the bottom drawer of her wardrobe, under neat linens, I found proof that scared me.
I found small, twisted dolls made of cloth and wire, tied tight with black thread like veins. Some had sharp pins in their middles, others were burned at the edges. One creepy doll had my face from our wedding photo taped to its lumpy head.
There were other scary things too. Burned photos of me I didn’t remember taking, some with holes through my face. A thick notebook had what looked like recipes but was written in strange symbols I couldn’t read.
My hands shook as I took phone pictures of everything, putting it all back exactly as I found it.
But as I closed the drawer, I heard a car pull into the driveway. They were back early.
That evening at dinner, I acted. “Thelma, why do you want me gone?”
She laughed, fake. “What a weird question, dear.”
“Just wondering.”
“You’re imagining things. Maybe you’re stressed, sweetie.”
“Probably stress. Oh, we stained our sheets. Can we get new ones now?”
“Of course, honey. Chester, help me get them, dear.”
As Thelma reached for linens on a high shelf, I pulled open the bottom drawer. The dolls and photos spilled out.
Chester’s face went pale. “Mom… what’s this?”
Thelma turned, her fake smile gone. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Are you doing bad things to my wife?”
“You were supposed to marry Frances! My friend’s daughter. A good girl from a good family. Not this stranger,” Thelma snapped.
“Frances from high school?”
“She’s perfect for you. I wanted you to see this one’s no good, so Frances would seem amazing.”
“You’ve been ruining my marriage,” I said.
Thelma’s eyes flashed with anger. “If you don’t want trouble, leave tonight.”
The next morning, while Thelma slept, I shared every photo in a private Facebook group with her church friends and neighbors. The caption said: “Thelma’s hobby is cursing people. She does bad rituals at night.”
By noon, people started whispering. By evening, phone calls kept coming. People Thelma impressed with her perfect church image now saw proof of her real self.
We packed while Thelma answered angry calls, her voice getting louder with each excuse.
“Ready?” Chester asked, carrying our bags.
I looked at the house where I learned that kind smiles can hide dark plans. “Let’s go home,” I said.
As we drove away, Chester held my hand.
“Thanks for showing me who Mom really is. And for fighting for us when I didn’t see.”
I held his hand back, feeling lighter. “Some fights are worth it. Especially when the other choice is letting someone else control your story.”
The revenge I picked didn’t need candles or curses. Sometimes the strongest magic is just the truth, bright enough to burn away lies.
