Arthur’s face contorted in pain, sweat breaking out on his brow. The intense pain was a jolt to his brain, forcing his aging neurons to fire again. He couldn’t scream. His vocal cords were too weak, but he managed a low moan from deep in his throat. I continued, applying pressure to points on his wrist and elbow while performing joint rotations and muscle stretches more forcefully than usual. It was the only way to break through the muscle spasticity and reestablish neural pathways in such a short time. I knew I was hurting him, torturing him, but I had no other choice. Mercy at this moment was a cruelty to his very life.
“Come on, Dad. You have to live to expose that ungrateful son. You have to live to protect me and Chloe.”
I encouraged him as I worked, my voice cracking with emotion. After more than an hour of struggle, both of us were drenched in sweat. I sank to the floor, exhausted, my hand shaking too much to hold a water bottle. But my efforts were rewarded. When I gently tickled the palm of his hand, Arthur’s index finger twitched. It was a tiny, involuntary reflex, but to me, it was more precious than gold. It was a sign of life, a flicker of hope. His nerves weren’t dead. They were just imprisoned, needing a powerful shock to break the chains. I wiped the sweat from his brow, adjusted him into the most comfortable position, and then moved the standing frame back to its original spot. To the camera, I was just a tired daughter-in-law after a strenuous therapy session. But I knew Michael would get suspicious if I spent too much time in that blind spot without any visible change. I needed another act, a diversion to throw him off, a performance that would convince him I was on the verge of a mental breakdown and completely harmless.
That night, I began my performance around 2:00 a.m. When vigilance is at its lowest, but the darkness is at its deepest, I let my hair down in a messy tangle and wore a loose white night gown. Barefoot, I walked out of my bedroom and down the long, dark hallway. My eyes were wide, staring blankly into the space ahead, my lips moving, muttering nonsensical phrases. I moved like a ghost, a lost soul wandering my own home. I went downstairs to the kitchen, stood in front of the refrigerator for a long time, opening and closing it without taking anything. The pale light from inside illuminated my wand face, creating a chilling scene. Then I went back upstairs toward the small al cove where we kept photos and stood muttering before a picture of my late mother-in-law. My phone, left in the bedroom, began to vibrate insistently. I knew the camera’s motion detection system had sent an alert to Michael’s phone. He was watching, and he must have been utterly bewildered by my bizarre behavior. The phone stopped, then rang again, a third time. Only then did I slowly walk back to my room and answer, my voice groggy and confused.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“What the hell are you doing? Wandering around the house like a ghost in the middle of the night.”
Michael’s sharp voice came through the phone, tinged with a hint of fear. I feigned utter surprise.
“What? What are you talking about? I was sleeping. I haven’t gone anywhere.”
“Don’t lie to me. I just saw you on the camera walking down to the kitchen and then to the family photos. What’s wrong with you?”
I was silent for a moment, then burst into sobs.
“I don’t know. I’ve been having terrible nightmares lately. I dreamt mom came back. She said there’s a presence in the house. She said she was cold. I think, I think I was sleepwalking. Mike, I’m so scared.”
There was silence on the other end. I could picture his face annoyed, contemptuous, but also relieved. He would believe that I was under extreme stress, that my nerves were shot, leading to sleepwalking and paranoid delusions. A weak, superstitious woman on the brink of madness was no threat to his grand plan.
“All right, all right,” he said, his voice softening, though still laced with impatience. “It’s probably just exhaustion from taking care of dad. Take one of those sleeping pills I left for you and get some rest. And stop wandering around and scaring me.”
“Okay, I will,” I sniffled. “Mike, when are you coming home? I’m scared to be here alone.”
“I’m almost done with work. I’ll be back in 2 days. Just stay put and don’t do anything stupid.”
He hung up. I wiped my tears, a cold smile touching my lips. Michael had taken the bait. He believed I was a helpless lamb, waiting for him to return and save me. This underestimation was his greatest weakness. He didn’t know that this lamb was sharpening her claws in the dark, waiting for the right moment to tear the mask off the wolf. But this sleepwalking act wasn’t just to deceive Michael. During my aimless wandering, I had carefully observed the house’s locks, emergency exits, and the location of the main electrical panel. I was preparing for the worstc case scenario, a direct confrontation when he returned, and more importantly, my supposed insanity would be the perfect cover for my next more audacious moves. If I did anything unusual, Michael would simply attribute it to my strange new condition.
After the night of my dramatic sleepwalking episode, I returned to the daily rhythm of a devoted daughter-in-law. But my mindset had completely changed. I was no longer a passive caregiver, but a hunter, patiently concealed within a docel exterior. That morning, pale sunlight streamed through the window, falling on Arthur’s gaunt face. It was the scheduled day to change his bed linens, an arduous task that required all my skills in patient handling. I prepared a basin of warm water with ginger infused rubbing alcohol to give him a bed bath, the sharp, clean scent of ginger cutting through the stale air of sickness. As I worked, I chatted aimlessly to him, my eyes always aware of the camera on the armwire.
“It’s a beautiful day, Dad. Let me put some fresh sheets on for you. These are the silk ones Michael bought. They’re so cool and comfortable.”
