My Dead Wife Is Framing Me

The fever was a furnace, spiking past 104 degrees, and in that blurring, sweat-drenched state, I dreamt. My closest friend, Ashton, was there, clutching a bottle of pills, his face a landscape of absolute despair. He wept, repeating that he couldn't go on.

I tried to tell myself it was just the fever talkinga horrifying nightmare brought on by the exhaustion of the last few days.

Then the call came. Ashton was dead. A suspected suicide by overdose. The scene, described in the sterile language of the precinct report, was an echo of my fevered vision. Identical.

That same night, the fever returned. This time, I dreamt of my father-in-law, Robert Vaughn. A man whose health was robust, a man who never missed a morning at the gym. In the dream, he suffered a sudden cerebral hemorrhage and died instantly, his face a bruised mask of agony.

I woke up, heart hammering, just as my wife, Tracy, answered a frantic call from her neighbor. Bob had collapsed in the produce aisle of the local market.

We rushed to the county hospital, but the diagnosis was a chilling confirmation: a massive stroke. We were too late.

My reality splintered. After Tracy and I navigated the dark, surreal logistics of the funeral, the high fever refused to break. I collapsed into a deep, drug-induced coma.

And this time, the dream was of me.

I was in a frenzy, emotions beyond my control. I held a machete, and I was hacking at Tracy's body, reducing her to unrecognizable pieces before discarding the remains carelessly in the wild, overgrown fields outside the village.

I jolted awake, drenched and gasping, the dream's violence a sticky film on my skin. Terror seized me. I instinctively reached for the other side of the bed.

It was empty.

...

Tracy?

Clinging to the headboard to steady myself against the vertigo, I scrambled off the mattress and slapped the light switch.

Tracy Blair! Where are you?

Dont do this to me!

The second shout was a desperate croak, tears already prickling my eyes. A deep, primal fear rose from my gut, clenching my diaphragm and making me dry-heave.

Silence. The rented house was a void.

In a blind panic, I fumbled under my pillow for my phone and dialed her number. It rang, but only met the steady, infuriating click of voicemail. I wrenched the bedroom door open and stumbled into the yard, screaming her name into the pre-dawn air.

The only reply was the disturbed flutter and squawk of unseen birds.

A sudden, cold gust of wind brought a flicker of clarity, pulling my thoughts back to the terrifying loop of the dreams.

Could it be

The anxiety, the dread, and the crushing sense of fate tightened around my chest.

911, what is your emergency?

It wasn't until the operators voice cut through the silence that I realized Id called the police purely on instinct.

She repeated the question when I failed to speak.

Sir? Are you there?

II am.

I pressed the phone hard against my ear, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. I I need to report a missing person.

My wife is gone.

The operator seemed to register the raw edge of my distress. She spoke softly, then followed up with procedure. When did you last see her?

I lifted my arm, squinting at the dim glow of my wristwatch. 4:32 AM.

Three hours ago. That was the last time.

Sir, we typically cant take a missing persons report until twenty-four hours have passed, she said, her tone reverting to standard protocol. Then, a touch of humanity returned. Is it possible she just stepped out? Maybe she didnt want to wake you, given the circumstances of the funeral?

I nodded stupidly into the phone. Right. Okay.

The line went dead. I lowered the phone and looked around. It was pitch black, alienating.

It was the day after Bobs burial. Tracy had insisted we stay one night in the village, near her family plot. Id been running on pure adrenaline and Tylenol for three days, my fever a constant companion. The moment the funeral director closed the casket, Id crashed.

And then that third, most terrible dream.

The thought of it sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull, so sharp it dropped me to my knees. I shook my head violently, then, in a morbid curiosity that felt utterly foreign, I opened my phones browser and typed: Do dreams come true?

The logical answers were obvious and unsatisfying.

The operators gentle reminder echoed: Maybe she just went somewhere and didnt tell you?

A sudden location sprang to mind.

I scrambled up, half-crawling to the door, and got in the car. I didn't stop to dress properly, driving straight for the cemetery where wed laid Bob to rest.

Its a lie. The dreams are lies. It won't happen. I repeated the mantra until my throat was raw, but it did nothing to stop the cold sweat from soaking the collar of my T-shirt.

The village roads were silent and deserted. I drove fast, arriving at the cemetery in less than five minutes.

In the distance, I saw it: a few faint, pulsing lights near the grave markers.

A rush of desperate relief surged through me. I leaned out the window, waving and shouting Tracys name.

No response.

I slammed the brakes. My headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the stoneBobs new headstone. And just as clearly, they showed that no one was there.

She wasn't at the grave. Where was she? Did she just go home, back to the city?

A new flicker of hope ignited. I spun the car around and sped toward the highway.

But on the way, I passed a vast, empty stretch of scrubland, the kind of untamed terrain that lined the outskirts of the village. The details of the location clicked, slowly, sickeninglythey matched the disposal site from my dream.

I jammed the brake pedal, the tires screaming in protest. I stumbled out of the car, breathing in ragged, choked gasps.

The first pale light of dawn was just touching the horizon. I walked into the dense, thorny field, scanning wildly. Nothing. No disturbance. No body.

Thank God. The dream was just a dream. It wasn't real.

A fragile sense of calm returned. I got back in the car, feeling lighter, and drove home. I pulled into our driveway at 6:12 AM.

The result ripped the air from my lungs again. The house was still empty.

Frantically, I started calling Tracys friends. They were all confused, insisting they hadn't seen her and didn't know where shed gone.

Riley, her oldest friend, tried to soothe my rising panic. Cass, please, dont spiral. You know Tate. Since she was a kid, when shes really overwhelmed or upset, she just disappears. She has to go somewhere quiet and digest it alone.

Shell show up. Just relax. Give her a couple of hours.

I hung up, but couldn't sit still. I'd checked every place I could think of, called everyone in her life. Tracy, a fully grown woman, had simply vanished.

I sank onto the sofa, my head leaning heavily on the armrest. In the dead silence of the living room, I forced myself to slow my breathing, and the images of last night's dream flooded back.

No. Impossible. It cant be.

I opened my browser again, searching for the same questions, over and over, desperately trying to affirm my sanity.

I didn't kill my wife. I couldn't have.

Wed been married for ten years, childless but happy. We were the couple that everyone pointed to, the "Model Millers," who never seemed to fight.

I rubbed my face hard, feeling the sting of the stubble, trying to push away the creeping sensation that I was losing my mind.

While searching for articles about premonition, my phones default system suddenly flashed a recommendation: "If you are experiencing intrusive or distressing thoughts, seek professional help."

The suggestion was a punch to the gut, but it also jarred me into action.

I pulled up a map and found the closest clinic, then booked the earliest appointment.

The psychologist, Dr. Helena Ross, looked about my age and maintained a studied, gentle smile as I entered.

Mr. Miller, you mentioned chronic nightmares? This could be due to extreme stress, anxiety, or

No! I cut her off, my voice loud and desperate. My dreams, Doctor. Theyre predictive.

Dr. Ross froze, raising an eyebrow. Im sorry, Mr. Miller, what exactly do you mean?

I pressed my lips together. It sounds insane. I know. But it's already happened. Twice.

Five days ago, I dreamt my best friend, Ashton, was going to kill himself

In the dream, Ashton, my friend of twenty years, was utterly broken. He cried, recounting his failed relationships, then, in a terrifying, decisive movement, he opened a bottle of pills and swallowed the entire contents. The worst part was that I simply stood there, watching him die with a cold, almost detached expression.

Doctor, you have to understand. I woke up, and he really was dead. He swallowed pills. Its what killed him.

Dr. Rosss face had gone pale, her mouth slightly ajar. It sounds like a terrible coincidence, Mr. Miller.

I closed my eyes, and a single tear slipped down my cheek.

Thats what I told myself, too.

After Ashtons funeral, the fever had hit, and consumed by grief and illness, I took a strong dose of flu medicine and passed out.

The second time, I dreamt of my father-in-law. Robert Vaughn. I saw him die from a stroke.

In that dream, Bobs face was dark and congested. He was clutching his chest, pleading with me for help. But in the dream, I ignored his helplessness, even cracking a bizarre, chilling smile as he expired.

And in reality, your father-in-law? she prompted, her voice barely a whisper.

I nodded slowly. He died. A cerebral hemorrhage. Just like in the dream.

When we got the call, we rushed to the hospital in the next county, but the doctor met us in the waiting room. Theyd worked on him, but the EMTs had brought him in too late.

Dr. Ross was clearly rattled now. Her professional composure was cracking. She leaned forward, her expression tight. Mr. Miller, I need you to tell me about the third dream.

I took a long, shaking breath. I dreamt I killed my wife.

The words were out, and the doctor gasped, leaping from her chair.

Her eyes were wide, and she instinctively backed away, putting distance between us. And your wife shes dead?

I immediately shook my head, my voice erupting into a shout. No! Shes not dead!

I didnt kill her! I would never kill Tracy!

CRASH!

The door suddenly burst open. A team of plainclothes officers streamed in.

Cass Miller! You are under arrest in connection with a homicide investigation. You need to come with us.

I became hysterical, shaking and thrashing, only able to repeat the same phrase: I didnt kill anyone! I didnt kill anyone!

Officers, my wife is missing! You need to help me find my wife!

Dr. Ross was utterly terrified. She pointed a trembling finger at me, thrusting a small recording device toward the lead officer.

Im reporting him! Hes a psychopath! Im certain he did it!

I was forced into the back of an unmarked police cruiser. The fever had returned with a vengeance, blurring my vision and making the lights swim.

The officer beside me, Detective Morales, noticed me nodding off. He barked a single, sharp sentence that cut through the haze.

Cass Miller, this morning, in the scrubland near your father-in-laws village, we recovered the remains of your wife, Tracy Blair.

I stared at him, my mouth opening, wanting to deny it, but no sound would come out.

The sudden, brutal shock sent a wave of nausea washing over me, and a jet of something metallic and hot sprayed from my mouth. The officers immediately diverted to the emergency room.

Once I was stabilized and hooked up to an IV drip, Detective Morales began the preliminary interview.

Weve listened to your conversation with the psychologist. Your claim is that youre having premonitions of the future?

I nodded weakly, meeting his gaze. Detective, I need to ask you something. What what did they look like? Her remains?

Moraless face was dark, his eyes unreadable. He didn't answer right away, simply boring into me, evaluating every twitch of my expression.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and heavy. She was dismembered. We recovered the torso and all four limbs.

He paused, letting the word dismembered hang in the air, a cold, hard echo of my dream.

The killer took great pains to clean up any identifying information. Except

He leaned closer, his eyes locked on mine. This was the test. Every minute micro-expression I made would be cataloged.

The killer made one mistake. At the scene, we found a severed thumb, dropped near the shallow grave site.

Fingerprint match confirmed the identity of the victim.

Its your wife, Tracy Blair.

My heart seized up. My thoughts were stuck on the three words: dismembered. The remains.

Again. Its exactly the same.

The emotional floodgate broke, but Morales pressed on, ignoring my grief.

The autopsy report is preliminary. Time of death is estimated between 1:30 AM and 4:30 AM this morning.

We also have a record from the county dispatch. At 4:31 AM, you called 911.

Reporting your wife missing.

His voice was distant, confusing. I nodded, running on autopilot. Yes. I was jolted awake by that terrible dream, and I realized she was gone.

I looked around, couldn't find her, so I called.

The clarity returned in a shocking flash. Detective, you said my wife is dead?

Who killed her? Who is the murderer?

I was sinking into a well of anguish, blind to the detective's tightening, cynical gaze.

He let out a short, cold laugh, then slammed his hand on the arm of my hospital bed. Miller, we have an eyewitness report. Someone saw you at the disposal site this morning.

Tell me, who do you think the killer is?

The silence that followed was thick, a physical weight pressing on my chest. I repeated his question, confused.

I I dont know who the killer is.

Morales didn't waste another second. He had me discharged and taken immediately to the interrogation room at the station. Before the formal questioning, however, he insisted I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation.

He returned, pulling out a folder filled with papers. This morning, when we were canvassing the area for the missing body parts, we spoke to a resident.

They placed you at the scrubland location. Why were you there?

My hands were balled into fists in my lap. Yes! I went to those fields!

Because in my dream, I remembered leaving the body there! I went because I was curious, I was terrified that the dream had come true!

I cut myself off, realizing instantly that every word I spoke was only tightening the noose.

Detective, I swear I didnt kill her.

Shes my wife! Weve spent a decade together, through thick and thin!

I loved her! Why would I kill the woman I love?

Tears were streaming now, blurring the edges of the sterile room. But this wasnt a therapy session; it was a police interrogation. Tears only registered as manipulation.

Morales watched me until I was finished, then leaned forward. You told the psychologist that you dreamt of killing your wife, dismembering her, and dumping the body in the village fields.

Cass Miller, can you distinguish between fantasy and reality?

His words struck a chord of ice in my stomach. But he didnt give me a chance to reply.

Our intelligence suggests youve been taking strong medication for days.

I had a high fever. I was taking antibiotics and fever reducers.

He tapped the table rhythmically with his index finger. But we ran a preliminary check. Your medication contained trace amounts of a powerful psychotropic agent.

I grabbed the edge of the small, metal table. Detective, youre operating with a preconceived notion!

I did not kill my wife! I told you, it was a dream!

The door opened, and a young officer slipped in, handing Morales a report.

Detective, the psychiatric evaluation came back. He is of sound mind. No mental illness.

I let out a breath of relief. Thank you. Im telling you the truth!

I didnt kill her! Im being framed!

You suspect me of murder. Show me the evidence! Where is the motive?

Morales narrowed his eyes. How was your relationship with your wife, really?

Excellent! I shot back, without hesitation. Since we got married, we never even raised our voices at each other.

Youre lying.

He suddenly slammed his hand down, hard, rattling the pens in the metal tray. Youre lying, Miller!

We spoke to your neighbors. Just last week, you had a violent, screaming argument that ended in a physical altercation.

Do you need me to refresh your memory?

My hands clenched into painful knots. His words plunged me back into a painful, confused memory.

Tell me. What was the fight about?

Before I could answer, a loud, familiar scream erupted from outside the interrogation room.

Im calling the police! My son didn't kill himself! He was murdered!

I spun to look at the door. Two familiar, heartbroken figures were being restrained in the hallway.

Ashtons parents.

Mr. and Mrs. Reid?

The instant I spoke, Ashtons father broke free, lunging across the hall and slapping me across the face with stunning force.

You bastard! You killed my son!

You deserve to die! Die!

Officers rushed to pull the frantic man away. Detective Morales quickly slammed the door shut, then fixed me with a sharp, sweeping glare.

He said nothing, only turned and walked out.

He returned half an hour later, slamming a fresh file folder onto the table with an air of absolute fury.

Cass Miller. We now suspect we are dealing with a connected, serial murder case.

And you are the prime suspect.

I didnt kill anyone! I yelled, my voice booming.

That slap had cleared the last of the fever fog from my mind. All the bizarre, disjointed facts suddenly snapped into place.

I know what happened.