CHAPTER 1: THE NEIGHBOR WHO ALWAYS CAME AT 10 P.M.
My name is Emily Carter, thirty-six years old, the wife of Dr. Jonathan Carter—an internal medicine physician who runs a private clinic in a small town in Pennsylvania. We have been married for eleven years and have an eight-year-old daughter named Lucy.
If anyone had asked me back then whether I trusted my husband, I would have answered without hesitation: absolutely. Jonathan was a calm, principled man, disciplined in his habits, never drinking excessively, never staying out late. Our marriage wasn’t particularly romantic, but it was peaceful and stable—the kind of life I once believed was solid enough to last a lifetime.
Until the new neighbor moved in.
Her name was Rachel Moore, twenty-nine years old, single. She moved into the house next door one autumn afternoon. That day, Jonathan even helped her carry a few boxes. I watched from the kitchen window, thinking nothing of it. Just a new neighbor—what could possibly go wrong?
Three days later, everything began to change.
That night, at 9:50 p.m., the doorbell rang.
Jonathan was reviewing patient records on his laptop when he stood up.
“I’ll get it,” he said.
“Who would come this late?” I asked casually.
Jonathan glanced at the door camera.
“The new neighbor. She has a high fever and doesn’t have anyone to call.”
Then he added, in the most natural tone:
“I’ll go over and check on her. I’ll be back soon.”
I nodded.
My husband was a doctor. Helping people was only natural. I had no reason to doubt him.
Jonathan returned about forty minutes later and said Rachel had a mild infection. He’d given her a shot to reduce the fever and prescribed some medication.
“She lives alone. Poor thing,” he said.
I only hummed in response and poured him a warm glass of milk.
I had no idea that night was the first of fifteen consecutive nights.
CHAPTER 2: 10 P.M. — A FIXED HOUR
The second night: 9:58 p.m. Doorbell.
The third night: exactly 10:00 p.m.
The fourth night: 10:05 p.m.
At first, I asked out of curiosity:
“Why is it always around the same time?”
Jonathan answered calmly:
“Fever usually spikes in the evening.”
It sounded so reasonable that I felt foolish for even questioning it.
Rachel wasn’t just feverish. She had dizziness, nausea, headaches, insomnia, persistent coughing, fatigue. Jonathan said her constitution was weak and that living alone made recovery slower.
Some nights, he even brought home prescription slips. I glanced at them—nothing unusual.
Everything seemed logical.
Except for one thing that slowly made me uncomfortable, though I couldn’t quite name it.
Jonathan never let me go with him.
“Stay home with Lucy.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“It’s cramped over there. You wouldn’t be able to help anyway.”
Every excuse made sense.
But a woman’s intuition… had begun to whisper.
CHAPTER 3: THE WOMAN WHO WASN’T SICK
On the tenth night, Jonathan came back much later than usual—almost an hour and a half.
His white coat was still clean, but the top button was undone, his tie loosened.
“Her fever got worse,” he said.
I looked at him for a long moment, then asked casually:
“Does Rachel have any family?”
Jonathan hesitated—just half a second.
“No. She’s divorced.”
Something tightened in my chest.
I began to pay attention. During the day, Rachel looked perfectly healthy. Light makeup, neat clothes, watering plants in her yard, smiling at me.
Could someone really develop a high fever every single night at exactly 10 p.m.?
I didn’t ask further. But on the fifteenth night, when Jonathan picked up an IV bag, I knew I could no longer pretend.
CHAPTER 4: FOLLOWING MY HUSBAND
“You’re giving her IV fluids now?” I asked.
“Yes. The fever’s been persistent.”
He answered quickly, avoiding my eyes.
The door closed behind him.
I stood still in the living room for a few seconds, my heart pounding.
Then I grabbed my coat and followed him.
I didn’t knock on Rachel’s door. I stood outside. Light spilled through the gap in the curtains.
At first, I heard Jonathan speaking softly, reassuring her.
Then came moans.
Not the moans of someone in pain.
But the kind that were… suppressed, intimate.
My stomach twisted. My ears rang.
I wanted to turn back. To believe I was imagining things.
But then I heard Rachel’s voice, broken and breathless:
“Jonathan… don’t…”
I banged on the door.
Not knocked. Not hesitated.
The door opened.
CHAPTER 5: A SCENE THAT FROZE MY BLOOD
I stood there, completely stunned.
Jonathan was no longer wearing his white coat.
Rachel was wrapped around him, barefoot, hair loose.
There was no IV line.
No medical equipment.
No bed.
Just two bodies clinging to each other.
“Emily…” Jonathan said.
He let go of Rachel, his face drained of color.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream.
I said only one sentence:
“Fifteen nights.”
Rachel lowered her head.
Jonathan trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
I turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 6: THE TRUTH BEHIND THE FEVER
Jonathan confessed everything.
Rachel had never been seriously ill. She was a former patient who had developed feelings for him. The nightly “fevers” were nothing but an excuse.
He said he’d been weak.
That it was only temporary.
That he still loved me.
But there was one thing he couldn’t say.
That I no longer believed him.
CHAPTER 7: THE END
I filed for divorce.
Jonathan lost his medical license after the incident was reported.
Rachel moved away from the neighborhood.
And I… took Lucy and left.
Some wounds cannot be healed with apologies.
Some nights, when the clock strikes 10 p.m., the memories still return.
But I know one thing for sure:
I walked away—and I survived.
