The Silent Treatment

June 1, 2026

Dear Diary,

4 months. He hasn’t said a word to me in 4 months. Still expects me to cook, clean and fuck him, but doesn’t speak to me. He does this from time to time, but this is the longest he’s ever gone. My husband, Mike, and I have been married for 10 years. He wasn’t always this way. I was about a year out of high school when we met, and I remember being nervous about bringing him to my parents’ home to meet them because he was a few years older than me.

My daddy loved him instantly. He told me, “This is the man you’re going to marry.” The two talked like a long-lost father and son all night. Laughing at each other’s jokes, agreeing with whatever the other said, listening intently to the stories they told.

I didn’t notice then, but momma was mostly silent throughout the night. She wouldn’t have been able to get a word in anyway with all the camaraderie. While my future husband and daddy sat on the patio outside smoking daddy’s cigars, momma and I cleaned up the dinner dishes. I hadn’t even asked her what she thought of Mike before she disturbingly said, “He’s just like your father.” Being the naive daddy’s girl I was, I took it as a sign that I had done something right.

June 15, 2026

Dear Diary,

He’s still not talking to me. All because I went to a fucking bar with my coworkers. I’m 29, and I’ve never been to a bar in my life! I work at a call center downtown. My colleagues usually go to happy hour on Thursdays after we get off. They invite me every week, even though I’ve always said no.

“Only whores go to bars,” Mike always says. He thinks because most of the women I work with are in their 30s and unmarried, they’re a bunch of harlots trying to convert me. He goes on and on about how they’re all cooped up in overpriced apartments, and how lucky I am that he bought us a house.

It’s a shotgun house that doesn’t fit alongside the more modern houses in the cul-de-sac. You can tell that at one point, maybe the whole neighborhood had homes like it, but for some reason, the developers didn’t touch ours. The lawn, with its dead patches of yellow grass distributed throughout the green, makes the professionally made-up yards alongside us look even better. I wasn’t sure what was going on when we pulled up in front of the house until Mike eagerly rushed out of the car and stood proudly in front of the “sold” sign.

He talked about how much of a steal it was and how he couldn’t believe it had been sitting for so long, but I could. The long stretch of a house felt like walking down a hospital corridor, and was just as cold. There was a brownish-red spot in the living room that to this day I can’t get out, no matter how hard I scrub. I keep a rug over it.

He said the kitchen was what made him buy the house. He liked the nice, oak cabinets and “retro” checkered tiles on the floor, but I thought it was tacky. Mismatched. There was something off about the house from the moment I stepped foot in there.

Furthermore, I couldn’t believe he bought a house without my input. How do I not get a say in where I’m supposed to wake up and go to sleep for as long as we both shall live?

I didn’t say anything then, just smiled and screamed, “You bought us a house!” Like the doting wife I was conditioned to be. Letting my man lead even when I questioned his sense of direction.

One of the neighbors told me a doctor used to live here. A surgeon. She didn’t know where he had moved to. Doesn’t even remember seeing a moving truck or boxes coming out of the house, but she was happy he was gone.

“There was always a bunch of noise coming out of that house,” she said. “My husband and I figured it was some horror movies or something, but he sure was watching a lot. The Dowell family over there,” she pointed to a beautiful craftsman-style home catty-cornered to ours, “they called the police on him once.”

“Damn, it was that loud?” I questioned.

My neighbor nodded. “I saw an officer pull up from my front window. Saw him knock on the door, and the doctor invited him in and everything. I never saw him leave, though. The police car was still out front the next day.”

I barely drank that night at the bar. I had a fruity, seasonal beer that the bartender recommended. I only had one. I can’t even remember the name of it. I played early 2000s jams on the jukebox and got to hear some juicy work gossip. As embarrassing as it is for me to write, I felt like a real grown-up. Out on the town, people watching, standing on a sticky floor with a practically full drink in my hand. Of course, a few barflies flirted with me. One even noticed and complimented my winged eyeliner.

A little trick I tried that morning. I barely wear makeup. Mike doesn’t like it. He shits on me every time I wear it to the point where I just wipe the makeup off and go barefaced. I was flattered by the compliments, to be honest, but I didn’t pay them any real attention. As ornery as my husband is, I’ve never stepped out on our marriage. Mike can’t say the same.

When I came home, Mike was in the living room ending a phone call with someone he referred to as “baby girl.” When I had my back turned to lock the front door, I heard the whisk sound of his phone flying through the air as he chucked it in my direction. Before it could hit me in the back of the head, I ducked.

He screamed at me while I was walking down the hallway with my head down. “Sneaky bitch! Worthless whore! Where the fuck have you been, huh? Answer me!”

I shuffled into our bedroom and shut the door, making sure not to slam it and anger him even more. By that time, he was yelling at the door like it was a person, and beating on it as if that person had stolen from him. I dropped to my knees and cried in my hands.

I let my jacket and purse fall to the ground with me. Everything in my purse spilled out, including my phone. I had a text notification from one of my co-workers that read:

“Thanks for coming out tonight! It was good to see you. 🙂”

Mike hasn’t spoken to me since.

August 5, 2026

Sorry I haven’t written in a while.

I’ve been a little busy. I’ve left my husband…and met someone new. You could even say I met him through Mike. It was about a month ago, after another day of silence (with the exception of insults). Mike had finally fallen asleep next to me, pulling our comforter and the good pillows to his side.

I truly believe me being cold and uncomfortable helped him sleep better at night. Mike’s massive hand on my shoulder shaking me is what woke me up, followed by his pleading whisper. I thought I was dreaming at first since he hadn’t spoken to me in so long.

“Estelle, please. My God, Estelle, please wake up.”

When I opened my eyes, his face was partially hidden under our blanket, and his eyes kept darting between me and the foot of our bed.

“Mike,” I said groggily, “what’s going-” Before I could finish my sentence, my husband was dragged out of our bed by his ankles and screaming before I heard his body thud on the hardwood floor. When I tossed the covers off of me and hopped out of bed to come to Mike’s aid, I stopped and stood frozen. I made eye contact with a man that I knew was dead just by looking at him. A tall man wearing medical scrubs started dragging Mike to the middle of the room with ease. I think he was dark-skinned in his waking life, but the soul leaving his body in death must’ve taken his color with him. Leaving him to be a pretty, stone gray.

“Estelle!” Mike whimpered, wiggling like a worm in the man’s tight grip, “Do something! Help me!” The haint in our bedroom flipped Mike’s body until he was on his back, grabbed his pajama shirt by the collar, and began to scream in his face over and over. He screamed so loud that I had to cover my ears and turn away.

The house rumbled like whatever tectonic plate underneath our home was shaking uncontrollably. His burly arms flexed and made a fist with his hand, and he jumped at Mike like he was going to punch him. Instead he punched holes into the floor next to my husband’s ears. Mike desperately dodged each punch.

While I stood next to the window, stunned and wondering if I could square up with a ghost, I couldn’t help but think of all the times Mike punched holes into the walls of our home in fits of rage. This time, though, I wouldn’t have to come up with a lie to our family about why we had to fix another hole. Every time the dead man broke into our floorboards with his fist, the floor would fix itself like nothing happened and was waiting to be punched again.

“Please…wait.” I was somehow able to squeak out at the dead man. His all-black eyes looked up at me, but didn’t respond. Instead he shoved his arm into Mike’s mouth until my husband’s lips were wrapped around his elbow. I stepped into the corner with my back against the wall, and slowly slid down. The trickle from my urine warmed my thigh in our cold bedroom. The dead man’s face was focused, and then a eureka sort of look appeared.

My husband gagged and kicked his feet while the dead man pulled a fleshy, pink, worm-shaped thing out of Mike’s throat. Blood coated the dead man’s hand, and my husband went still and silent. I covered my mouth as the dead man walked toward me, and noticed him pulling down and fixing his scrubs to make himself more presentable. He looked down at his feet bashfully to avoid eye contact with me. Whatever he pulled out of Mike’s mouth was hidden behind his back. The dead man cleared his throat, then presented the long string of muscle and cartilage to me like it was a bouquet. I realized it must’ve been my husband’s voice box when the opening that looked like a sideways eye began to speak.

“I love you, Ellie! I’m so sorry for how I’ve been to you. I swear I’ll change. Believe me! I’ve learned my lesson.”

The dead man got uncomfortably close to my face, and I finally got a good look at his features. I thought we rotted after we died, but his skin was smooth and intact. He had long eyelashes that batted at me, and he licked his full lips before he spoke to me in a deep vibrato tone that made my heart fall into my stomach.

“Would you like me to put his larynx back in his neck? I’ll do it if you want me to,” the dead man said. “I’d do anything you want me to.”

I don’t remember the last time Mike called me Ellie. I used to love it when he called me that. However, I quickly decided that it would be the last time my husband ever said anything to me. I felt my shoulders relax and looked as firmly as I could at the dead man. Our faces were so close that when I shook my head no, our noses tickled each other. The dead man squished my husband’s voice box and tossed it over his shoulder. He then picked me up off the floor and carried me like a bride over the threshold of her new home. Stepping over Mike’s body as we left the room, and then the house.

We’ve been together ever since. I don’t know the dead man’s name. Every time I ask him, he simply says, “I’m yours.” So that’s what I call him. Dr. Mine.