Chapter 1 - The Secret Bath Games
My five-year-old daughter always took baths with my husband. Every night, they stayed in the bathroom for over an hour. When I finally asked her what they did in there, she broke down crying and said, “Daddy says I’m not allowed to talk about the bath games.” The following night, I looked through the partially open bathroom door… then rushed to grab my phone.
At first, I convinced myself I was making too much of it.
Sophie had always been tiny for her age, with gentle curls and timid smiles. My husband, Mark, liked to call bath time “their special routine.” He claimed it helped her settle down before sleep and removed one more responsibility from my shoulders.
“You should appreciate how much I help you,” he often said, wearing the relaxed smile that everyone seemed to believe.
For some time, I did.
Then I began paying attention to the time.
Not ten minutes. Not fifteen.
An hour. Occasionally longer.
Whenever I knocked, Mark responded with the exact same calm tone.
“We’re nearly finished.”
But when they finally stepped out, Sophie never looked calm.
She looked drained.
She clutched the towel tightly around herself and stared at the floor. One evening, when I reached over to dry her hair, she jerked away so suddenly that my stomach dropped.
That was the first moment I became scared.
The second came when I discovered a wet towel tucked behind the laundry hamper. It had a pale, powdery mark on it that carried a slightly sweet scent, almost like medicine.
That evening, after another unusually long bath, I sat beside Sophie while she pressed her stuffed rabbit against her chest.
“What do you and Daddy do in there for such a long time?” I asked in the softest voice I could manage.
Her entire expression changed.
She lowered her head. Tears gathered in her eyes. Her small lips began to shake, but she remained silent.
I held her hand.
“You can tell me anything. I promise.”
Her reply was so quiet that I almost missed it.
“Daddy says the games in the bathroom have to stay secret.”
Every part of me went cold.
“What games?” I asked her.
She cried harder and quickly shook her head.
“He told me you would get angry with me if I said anything.”
I pulled her into my arms and promised that I would never be angry with her. Not ever.
But she refused to say another word.
That night, I stayed awake beside Mark, watching the darkness and listening to his steady breathing as though everything in our lives was perfectly normal. Every part of me desperately wanted to believe there was a harmless explanation that I simply had not discovered yet.
By morning, I understood that I could no longer survive on hope.
I had to know the truth.
The next evening, when Mark brought Sophie upstairs for their regular bath, I waited until the sound of running water reached me.
Then I moved barefoot along the hallway, my heartbeat slamming so violently that my chest hurt.
The bathroom door had been left slightly open.
Just enough for me to see inside.
I leaned closer.
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And within a single second, the man I thought I had married disappeared. Mark was kneeling beside the bathtub, holding a kitchen timer in one hand and a paper cup in the other. He spoke to Sophie in such a controlled, gentle voice that the sound sent ice through my veins.
At that exact moment, I pulled out my phone and called the police.
