19 Jan My Girlfriend Talks in Her Sleep

Part I

If I’m being honest, I ignored the warning signs. I mean, wouldn’t you? Sharon was perfect—or at least, she seemed perfect at the time. She’s beautiful in that classic way that makes people stop and stare. Smart, too. She’s got a dry sense of humor that could cut glass, and she knows exactly how to use it.

We’ve been dating for eight months now. And yeah, maybe it was a little fast, but everything just clicked. From our first date, I knew I wanted her in my life. She felt like the total package—someone I could actually see myself building a future with.

Looking back, there were little things I should’ve paid more attention to.

It started on our fourth date. We were sitting on her couch, drinking wine, when she brought it up. “I should probably warn you about something,” she said, swirling her glass.

I raised an eyebrow, already half in love with her. “Oh? What’s that?”

“I’m not… the easiest person to sleep next to,” she said.

I laughed, thinking she was making a joke. “Don’t worry, I’ve shared a bed with snorers before. I think I can handle it.”

She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s not just snoring. I talk in my sleep. Sometimes I move around, or… well, I’ve even been known to slap people by accident.”

“Slap people, huh? Sounds like an occupational hazard,” I teased.

She gave me this look—half serious, half amused. “I’m just saying, it’s happened before. If you decide to stick around, you’ve been warned.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. It sounded harmless, even kind of cute. But looking back… yeah, I should’ve taken her more seriously.

The first time I stayed over at her place, I was anticipating a slap in my sleep just so I could poke fun at her about it the next morning. But for the most part, that first night was uneventful. She tossed and turned a little, muttering what sounded like random gibberish—”not the red one” and “don’t let it fall.” I barely noticed.

Over the next few weeks, her quirks started to come out more. One night, I woke up to her hand smacking me squarely in the chest.

“What the hell?” I mumbled, groggy and confused.

Sharon was still asleep, her arm falling limp against the bed.

The next morning, I brought it up over breakfast. “So… you hit me last night.”

She almost choked on her coffee, her eyes wide with mock horror. “I did?”

“Yup. Full-on smack. Guess you were dreaming about fighting someone.”

She grinned, shaking her head. “Maybe I was dreaming about Aaron.”

Aaron was her ex-husband. She didn’t talk about him much, but from what I gathered, their divorce had been messy. The way she said his name—half joking, half bitter—made me wonder if there was more to the story.

Still, I laughed it off. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal.

The warnings kept coming, however, in subtle ways I didn’t recognize for what they were.

A few weeks into staying over, Sharon brought it up again one night as we got into bed. “I wasn’t kidding about the sleep stuff, you know,” she said.

“I know,” I replied, pulling the covers over us. “Honestly, it’s not that bad. It’s sort of adorable.”

Her smile faltered for just a second. “Just… don’t freak out if I say something weird, okay?”

I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Sharon, it’s no trouble, really. I think you’re perfect, and nothing you say in your sleep is going to change that.”

She smiled again, but this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

At the time, I thought it was nothing. Now I wish I’d taken that moment more seriously.

* * * * * *

The first few weeks of staying at Sharon’s place were normal enough. Sure, she moved a lot in her sleep—tossing, turning, even mumbling—but I figured it was just part of her “quirky” charm.

But then her topics of “conversation” changed–dramatically.

At first, she’d say things like “put that down” or “get the cat”—harmless nonsense—and I’d laugh about it the next morning. But one night, about a month in, I woke up to something different.

“It’s under the oak tree,” Sharon murmured, her voice low and steady.

I blinked, groggy and confused. “Sharon?”

She didn’t respond. Her body was still, her breathing slow and even.

I sat up and leaned closer. “What’s under the oak tree?”

Nothing. She didn’t say anything else, just rolled over and pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

The next morning, over breakfast, I brought it up.

“You said something weird in your sleep last night,” I told her.

Sharon raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee. “Oh, yeah? What did I say?”

“It was… strange. You said, ‘It’s under the oak tree.’”

She tilted her head, like she was trying to figure out if I was joking. “Huh, that’s weird. Maybe it was about a treehouse or something.”

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”

She shook her head. “Nope. My dreams are unbelievably random. You know how it is.”

I nodded, but her answer didn’t sit right with me. There was something about the way she brushed it off—too casually, like she was trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

* * * * * *

A week later, I woke up to her pacing, circling the bed as if she was measuring the room.

“Sharon?” I whispered, rubbing my eyes.

She didn’t answer.

I reached for the bedside lamp, but as soon as I touched the switch, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Don’t,” she said sharply.

My hand froze. “Don’t what?”

She didn’t respond. For a moment, she just stood there, then climbed back into bed, her movements stiff and robotic.

The next morning, I kept it to myself. I wanted to ask her about what she’d said, but something told me not to.

Things got worse after that.

One night, she sat straight up in bed and started muttering again. “Two miles from the highway,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “It works better when the ground is wet.”

I didn’t even try to wake her this time. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

When she finally rolled over and went quiet, I got up and went to the kitchen. My hands shook as I poured myself a glass of water.

What the hell was going on?

* * * * * *

The breaking point came a few nights later.

I woke up to Sharon sitting at the edge of the bed, her back to me.

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” she whispered.

I sat up slowly. “Sharon?”

She didn’t turn around. Her head tilted slightly, like she was listening to someone I couldn’t see.

“He said he’d take care of it, but he didn’t. Now it’s my problem.”

“Sharon, who are you talking to?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stood up and walked out of the bedroom. I didn’t follow her. I just sat there, frozen, listening to her footsteps fade down the hall.

When I woke up the next morning, she was already in the kitchen, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully.

I forced a smile, but my stomach churned. I couldn’t stop thinking about the things she’d said in her sleep.

The night I realized something was really wrong started like any other. Sharon fell asleep quickly, curled up on her side, while I stayed awake scrolling on my phone. Everything seemed normal until I heard her voice.

At first, I thought she was speaking to me. “I held his nose shut,” she said.

I froze.

Her voice was low, cold, almost monotone. “It didn’t take long. He kicked for a while, but then he stopped.”

I turned to her. Sharon was still lying on her side, breathing slowly.

“Sharon?” I whispered.

She didn’t respond.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Dragged him down the embankment. The soil was soft—perfect for digging.”

“What the hell?” I muttered under my breath.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

* * * * * *

The next morning, I confronted her. “You were talking in your sleep again last night.”

Sharon glanced up from her coffee, looking amused. “Oh, no–really? What did I say this time? I hope it wasn’t anything embarrassing.”

I hesitated. “You… you said something about suffocating someone. And digging a grave.”

She frowned. “That’s… weird. Maybe a nightmare about one of those crime shows I watch. You know how much Netflix I binge.”

She laughed, but it didn’t feel genuine.

“You don’t remember what you were dreaming about?” I pressed.

Sharon shook her head. “No, sorry. Honestly, Chris, I never remember any of my dreams.”

I nodded, but I suspected she wasn’t telling me everything.

A few nights later, I woke up to her voice again.

“Max Carter,” she said. Her tone was calm, detached.

I sat up in bed, my skin crawling.

“He’s behind the old barn,” she continued. “The one with the blue door.”

The name was familiar. Max Carter had gone missing years ago while on a camping trip. His case was still unsolved.

The next morning, I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t know how to. But I couldn’t get the name—or her words—out of my head.

I Googled Max Carter’s name on my phone. His disappearance had happened in the next county over. There was no mention in the reports of a barn or a blue door, but the other details Sharon had mentioned matched the description of the area where he’d last been seen.

A few days later, I worked up the courage to suggest something to Sharon. She was grinning when I first approached.

“Have you ever thought about doing a sleep study?” I asked carefully.

Her smile faded. “Why would I do that, Chris?”

“I don’t know. Just… you’ve been saying some really strange things in your sleep. Maybe it’s stress, or something.”

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re overthinking it.”

“What about recording it?” I said. “Just so you can hear it for yourself.”

Her expression darkened instantly. “No. Absolutely not. That’s a huge invasion of privacy.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“If you ever record me without my permission, Chris, we’re done. I mean it.”

Our eyes met, I nodded, and we went on with our day. Inside, however, my world was unraveling.

That night, after she fell asleep, I couldn’t help myself. I propped my phone under a pillow on her side of the bed and hit “record.”

The next morning, while Sharon was in the shower, I played back the audio file.

At first, it was just static. Then, around 2 am, her voice came through, clear as day.

“Nina screamed too much,” Sharon murmured. “Fast–had to move fast. No mistakes.”

I froze.

Nina. I knew that name. A teenager disappeared five years ago–Nina Tully–and her case was still open.

No, it couldn’t be, I thought. This isn’t impossible.

I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had to know if what she was saying was true.

That afternoon, I drove to one of the locations Sharon had described: a barn with a blue door. It wasn’t far—about twenty minutes outside of town.

I found it easily enough. The building was old and weathered, its door faded to a dull gray.

Behind the barn was a small grove of trees. The soil beneath them looked disturbed, like someone had dug there recently.

I told myself to leave, but I couldn’t. I grabbed a nearby stick and started scraping at the dirt.

I didn’t have to dig for long. The smell–pungent and unmistakable–hit me first. Then I saw it: a torn, dirt-streaked patch of fabric, clinging to what I could only describe as… remains.

I stumbled back. My head swam as I struggled to process what I was looking at.

Sharon hadn’t been dreaming.

Part II

I couldn’t stop myself. Every night after Sharon fell asleep, I set up my phone to record. And every morning, while she showered or made coffee, I reviewed what she’d said.

It was always the same.

“She kept crying, so I had to do it fast. It wasn’t clean,” she’d said. ”She’s in the quarry now. The water keeps her hidden.”

The names changed, but the pattern didn’t. Every night, Sharon whispered something chilling, something specific.

“Beneath the roots, that’s the trick,” she’d one one night. “No one ever checks beneath the roots.”

Every morning, I woke up more terrified than the last.

The audio files piled up, each one a piece of a horrifying puzzle. I couldn’t deny it anymore. These weren’t dreams.

They were confessions.

Sharon started to notice something was off.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said one morning, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs across the table.

“Just tired,” I muttered, avoiding her eyes.

“You’re always tired these days,” she said, tilting her head. “Is something bothering you?”

“No,” I lied. “Nothing.”

She studied me for a moment, her gaze sharp and unblinking, and then smiled. “Okay.”

After that, I felt she watched me more closely, just waiting for me to slip up.

* * * * * *

One night, she caught me.

I thought she was asleep. I was sitting on the couch, headphones plugged into my phone, listening to the latest recording.

“I told him I’d take care of it,” Sharon whispered in the recording. “But he didn’t listen. I had to clean up his mess.”

The sound of her voice made my skin crawl.

“What are you doing, Chris?”

I jumped, yanking the headphones out of my ears. Sharon was standing in the hallway, her arms crossed over her chest.

“Nothing!” I said quickly, locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket.

Her eyes narrowed. “Were you just listening to something?”

“No,” I stammered. “I was just… scrolling through Instagram.”

She didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change. She just stood there, staring at me.

“Let me see your phone,” she said finally.

“What?” I said, laughing nervously.

“I said, give me your phone, Chris.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you’re lying to me.”

I stood up, trying to keep my voice calm. “Sharon, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” she said, taking a step closer. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Avoiding me. Locking your phone. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing!” I said. “Why would you think I—”

“Then let me see it,” she said, cutting me off.

“No.”

The word came out sharper than I’d intended.

Sharon’s voice was cold and flat. “You recorded me, didn’t you?”

A wave of dread washed over me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She took another step forward. “While I was sleeping–you recorded me. Admit it.”

“Sharon, I—”

“Give me the phone, Chris.”

“No.”

She lunged at me, her fingers clawing for my pocket. I stumbled back, trying to push her away, but she was relentless.

“Give it to me!” she screamed, her voice echoing through the apartment.

I twisted out of her grip and ran for the door.

I didn’t stop running until I reached my car. My hands shook so badly that it took me three tries to get the key into the ignition.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I glanced back at the building. Sharon was standing at the window, watching me.

I didn’t go back for my things, not even my phone.

The next day, I logged into my cloud account from a public library computer.

The recordings were gone.

Sharon must have found a way to delete them.

I sat there, staring at the empty folder. All the evidence, every scrap of proof, was gone.

* * * * * *

I didn’t go to the police. I couldn’t.

What was I supposed to say? That my girlfriend confessed to a dozen murders in her sleep? That I found a body exactly where she said it would be? They’d laugh me out of the station—or worse, they’d think I was involved. And without the recordings, I had nothing but my word.

Instead, I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.

I drove straight to the next town over, checked into a cheap motel, and spent the rest of the night staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do.

The next morning, I bought a new phone with cash. It was nothing fancy, just a basic model that could make calls and access my cloud account–not that it mattered. The recordings had vanished. Every file I’d backed up had been erased.

She’d found a way to delete them.

For weeks, I stayed in the motel, keeping my head down and jumping at every sound outside my door. I just knew Sharon was out there, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I avoided social media, too afraid she would use it to track me down. The only thing I kept up with was the news. Every morning, I scrolled through local crime reports, praying I wouldn’t see her name—or worse, hear that another body had been discovered.

At first, there was nothing. No missing persons or disappearances, no murders. For a moment, I let myself believe that maybe I’d scared her enough to stop.

Then the killings started again.

It was small things at first: a man found strangled in his home, a woman’s body pulled from a lake. Both in neighboring counties, the circumstances eerily similar to the stories Sharon had whispered in her sleep.

I told myself it was just a coincidence. It had to be.

But then it got closer.

A teenage girl went missing from my hometown, her bike found abandoned on the side of the road just a mile from where I grew up.

A week later, her body was discovered in a shallow grave beneath a grove of trees.

I couldn’t breathe when I saw the report. The site matched Sharon’s description exactly: “Beneath the roots, that’s the trick. No one ever checks beneath the roots.”

It was her. It had to be.

* * * * * *

The breaking point came when the news reported another victim–my cousin, Riley.

Riley and I weren’t close, not anymore, but we’d grown up together. She was the kind of person who lit up every room she walked into—always smiling and laughing.

When I saw her name on the news feed, I felt like the floor had been ripped out from under me.

The reporter said she’d been found near the same grove where the teenager’s body had been discovered. They didn’t give any details, but I already knew what they weren’t saying.

I knew it was Sharon.

For days, I couldn’t eat or sleep. All I could think about was Riley—how I could’ve stopped this if I’d done something sooner. If I’d gone to the police, or told someone, anyone, about what Sharon had said.

But I hadn’t. I’d run away like a coward, and now Riley was dead.

The guilt was suffocating.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but running away from Sharon has to be the worst.

I thought leaving would save me. I thought it would keep her from finding out how much I knew. But the truth is, it didn’t save Riley. It didn’t save anyone.

* * * * * *

I can’t keep this to myself anymore. I don’t care if no one believes me, or if people think I’m crazy. Even if it put a target on my back—I have to tell someone, have to do something.

For days, I’ve sat here, trying to find the right words. Words that might make someone believe me. Words that might stop her.

But the truth is, I don’t think it matters anymore–Riley is dead, and it’s my fault.

I can’t stop seeing her face on the news. I can’t stop hearing my mom’s voice on the phone, shaking as she told me what happened.

I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped Sharon.

But I didn’t. I ran.

My hands are shaking, my head is pounding, and my chest feels tight–but I have to get it out. I just need someone to know.

Her name is Sharon. She’s smart, beautiful, perfect on the outside.

And she’s a murderer.

She’s confessed to everything: Max Carter, Nina Tully, all of them. She described how she did it, where she buried them. I thought it was just dreams at first. God, I wanted to believe it was just dreams. But I found one of them. I dug where she said to dig–and there he was.

I tried running. I thought if I stayed quiet, she’d let me go. But the killings never stopped.

I suppose I want someone to know the truth before she finds me.

Because she will.

It’s just a matter of time.

* * * * * *

There’s a noise.

I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I hear the sound of glass breaking. Of footsteps–slow, and steady, coming from the kitchen.

A wave of nausea overwhelms me. I grab the gun from my nightstand, my hands trembling so badly I nearly drop it.

Oh, God. She’s here.

I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this. If I disappear, you’ll know why.

If anyone finds this, please…

Don’t let her get away with it.