I've been getting a bit better using AI. If you don't like AI assisted stories, find something else here that works with you.
I watched NightBitch, and loved the concept, loved the movie, but I feel it could have been a 'horror' movie. I decided to try my own take on the subject. I'm calling this The Bitch, and it is based off NightBitch.
The moon hung low over the suburban cul-de-sac, its pale light spilling across perfectly trimmed lawns and gleaming off windshields of parked cars. Inside the house at the end of the street, where the porchlight flickered as if unsure whether to stay lit, the Mother stood motionless in the kitchen. She stared down at her hands, trembling and pale against the granite countertop. The faint scent of iron lingered in the air, clinging to her skin, her clothes. She couldn't remember if it was real or imagined.
In the living room, her son slept on the couch, his small body curled beneath a blanket patterned with cartoon animals. The television buzzed faintly in the background, the remnants of some brightly colored program fading into static. Mother’s chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as she listened to the rhythmic click of the wall clock, the only sound besides her pulse roaring in her ears. It was an ordinary night, she told herself. A perfectly ordinary night in her perfectly ordinary life.
But it wasn’t.
The thing that had started as a tickle in the back of her mind, a nagging itch she couldn’t quite scratch, had grown. It no longer whispered doubts about her competence as a mother or a wife—it screamed. It clawed at her, bit into her skull, hollowed her out from the inside. The sharp crack of her nails digging into the countertop made her flinch, but she didn’t pull back. Not yet. Her hands didn’t feel like her own anymore, but something else’s—something hungrier.
A sudden thud from upstairs made her whip around, her body tense, her eyes wide. The baby’s room. She thought she’d heard him stirring earlier, but hadn’t checked yet. The thought of going up there—of walking into that nursery where everything smelled like milk and powder and something she couldn’t name—made her stomach turn.
She clenched her teeth against the nausea. The nights were worse now. She had always been exhausted, stretched too thin, but now something other came with the darkness. It pressed on her, whispered its desires, filled her with needs she didn’t recognize. Nights weren’t just sleepless anymore; they were ravenous.
A sound drifted down the staircase—a low, guttural growl that froze her in place.
Her pulse quickened as she realized it wasn’t the baby making noise. It wasn’t her husband either, away on another trip.
It was her.
And this time, she wasn’t sure she could stop it.
Jill Taylor stood at the bottom of the stairs, her hand clamped over her mouth. Upstairs, the baby monitor emitted soft static, broken now and then by the faint shuffling of little Ian turning in his bed. The growl had come from somewhere near his room—she was sure of it. But now the house was silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the creak of old floorboards settling in the December cold.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.
This isn’t real. You’re tired, that’s all. She hadn’t slept properly in three years, after all. Not since Ian was born. Stephen’s commute to the city took him away most days before Ian woke and brought him home long after bedtime, leaving her alone with the endless loop of dishes, tantrums, diapers, and silence. It wasn’t just exhaustion she felt, though. It was emptiness—a gnawing hollow that had grown so big it seemed to echo inside her.
But lately, the emptiness didn’t feel empty. It felt alive.
Jill flexed her fingers, letting her nails rake lightly against the banister as she climbed the stairs. The sharp sensation anchored her. Her nails had grown thicker lately, almost like claws. She kept telling herself it was just a calcium thing—she was thirty-seven now, the age when women’s bodies began their weird little betrayals—but the thought didn’t comfort her.
At the top of the stairs, she paused outside Ian’s room. The door was ajar, letting a sliver of amber light spill into the dark hallway. She eased it open with one hand, the wood making a soft groan. Inside, Ian lay on his back, his chubby face lit by the warm glow of his nightlight—a smiling cartoon dog that seemed to grin wider in the dim light.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Ian’s breath came slow and steady, and for a moment, she let herself feel the smallest flicker of peace. His cheek twitched in his sleep, his lips forming the shapes of unspoken words. She wondered what he dreamed about.
Then she smelled it again—that sharp, coppery scent, like blood. Her stomach turned, and she looked down.
There were faint smears on the carpet. Not dirt. Not food. Something darker. Sticky. Her hands began to shake as she followed the trail, her breath quickening.
It led to Ian’s closet.
The growl came again, low and guttural, vibrating through her bones. And this time, Jill couldn’t deny it.
It wasn’t coming from her.
It was coming from inside the closet.
Jill’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at the closet door. She wanted to back away, to run downstairs, grab Ian, and flee the house. But where would she go? She couldn’t even call Stephen—he was in Chicago or Denver or somewhere else he never bothered to mention until it was too late. This was on her. All of it.
Her son stirred behind her, murmuring something in his sleep. She turned to glance at him, just for a moment, her mother’s instinct warring with the raw terror bubbling up inside her. His soft curls framed his round, peaceful face, and her chest tightened. He told you there was something in the closet, and you didn’t believe him.
It had been a week now, maybe more. Ian would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, tears streaming down his face, babbling about the growling. “Something’s in there, Mommy!” he’d sob. She’d chalked it up to bad dreams, too many cartoons. She’d checked the closet more than once, each time finding nothing but crumpled clothes and a few stuffed animals. But tonight—tonight she wasn’t so sure.
She reached out with trembling fingers and pushed the door open, just a crack. The hinges squealed, loud enough to make her flinch. The air that wafted out hit her like a physical blow: hot, damp, and reeking of sweat and decay.
She froze. And then she heard it—breathing. Slow and wet and too deep to belong to anything human. Her knees nearly buckled as she stepped closer. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet, and her vision blurred at the edges, but she forced herself to keep moving. Ian needs you. Get it together.
There, in the corner, under a ratty old blanket, something shifted. It rose and fell with each breath, the fabric twitching as though barely able to contain the thing underneath. Jill’s throat was dry, and her mouth moved soundlessly as she reached down, her hand shaking so badly she nearly dropped the blanket before she could grab it. She pulled it back in one quick motion.
And then it sprang.
A blur of fur and fangs and muscle hit her with bone-rattling force. She went down hard, the wind knocked from her lungs as the thing clawed at her, snarling, its breath foul and hot against her face. She screamed and tried to push it off, but it was too strong. Teeth snapped inches from her throat, and panic surged as she realized she was about to die here, on the nursery floor, while her son slept a few feet away.
“JILL!” Stephen’s voice came from nowhere, sharp and commanding. Before she could react, the deafening blast of a shotgun filled the room, followed by a spray of heat and wetness. The thing on top of her convulsed and collapsed in a heap, its weight crushing her chest. Blood soaked her shirt as the smell of gunpowder filled the air.
Stephen stood in the doorway, his face pale but resolute, the shotgun smoking in his hands. “I told you to call me if it got worse,” he said, his voice trembling.
Jill stared up at him, her chest heaving. “What the hell was that?” she whispered, but deep down, she already knew.
Stephen lowered the gun, his expression grim. “I hoped I’d never have to explain this.”