My Wife Was Replaced by a Mimic, and I Couldn’t Be Happier (Pt 3)

Proverbs 27: 15-16

15 A quarrelsome wife is like the dripping

of a leaky roof in a rainstorm;

16 restraining her is like restraining the wind

or grasping oil with the hand.

 

I Was Going to Kill Her, But She Made Me Dinner

The library wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped.

The biggest problem was that I didn’t even know what I was dealing with. A mimic made the most sense—but that was more of a D&D term than a real-world classification. Native American folklore had plenty of stories about shapeshifters—beings that took human form to deceive, seduce, or stalk prey. But nothing with a checklist or a cure.

Still, I didn’t leave empty-handed.

Salt and iron seemed to be the most commonly suggested countermeasures. So I went to Home Depot. Where I discovered a new frustration: nothing is just iron anymore. It’s all steel. Alloy this, galvanized that.

I sighed. Loudly. Repeatedly. In the metal aisle. Like a man on the verge of losing a fight to metallurgy.

Eventually, I settled for a steel rod—close enough, I hoped—and grabbed a big bag of salt. I wasn’t sure what kind was best. Table salt? Sea salt? Himalayan pink?

At this point, I was overthinking it.

I figured if it came down to it, I could bash her in the head and pour salt in the wound. Felt like a backup plan from an exorcism manual written by the Supernatural show writers.

I sat in the car for a long time when I got home.

What the hell was I doing? Was it possible—even remotely—that this was Claire? That she hit her head or had some mountain retreat revelation and decided to be a better person?

It was unlikely. But not impossible.

Maybe I was just so miserable, so used to the worst version of her, that I couldn’t believe in the best version even if it walked through the door and made me bacon.

I stepped out of the car, gripping the paper bag like the nervous priest in Amityville, and walked into the house.

It smelled like pot roast.

The Thing in the Mirror

My stomach turned in confusion and hunger. Did I really have to kill her? Maybe she was Claire. Maybe the spa changed her.

The sound of the shower stopped as I walked into the bedroom. Light spilled out from under the bathroom door. I heard humming—at first garbled and wet, like someone gargling while trying to sing. Then it shifted, slowly, unnervingly, into Claire’s voice.

Then it changed again. It sounded like me.

She giggled.

I opened the door fast, a fistful of salt ready to fly.

I saw… something. A flash. A shape. Twisted. Jarring. Wrong.

And then it was gone.

I fumbled the salt, dropping it. She lunged at me—not to attack, but to hug me.

“Hubby!” she squealed, jumping into my arms like it was our wedding day.

I caught her. Reflex.

She kissed my cheek. “I missed you!”

“…Yeah,” I mumbled. “I missed you too.”

And I meant it. I missed this version of Claire—the woman who smiled, who kissed me, who made dinner. I’d never know what twisted her into the person she became.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t her. But it was doing a hell of a job pretending.

Dinner was quiet.

I’m pretty sure she saw the salt scattered on the bedroom floor. And the metal rod sticking out of the bag. And I’m absolutely sure she knew I saw her slip.

“This is amazing,” I said, digging into a second helping of roast.

She smiled softly, sipping her wine.

A Tender Confession

We didn’t say much after that. I think we both knew there wasn’t anything to say.

We migrated to the couch after dinner. She curled into my side like Claire used to do—before things got bad. I didn’t pull away.

Even knowing what she was, I didn’t feel threatened. I felt… weirdly calm. Maybe I was too exhausted from all the fear, too numbed by the surreal acceptance of what I’d seen.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a motivational poster from the library whispered, “Serenity is acceptance of things you cannot change.”

Sure. That, or I’d finally lost it.

“Mark,” she said, “If I were a monster… would you still love me?”

I laughed. Nervously. She felt it.

“Isn’t the question supposed to be, ‘Would you still love me if I were a worm?’”

She didn’t answer.

I felt like an ass.

We were watching The Thing, of all movies. As she snuggled deeper into my chest, I wondered if she’d absorb me by the end credits.

Her voice lowered. Calm. Measured. Almost… vulnerable.

“So, hypothetically… let’s say I’m like the creature in this movie. Let’s say I was born in the mountains. I came across a woman who was… awful. So I took her place. Came back to her home and tried to do better.”

I blinked.

“Let’s say I’m not her. Let’s say you know I’m not her. But I’m trying. I’m trying not to be an ungrateful bitch.”

“This is hitting really close to home,” I chuckled.

“Is it?” she asked.

Her eyes searched mine. Genuinely curious. Genuinely scared.

Maybe scared I’d drive a rod into her skull the moment she closed her eyes.

Two Types of Monsters

“Well,” I said, stammering, “I mean… all hypothetical, right? Monsters aren’t real.”

She studied me.

“Let’s say either of us could kill the other at any moment. Would that really be so different from if I was her?”

I paused.

Claire hadn’t been violent. But she had been killing me slowly—draining our bank account, draining my patience, draining me.

And here was something else, something monstrous, asking for a chance.

Was this a confession?

We’d reached a threshold—an agreement, spoken in maybes and what-ifs.

I took a breath.

“Hypothetically… if you replaced my wife—if we could both kill each other at any moment—no, I don’t think that would be much different. Claire was terrible. But she wasn’t always. She changed. If you were a monster who replaced her, wouldn’t it make you more likely to kill me?”

Her eyes dropped. She looked… sad. Maybe it was a trick. A calculated illusion. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“However,” I continued. “You’ve tried harder in one day than she did in three years. She was killing me slowly. Spending money faster than I could earn. Never helped with anything.

“If you plan to ‘be good,’ like you said… then no, I wouldn’t kill you. And I wouldn’t divorce you, either. In fact… I might be able to accept you for what you are.”

She wrapped her very human arms around me. No claws. No tendrils. No teeth behind her eyes. Just soft skin and a faint, sweet scent.

She nuzzled into my neck.

“So… you won’t kick me out?”

I blinked.

That’s what she’s worried about? We were just talking about killing each other five seconds ago.

“I won’t kick you out,” I said.

What else could I say? We both understood. Quietly. Silently. This was our new normal.

We cuddled on the couch every night till this day.

My story is strange. Unbelievable. Probably unrelatable.

But if you’ve got a shitty spouse—

Maybe send them to the Smoky Mountain Resort.

Worst case?
They come back the same.

Best case?
They don’t come back at all.

And what shows up instead…
Might just be an improvement.