Seven months pregnant, I agreed to house-sit for my brother, Victor, and his wife, Anne, while they vacationed. One afternoon, I discovered three large trash bags hidden in the basement. Inside, I found ritual tools, decayed bones, and dozens of voodoo dolls—each with my face, stained with blood. My heart raced as I realized Anne had been trying to curse my baby.

Panicked, I called my husband, Paul. “Get out of the house, now!” he urged. I fled into the woods, my pregnant belly slowing me down, but fear pushed me onward. When I finally reached the bus stop, I collapsed, covered in dirt and blood, waiting for Paul to arrive.

The next few days were a blur of terror. Anne denied everything when confronted, but her jealousy had driven her to this madness. She confessed to wanting what I had—my perfect life. Victor, horrified, filed for divorce.

Though life slowly returned to normal, the betrayal haunted me. My family was torn apart, and I couldn’t shake the fear of what Anne had tried to do. Even now, as I sit in our nursery, I can’t forget that night. My phone buzzes, and I type a message to a friend: “Terror can strike from unexpected places. Stay safe.” I rest a hand on my belly, whispering, “We’re okay, little one. We always will be.”