It always starts the same way: a whispering rustle… the ancient language of foil.
The time is 2:36 a.m. The house sleeps. Except me.
Drawn by a hunger that’s less craving and more curse, I drift barefoot through shadowed halls, led by the siren song of snacks. The pantry door creaks—not by hand, but by pact. I am no longer wife, nor writer, nor respectable member of society. I am… The Midnight Wrapper Wraith.
Caught on camera once—blurry, backlit, snack-lit—I hover near the fridge light, chewing on something unspeakable (but probably sweet). Cold pizza crust? Peanut butter spoon? That cursed marshmallow from Halloween 2021?
Some say these hauntings are hereditary. Others blame unfinished dinner karma. But I know the truth:
The hunger haunts me… until I haunt it back.
Until the next snack attack,
Mrs. Raines
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