He told me that when he was a teenager, he had been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. Over the years, the symptoms had almost disappeared, and he thought it was gone for good.

But with the birth of our son, another personality “woke up” inside him. He had no memory of what happened when it took control. And that part of him… felt hatred toward infants. Unexplained, dangerous hatred.

He cried. Said he’d started noticing time lapses, strange dreams, objects he didn’t remember touching. He thought he was going crazy.

He asked for forgiveness. Begged me not to be afraid. Promised to see a doctor, to get admitted to a clinic. And I… I wanted to believe him.

But that night, while he was asleep on the couch, I checked his phone. There was a voice memo, recorded on the dictaphone app — one he probably hadn’t even heard himself. A male voice — but strange, dull, angry — whispered: