If I Can’t Have You (Short Story)

“If I can’t have you, no one will.” That’s what it said. It always whispered. And only she could hear it.

Eden Langley was perfect—at least from the outside. White dress. Radiant smile. Walking down the aisle of a sunlit church. But I know what really happened that day.

I was there. I was her maid of honor. And I watched her tremble—not from joy, not from nerves, but from knowing.

She’d heard the voice for years. She told me once back in college. We were pulling an all-nighter, and she said it came to her in dreams, in reflections, and sometimes even in public—in that quiet space between prayers.

“It’s like a parasite,” she said. “It’s always almost gone, until I get too close to God. Then it digs deeper.”

I thought she was being dramatic. But that was before the wedding.

The morning of, the church was soaked in roses and gold light. It couldn’t have been a more perfect morning for a wedding. Everything felt sacred. Eden looked like a saint. But when she passed the vestibule mirror, I saw it crack—just a hairline fracture. Her reflection? Didn’t move in sync. It smiled a second too long.

She stopped, touched her stomach, and whispered a prayer. Then she walked down the aisle.

Elijah was waiting. The vows were beautiful. The kiss sealed. The pastor smiled.

Then the chandelier fell.

I still hear the sound. Wood splintering. Glass exploding. Screams. Blood.

Eden lived. Elijah didn’t.

And in the silence that followed—while the guests sobbed, while sirens wailed far away—I saw her face go still. Her lips barely moved, but I heard the voice in my bones: “If I can’t have you, then I’ll take everything you love.”

She dropped to her knees beside Elijah, her veil torn, her dress stained with crimson, her hands shaking as she cradled his body.

I saw her look up at the cross above the altar. It was cracked… and weeping. Not dripping water, not sap—but tears. Actual tears, I swear. I don’t care if you don’t believe me.

Something holy mourned.

But Eden? Her mourning suddenly stopped.

She stood, her spine straightened, her eyes cleared. And she turned toward the shadows in the apse—the ones no one else dared look into—and she said aloud, “You may take what I love, but you cannot take Who loves me!” The church then shuddered. And the silence that followed was complete.