This year, I am 63 years old. I’ve been through two marriages already, yet I still chose to marry a man nearly three decades younger than me, despite my children’s strong objections.

From the very first week of living with him, strange things began to happen. Each morning, I woke up unable to walk, my legs completely numb. Then one late night, I discovered the terrifying truth behind it all…

I’ve endured two stormy marriages. My first husband abandoned me because of poverty, and my second left because of illness. Still, my heart longed for companionship. Even at this age, I believed in love. That’s why I married Michael, a 34-year-old fitness trainer – 29 years younger than me.

Michael was tall, muscular, with a calm yet captivating voice. We met at a yoga class for seniors, where his gaze lingered on me as if to say, “Linda, you’re still youthful.” That warmth pulled me in like a moth to flame. My children – Emily, 40, and David, 35 – objected fiercely. But I declared, “I can’t live only for my children. I deserve happiness too.” And so, I signed the marriage papers.

But within a week, disturbing symptoms emerged. My legs grew weak every morning, as though all strength had been drained overnight. I dismissed it as aging or perhaps Michael’s excessive passion—since at exactly 11 p.m. each night, he insisted on… well, pushing me beyond my limits.

One night, unable to bear it, I called Emily: “Tomorrow, come get me…”

But before dawn, I woke to find Michael gone from bed. My feet tingled with numbness as I crept toward the flickering light in the living room. And then I froze.

Michael was seated cross-legged before a small table. A black shirt clung to his frame, his slicked-back hair gleaming in candlelight that cast eerie shadows across his face. In front of him lay a paper figure folded in human shape and a bowl of clear water. He was bowing low, chanting in a strange language I didn’t recognize.

I clutched the doorway in horror as he pulled out a needle and pricked the paper doll. With each prick, sharp pain shot through my legs, as if a thousand pins stabbed me. My blood ran cold. He wasn’t just meditating – he was casting a spell. And I was the target.

A vase slipped from my trembling hands, shattering loudly. Michael’s head jerked up, his eyes suddenly dark and calculating.

“Awake already?” His voice was smooth, but it carried a sinister chill.

I staggered back.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said softly. “I only do this because I want you to love me forever. At your age, who else do you have but me? You’ll need me. You’ll never leave me if you’re sick.”

The realization hi:t me like a stone. His affection was a ruse. The care, the sweet words – nothing but a trap to make me dependent so he could control me, drain me.

By morning, Emily arrived. Strangely, my body had recovered overnight. Michael’s expression was one of panic, as though his ritual had failed.

“I know everything, Michael,” I told him firmly.

Emily revealed she had already suspected him. She’d hidden a camera in the house and, after witnessing his ritual, swapped the cursed doll and bowl for counter-charms. That’s why I had regained my strength.

We went straight to the authorities. Michael was arr:ested for fraud and manipulation. My third marriage ended in betrayal, but I walked away wiser.

Love, I learned, should never be built on fear or blind devotion.