Husband is hypnotized to see a doe when he sees his wife. Only problem is he is an avid hunter

Michael “Mike” Lindamomuth had been hunting the same forty acres of Georgia pine and hardwood every deer season for fifteen years. The cabin sat at the end of a two-mile dirt track, a squat cypress-log rectangle with a tin roof and a stone chimney that smoked like a signal fire from opening weekend until the last day of the season. Stephanie had always hated the ritual. She hated the weeks of preparation, the smell of Hoppe’s solvent on his hands, the way he kissed her goodbye like a man already halfway gone into the woods. Most of all she hated the empty house and the silence that felt like abandonment.
This year she refused to be left behind.
They sat at the kitchen table one sticky August evening, a bottle of wine between them, and hatched the plan. Stephanie wanted to know what it felt like to be the quarry. Not pretend, not role-play with safe words and costumes—she wanted the real pulse of being hunted. Mike, who loved her the way a man loves the one thing that keeps him human, agreed on one condition: she would be safe. A friend of his from the VA, Dr. Elias Crowe, was a clinical hypnotist. One long evening in the basement, with the lights low and Crowe’s voice like warm syrup, Mike was given a single, unbreakable suggestion: whenever his eyes fell on Stephanie, he would see a full-grown doe—sleek, alert, coppery hide gleaming, dark eyes wide and liquid. Nothing else. Just a beautiful deer.
They arranged the swap. Mike would drive up to the cabin on the first day of season as always, his Marlin 30-30 lever-action already in the truck. A package would be delivered the next morning containing a tranquilizer rifle and darts, powerful enough to drop a deer at fifty yards but leave her breathing. Stephanie would slip into the woods before dawn, wearing nothing but the scent of pine sap and her own nervous sweat so the illusion would be perfect. Mike would “hunt” her, dart her, tag her, and drag her back to the cabin where she would wake up laughing and breathless, finally understanding why he disappeared every November.
It was perfect.
Except the package that arrived at dawn on opening day was not the tranquilizer gun.
It was another Marlin 30-30, identical to the one already leaning in the corner by the door. Same blued steel, same walnut stock, same scope. The delivery driver had mixed up the labels. Stephanie, already deep in the woods and committed, never knew.
Mike stepped out onto the porch at first light, breath fogging in the November chill. He wore his old orange vest over a wool shirt, boots broken in until they felt like skin. The rifle in his hands was warm from being oiled the night before. He didn’t notice the difference; both guns were his. He simply chambered a round, slung the rifle, and walked into the trees.
Stephanie crouched behind a fallen pine two hundred yards east of the cabin, heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it. She had stripped naked an hour earlier, skin prickling in the cold, nipples tight, the forest floor rough under her bare feet. She wanted the vulnerability. She wanted the fear. Every rustle of leaves made her flinch. Every distant crack of a twig sent adrenaline flooding through her veins. This was what she had begged for.
Mike moved like a ghost. He knew every game trail, every funnel between the ridges. The woods were still waking up—squirrels chattering, a woodpecker drilling somewhere high. He glassed the ridges with practiced patience, looking for the telltale flick of a white tail or the glint of an eye.
He saw her first on the edge of a small clearing where the sun had just broken through the canopy. She had risen to creep forward, trying to stay downwind. To Mike she was perfect: a mature doe, maybe a hundred and twenty pounds, coat shining with morning dew, ears swiveling, dark eyes alert. The hypnosis painted every curve of her body into graceful lines of muscle and bone, turned her smooth skin into short, dense fur the color of autumn leaves. He felt the familiar hunter’s thrill, clean and sharp.
He eased the rifle to his shoulder. The crosshairs settled just behind the “deer’s” shoulder, exactly where the heart and lungs sat. Stephanie never saw him. She was listening to a blue jay scolding in the distance, wondering if Mike was close, wondering if this was the moment.
The 30-30 cracked once, flat and final in the cold air.
Stephanie’s body jerked violently as the 170-grain soft-point punched through her chest, shattering ribs and exploding the heart. She took one staggering step, mouth open in a silent scream, and collapsed sideways into the leaves. Blood—bright arterial red—pumped once, twice, then slowed to a thick ooze.
Mike waited the required five minutes, then rose and walked forward, rifle ready in case she got up. When he reached her he smiled with quiet pride. “Good girl,” he murmured, the same thing he always said to a clean kill. The doe lay on her side, legs still twitching faintly. He knelt, ran a gloved hand along her warm flank, feeling the coarse hair and the solid weight of meat beneath. To him she was perfect.
He field-dressed her right there in the clearing the way he had done fifty times before. Knife sharp as a scalpel, he slit the hide from sternum to pelvis in one smooth motion. Steam rose into the cold air as he pulled the guts out in a glistening purple heap—stomach, intestines, liver still quivering. He reached up inside the chest cavity, severed the windpipe and esophagus with a wet crunch, and dragged the heart and lungs free. Blood soaked his sleeves to the elbows. He wiped the blade on the “deer’s” hide, then rolled the carcass onto its back and began the skinning.
The hide came off in one piece, peeling away from the muscle with the familiar resistance of fresh game. He worked carefully around the shoulders and haunches, preserving as much cape as he could for a mount he already imagined hanging on the cabin wall. When the naked carcass lay gleaming pink and white in the leaves, he cut the head free at the atlas joint, then quartered the body into neat sections—two front shoulders, two hinds, the backstraps lifted out like long red fillets. The meat was warm and heavy in his hands. He wrapped each piece in game bags and lashed them to his pack frame.
It took him nearly an hour to drag the rest of the carcass back to the cabin. He used the old deer drag, rope around the neck, boots digging into the soft earth. The head bumped along behind, eyes already glazing. At the cabin he hung the quarters from the meat pole behind the porch, high enough that the raccoons couldn’t reach. Then he went inside, washed the blood from his arms in the sink, and poured himself a celebratory bourbon.
He spent the rest of the afternoon processing. The hide he salted and rolled for later tanning. The head he set aside to boil and clean for a European skull mount. The meat he broke down further on the big butcher block by the window—trimming silver skin, cutting steaks, grinding burger, wrapping everything in white paper and labeling it with a Sharpie: “Doe 2026 – 40 acres.” The cabin filled with the rich, coppery smell of fresh venison. He fried a small piece of backstrap for supper, seasoned only with salt and pepper the way he liked it. It was tender, dark, perfect.
That night Mike sat by the fire with a full belly and a quiet smile. He had filled his tag on opening morning. Best season ever. He wondered idly where Stephanie was—probably back at the house, still sulking about being left behind. He’d call her in the morning, tell her all about the beautiful doe he’d taken. Maybe she’d finally understand.
Outside, the wind moved through the pines, carrying away the last faint scent of blood from the clearing two hundred yards east. Inside, the freezer hummed, packed full of what Mike would proudly serve his friends all winter long—steaks, roasts, jerky, sausage.
He never saw his wife again.
He only saw the deer.

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