My older brother gives me tea every night and tells me it will help me sleep. At first, I thought it was just a comforting ritual, a little gesture of care after Mom died. But one night, I pretended to drink it—and what I discovered changed everything I thought I knew about my brother, our house, and even my mother’s past.
Ever since Mom passed away, Daniel had changed. His smile became colder, more deliberate, and his footsteps, once loud and careless, became almost soundless. Our house—the huge old house where we grew up—felt different. Shadows seemed longer, corners darker, and the air heavier, as if the house itself were watching me. I tried to tell myself that I was imagining things. I told myself it was normal to feel alone after Mom died. But then came the cups of tea, the dizziness, the nights when sleep came too easily, too quickly, leaving me groggy and confused in the morning. There were mornings when I couldn’t remember what I had dreamed, mornings when it felt like pieces of my life had gone missing. Every night, Daniel brought the tea. Every night, I drank. Every night, I woke with a vague sense of unease, as if something important had slipped through my mind while I slept.
One night, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I poured the tea, holding it in my hands while Daniel watched, smiling that familiar smile that had started to feel foreign. But this time, I didn’t drink it. I pretended. I blew on the steaming cup, sipped it, and set it down. Then I waited. Daniel’s eyes lingered on me. His smile didn’t falter. But I noticed a tremor in his hand as he turned away. That was when I saw it—just for a moment—a tiny vial he had slipped from his pocket and dropped into the cup when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“It’s just valerian,” he said softly, his voice unusually steady, as if he were convincing himself. I pretended to believe him, pretending my body was giving in to the sleepiness I had felt every night. My heart pounded like a drum against my chest, echoing in the silent house.
I knew then that the tea was not what it seemed. Something was being hidden from me—something Daniel didn’t want me to know. But what? And why? I waited until he went to bed and then crept into the hallway, listening for any noise. The house felt like a maze of whispers and shadows. I noticed small things that had escaped my attention before: scratches in the wooden floorboards near the staircase that didn’t match the patterns of normal wear and tear, tiny scratches along the walls, almost like claw marks, and faint, strange smells—metallic, earthy, and faintly sweet, like soil in an old crypt. Then there was the basement. Daniel had never allowed me to go down there. Ever since Mom died, he had locked it, claiming it was “too dangerous” for me. But something told me the truth was down there, and that the secret of the tea and his strange behavior was tied to it.
The next night, I pretended to drink the tea again. My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the cup, but Daniel didn’t notice. He went about his routine: checking my window, making sure the lights were out, whispering the same words he always did: “Sleep well… it’ll help you.” At nine o’clock sharp, he went to check on me. I followed him silently, staying just out of sight. He moved toward the basement door, a key in his hand, and muttered something I couldn’t catch. I waited until he descended the steps, then I slipped in after him.
