It was a night like any other, or so I thought. The clock had just struck 11:30 PM, and I was in the kitchen brewing my wife her final cup of tea for the night. She always had a cup before bed—something that had become a ritual in our home. She would sit in her favorite chair, gaze out the window, and sip the warm brew while whispering her thoughts into the still air. Tonight, though, felt different.
As I stirred the sugar into the steaming cup, I noticed the sound of the wind outside. It howled unnaturally, making the house creak and groan as if it were alive. I tried to shake off the feeling, telling myself it was just the weather. But a sudden chill ran down my spine as I turned to walk toward the living room.
My wife was already sitting in her chair, as always. But something was off. Her posture was stiff, too still, almost frozen. The light in the room seemed dimmer, casting shadows in the corners that danced like dark figures. I called out her name softly. No response.
I approached her slowly, the cup of tea trembling slightly in my hands. “Here’s your tea,” I said, trying to sound calm, but my voice wavered. Still, no response.
I placed the cup on the small table beside her and touched her shoulder. Cold. Ice cold. Panic surged through me as I turned her face toward me. Her eyes… they were wide open, staring blankly into the darkness. Lifeless. I stumbled back, heart racing.
How could this be? I had just spoken to her moments before I went to make the tea. Had something happened in that brief time? My mind raced as I grabbed her wrist, searching for a pulse. Nothing.
And then, the teacup. It began to rattle on the table, as if something unseen was shaking it. My eyes darted back to my wife. Her lips, still parted, whispered something faintly. I leaned closer, terror gripping me.
“One last cup…” she rasped. Her voice was hollow, a voice that no longer belonged to her.
I stumbled back, crashing into the wall behind me. The tea, untouched, sat in the cup, but the liquid inside began to swirl violently on its own. The shadows in the room stretched, growing longer, darker. I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate—approaching from the hallway. But no one was there.
The last thing I remember was the sound of the teacup shattering on the floor, and then everything went black.
When I woke up, the house was silent. The chair was empty. My wife… she was gone. The only trace of her was the shattered cup and the lingering scent of tea in the air. But I knew, deep down, she hadn’t left. Not entirely.
She was waiting for the next cup.