I’ve never believed in magic, curses, or old family superstitions. I’ve always seen myself as practical, sensible, and grounded in logic. But everything changed on the night before my wedding — the night my husband’s grandmother handed me a small glass bottle filled with a shimmering green liquid and told me I had to drink it.
It happened during the pre-wedding gathering at my fiancé’s family home. The air was full of laughter and music, everyone busy decorating, taking pictures, and celebrating. His grandmother sat quietly in an old rocking chair by the window, her silver hair pinned neatly, her hands trembling slightly as she beckoned me over.
“Come here, my dear,” she said softly, her wrinkled fingers closing around something in her lap. When I leaned closer, she held out a tiny bottle sealed with a cork, filled with thick, emerald-green liquid that seemed to glimmer in the light.
“Drink this before your wedding night,” she said firmly. “If you don’t, you’ll never know a single day of happiness.”
I blinked, unsure if she was joking. My fiancé laughed and hugged her.
“Grandma, stop scaring her with those old village myths!” he teased. “You and your potions!”
Everyone laughed — everyone except her. She just looked at me, her expression completely serious. There was something in her eyes — not madness, but warning. I smiled awkwardly, thanked her, and tucked the bottle into my bag, trying to forget about it.
The wedding day was perfect. The ceremony, the music, the joy — everything felt magical. When the last guest left and my new husband fell asleep beside me, I finally had a moment to breathe. That’s when I saw it.
The little bottle.
It was sitting on the nightstand, right beside my bouquet. The cork was slightly loose, and inside, the green liquid seemed to swirl on its own, as though it were alive. My heart started to race. I hadn’t brought it into the room — at least, I didn’t remember doing so.
Curiosity got the better of me. Maybe it was symbolic, I thought — some harmless old ritual for luck. So, I pulled out the cork and let a tiny drop touch my tongue.
It was cold — freezing cold — and carried a sharp, metallic taste that made my lips go numb.
Seconds later, I felt something terrible. My fingers stiffened. My arms grew heavy. I tried to move — but couldn’t. Panic surged through me. I was awake, conscious, and I could feel everything — the bedsheets beneath my skin, the weight of my body, the air on my face — but I couldn’t move a single muscle.
I tried to scream for my husband, but no sound came out. My tongue wouldn’t move. My chest tightened as if invisible hands were pressing against it. My vision blurred, then faded into darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. My husband was asleep beside me, unaware of anything that had happened. My body felt heavy, as though I had been lying there for centuries. Slowly, trembling, I managed to move my fingers, then my arms, until I could finally sit up.
Was it all a nightmare? Hallucination? Or something worse?
Shaking, I got dressed and went downstairs. The grandmother was in the kitchen, calmly pouring herself a cup of tea as though nothing had happened.
“Why did you make me drink that?” I demanded, my voice trembling.
She looked up at me, completely unfazed.
“In our family, every bride drinks that infusion before her first night,” she said. “It keeps the body still for a while. It’s meant to protect you.”
“Protect me?” I whispered. “From what?”
Her eyes darkened. “From those who still walk between this world and the next,” she murmured. “They come for the warmth of the living. The potion stops them from entering your body while you sleep.”
Her tone was so calm — so ordinary — that it made her words even more terrifying.
I stared at her, speechless. My mind wanted to reject everything, to call her insane. But deep down, something inside me — something cold and instinctive — believed her.
That evening, I found the little bottle still sitting on the nightstand. I threw it out the window as far as I could, into the dark garden below. I wanted it gone.
But some nights, when the house is quiet and my husband is fast asleep beside me, I swear I hear a faint clinking sound outside the window — like glass tapping softly against stone.
As if something is waiting to be let in.
