My husband forced me to kiss his brother. I didn’t know his brother had been dead for 4 years.

It all began the night my husband asked me to take some food to a lonely room at the end of our hall. No one had ever been in that room since we got married, and he had told me his younger brother was the last person who stayed there.

Whenever I asked about his brother, he would fake a smile and give excuses.

“Are you sure you’re not interested in my younger brother?” he would always tease.

But that wasn’t what scared me. What truly frightened me was that each time I dropped food in that room, by the next day, the plate would be empty.

At first, I thought maybe my husband was the one eating the food. So, one night, I locked our bedroom door and hid the key to make sure he wouldn’t leave while I slept.

The next morning, I woke up to find him still sleeping. The key was right where I kept it.

That meant he didn’t leave the room. Yet, when I went to check the food, it was gone again—only the plate was left.

Confused, I decided to look around the room more carefully. That’s when I noticed a small door in the corner, barely large enough for a person to crawl through.

I took a few steps toward it, but before I could reach it, I heard my husband’s voice behind me.

“Hey, what are you looking for? Babe, just do what I asked you to do,” he said firmly.

I quietly walked out, but instead of following me, he shut the main door and stayed inside.

Something told me to eavesdrop. When I leaned closer, I heard him whisper, “I will fulfill my promise to you… just hold on a little.”

I didn’t know who he was talking to or what promise he meant, but I convinced myself he was probably on the phone with a business partner.

Two weeks later, when I returned from the market, I saw a strange young man—probably in his early twenties—sitting in our living room.

“Our wife, welcome! Let me help you,” he said, rushing over to assist me.

I froze. Before I could speak, my husband came out of the room and said, “That’s my younger brother I’ve been telling you about.”

I wanted to doubt it, but the resemblance was clear.

A few hours later, while I was in the kitchen recording myself cooking for my blog, I asked him to pass me the salt. He did—but strangely, he avoided being seen on camera. He told me to stretch my hand out to take it instead. I hesitated, but as I reached out, I saw something in the camera’s reflection when he leaned closer.

On my phone’s screen, the hand passing me the salt shaker… it was translucent. I could faintly see the spice rack on the wall through his fingers.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I quickly stopped recording, pretending nothing was wrong, and took the salt. He smiled, a strange smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and retreated.

From that day on, I watched him. The “brother” never ate with us, claiming he preferred to eat in his room. He avoided every mirror in the house. And the most terrifying part: even with him here, my husband still made me take a plate of food to that lonely room at the end of the hall.

And every morning, the plate was still licked clean.

The tension broke on Friday night. My husband was agitated, drinking heavily.

“You know,” he slurred, “my brother… poor soul. He was never truly loved. He needs… he needs a release.”

“Release? What are you talking about?” I asked, backing away.

“I PROMISED HIM!” my husband suddenly roared, lunging for me. He dragged me into the living room, where the “brother” stood waiting, motionless, watching us with empty eyes.

“Kiss him,” my husband hissed, his voice cracked with madness. “You have to kiss him goodbye. It’s the only way to fulfill the promise!”

“No! Are you insane!” I screamed, trying to fight him off.

But he was stronger. He clamped his hand behind my neck, forcing my face toward the young man. I squeezed my eyes shut, choking on a sob of despair.

And then, my lips touched something.

It wasn’t flesh. It was ice. A chilling, penetrating cold that smelled of damp earth and decay, making me gag.

I screamed and shoved with all my might. My husband fell to the floor.

When I opened my eyes, the “brother” was smiling at me. Then, slowly, his form began to dissolve like smoke, wafting into the air until nothing was left.

My husband was crumpled on the floor, sobbing hysterically. “I had to… I promised…”

Trembling uncontrollably, I ran to our bedroom. I had to know the truth. I ripped open his laptop and searched. Finally, I found a cached local news article. An obituary.

It was his brother. The photo matched the man I just saw. The date of death: Four years ago.

I felt the blood drain from my face. If his brother was dead… what had I just kissed? And what promise had my husband made to a dead man?

I walked back to the lonely room at the end of the hall. The plate of food I had left there last night was still there. For the first time since I’d lived in this house, the food was untouched.

A dreadful realization hit me. The food was never for the brother. The promise… wasn’t for him, either.

I stared at the small, low door in the corner, the one my husband had forbidden me from approaching.

And then I heard it.

From inside that small door, a faint whisper slithered out, a voice as dry as ancient parchment: “The food… is not enough… The promise… is not yet kept.”

My body went rigid. That was not the brother’s voice. It wasn’t my husband’s. It was something… other.

I stumbled backward, slamming the door, and ran to the living room. My husband was no longer sobbing. He was sitting, rocking back and forth, muttering.

“What,” I demanded, my voice shaking, “is in that room?”

He snapped his head up. His eyes were red, not from grief, but from pure, abject terror. “He’s gone,” he whispered. “My brother. You freed him.”

“Freed him?” I shrieked. “I saw the obituary! He died four years ago! WHAT DID I KISS?”

“A trapped soul!” my husband screamed, scrambling to his feet. “He couldn’t move on! He broke the promise!”

“What promise? What is in that room? What just spoke to me?” I yelled, grabbing a heavy glass vase for a weapon.

My husband let out a broken, insane laugh. “You think I told you to bring food for my brother? You think a ghost could eat that much every single night?”

He pointed down the hall. “My family… we have a debt. An old arrangement. Our ancestors promised… to ‘feed’ it. In exchange… for prosperity.”

“Feed… it?”

“My brother,” he choked out, “he was supposed to be the next ‘caretaker.’ But he was weak. He couldn’t stand it. He tried to run… and he died in that room. He broke the promise.”

“And because he died,” he continued, his voice shattering, “his spirit was held captive by it. A sentinel. Trapped. He couldn’t be free… until I found a replacement.”

A cold, sick understanding washed over me. “You… you traded me… for your brother’s soul?”

“I love you!” he wept, stumbling toward me. “I thought I could control it! I thought the food would be enough… but it’s been getting hungrier. It wanted more. It wanted a new, living caretaker. It wanted you!”

I stood paralyzed. The kiss wasn’t a goodbye. It was a contract.

As if to confirm his words, a sound echoed from the end of the hall.

SCRAPE.

A heavy, dry scratching, coming from the other side of the lonely room’s door.

SCRAPE. SCRAPE.

My husband collapsed, clapping his hands over his ears. “No… no… it never comes out… it’s not allowed to come out…”

The dry, ancient whisper I heard before now boomed through the hallway, no longer weak, but filled with authority and an ancient, gnawing hunger.

“THE PROMISE MUST BE KEPT.”

I pictured the small door in the corner of that room. I realized the horrible truth: I never set the food by the main door. I always set it right in front of… the small one.

SCREEEEEECH…

Another sound cut through the scraping. The sound of rusty hinges moving.

The small door… was opening.

It wasn’t locked from the outside. It was being opened… from within.

“It’s out!” my husband shrieked, his voice pitching into madness. “It knows you’re here! It knows the new caretaker has arrived!”

I stood frozen, trapped between my insane husband and the encroaching darkness. The small door was opening, revealing a sliver of absolute, impenetrable black. And from that sliver, a blast of arctic air, smelling of millennia-old dust and an insatiable, waiting hunger, washed over me.