Warm Broth, Cold Secrets

A single candle flickered in the dusk as Detective Marla Rios stepped onto the front porch of 218 Laurel Glen. The air was unnaturally still—too still. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, sharp and brief, then silence swallowed the sound whole. The mailbox bulged with flyers and unopened letters, a quiet testament to days, maybe weeks, of absence. The porch light above cast long, trembling shadows across the cracked welcome mat, its faint hum the only sound in the creeping dark.

“No one’s seen them since Sunday,” Officer Keller said quietly beside her, his breath visible in the chill. “Neighbor called it in this morning. Said something felt off. Like the house was... holding its breath.”

Marla gave a short nod, her eyes scanning the scene. She’d been on enough of these calls to recognize the subtle shift—when a home stops feeling like a home, when the ordinary twists just enough to unsettle. Something was off. It always was.

She pushed the door open. The lock clicked easily, the door swinging inward on hinges that creaked too softly. The scent hit her immediately—rosemary, thyme, chicken broth. Warm, earthy, and alive. So vivid it made her stomach clench with an odd mixture of comfort and dread.

The entryway opened to a narrow hallway lined with coats on hooks, shoes arranged neatly by the door. Not a thing out of place. Not a sign of hurried departure or forced entry. The eerie stillness here was deeper, unsettling in its perfect order.

Marla stepped further inside, following the scent. The hallway led into the dining room, and she stopped.

A table was set for four.

Bowls of soup gently steamed, their savory aroma curling upward like a warm invitation. Red wine glistened in crystal glasses, candles flickered softly, their flames casting dancing shadows on the polished wood. Bread rolls rested in a woven basket, still warm to the touch. Every detail meticulously arranged, as if waiting for guests who never arrived.

“Did someone beat us here?” Keller’s voice broke the silence.

“Doesn’t look disturbed,” Marla replied, her gaze flickering over the scene. “No signs of a struggle. No broken glass, no overturned chairs. Just... this.” She dipped a finger into a bowl of chicken noodle soup. Warm. Fresh. Impossible.

Her radio crackled suddenly. “Back door’s locked. No signs of forced entry. House is clear.”

Marla’s eyes narrowed. The scene felt staged—too perfect, like a photograph posed for the camera. Something wasn’t right.

She moved into the kitchen. Dishes sat soaking in the sink. A cutting board lay on the counter with a knife and a smear of carrot pulp. The oven was off, but it radiated faint warmth, a heat lingering like a ghost. The fridge hummed softly. She opened it carefully: milk, juice, neatly labeled containers marked “Monday,” “Tuesday,” everything in exact order.

“Check the bedrooms,” she told Keller without looking back.

He nodded and headed upstairs. Marla lingered, eyes catching on a family photo taped to the fridge. A man, a woman, two children smiling under the glow of a sunny afternoon. The woman’s face struck a chord inside her—familiar, but distant. Like a name on the edge of memory she couldn’t quite grasp.

She shook her head, trying to push the feeling away.

Upstairs, the master bedroom was immaculate. The bed made with hospital corners, photos lined up on the dresser—all of them face down. She picked one up carefully. The image was too faded to read, the faces blurred as if forgotten.

In the bathroom, the mirror caught her eye. A long crack sliced through its center like a jagged scar. At one corner, a faint smear of something dark.

Marla leaned closer. Her breath fogged the glass, revealing a chilling message written in condensation:

WE WERE NEVER HERE.

Her throat tightened. She stared, struggling to process the implication.

“Rios,” Keller’s voice called from down the hall, urgent.

She hurried to the children’s room.

Two small beds stood side by side, neatly made. Stuffed animals perched like silent sentinels. Posters of moons and stars lined the walls. A night lamp cast a gentle glow.

But in the corner was something unnatural—a perfectly circular pile of ash. Too neat. Too deliberate.

“What the hell?” Keller whispered.

“Don’t touch it,” Marla snapped, pulling out her phone to photograph it. The shape resembled a nest, fragile and haunting.

Suddenly, a noise downstairs. A creak, faint but unmistakable. A chair scraping softly across the floor.

They froze.

Guns drawn, moving silently, they descended.

The dining room looked the same.

Except—

One chair had been pulled out.

The bowl in front of it was empty.

Rios stared. The spoon was wet. Recently used.

“Someone’s playing with us.”

“Or watching,” she murmured.

Later, in the solitude of her car, Marla reviewed the photos. A gnawing sensation clawed at her memory. The table’s arrangement. The soup’s aroma. The warmth of the scene. It felt too familiar—like déjà vu with no explanation.

She pulled out an old, worn notebook.

Five months ago—another house. Another family. Same setup. Same disappearance. The mirror had read: STAYED.

Three months ago—another house. Another meal. The word: REMEMBER.

She hadn’t remembered. Not until now.

The woman in the photo. The wife.

Marla had seen her before.

Not in person.

Not quite.

In a dream. Or a memory?

Driven by mounting unease, Marla visited the old sites—each house a ghost, blurring into the next. Faces became a haunting collage. Photos looked eerily similar. Soup. Warmth. Vanishing.

She stopped trusting her own memory. Had she been to 218 Laurel Glen before? Was this a loop, a nightmare repeating?

At night, the dreams came—vivid and relentless. A hand reaching for a spoon. Children laughing softly. A woman whispering in her ear, voice like a breeze: “You always forget.”

The next day, Marla sought out Dr. Reeve, a forensic psychologist known for his work on traumatic memory.

“This isn’t just trauma,” she confessed, eyes hollow. “It’s like I’m losing time. Places feel familiar. Details overlap. It’s... like I’m caught between two worlds.”

Dr. Reeve regarded her silently for a long moment. “And the dinner? The soup?”

She nodded. “It smelled like home. Like my mother’s kitchen. Like my own, before everything changed.”

“Before what, Marla?”

She swallowed hard, unable to answer.

He leaned in. “You said the disappearances follow a pattern. Maybe the victims aren’t being pulled into something new. Maybe... you’re being pulled back.”

“Back where?”

“That’s what you need to find out.”

Leaving his office, Marla felt shaken but strangely determined.

She drove out to her childhood home, abandoned and boarded up, swallowed by creeping ivy and shadow. The inside smelled of dust and forgotten years.

But in the kitchen—the scent was there. Not from any food, but memory. Warmth curled around her like a ghostly embrace.

She stared into the cracked mirror above the stove.

Her reflection flickered.

Then changed.

Her younger self appeared, holding a ladle, smiling gently.

“We’ve been waiting,” the reflection whispered.

Marla stumbled back, heart pounding, breath shallow.

That night, sleep fled her. She spread maps and notes across her kitchen table, connecting dots no one else saw. Every house sat on land once owned by the same family—the Elberts. Old money, old secrets. Roots buried deep in the town’s soil.

Local legend spoke of a fire in 1892 that consumed the Elbert estate. The entire family vanished without trace. All that remained was the dinner table—set for four.

Marla returned to 218 Laurel Glen, defying protocol and reason.

The table was set.

She sat down.

This time, the soup was hot.

Steam curled upward, carrying the scent of home.

She lifted the spoon and tasted.

Warmth flooded her senses, pulling memories from the depths.

A dinner table filled with laughter. Her children’s smiles. Her husband’s gentle eyes. Her hands serving soup with love.

Then—

A scream.

Flames licking at curtains.

Glass shattering.

Darkness.

She opened her eyes.

The house was empty.

The bowl was gone.

So was she.

A new detective stood on the porch of 218 Laurel Glen. The porch light flickered overhead. The air held its breath.

“No one’s seen the owner in weeks,” the officer said quietly.

He stepped inside.

The table was set for four.

One bowl was half empty.