AnnaMaria
Before my wedding, my future husband’s grandmother handed me a small glass vial filled with a glowing green liquid. Her wrinkled fingers trembled slightly as she pressed it into my palm, her cloudy eyes fixed on mine with unsettling intensity. “Drink this before your wedding night,” she said, her voice low, almost like a whisper meant for no one else to hear. “If you don’t, child, you won’t have a single happy day in your life.”
I stood frozen, the little bottle warm from her touch. At first, I thought she was joking—a strange old superstition from another time. My fiancé, Mark, laughed it off immediately, shaking his head with amusement. “Grandma, please,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You’re scaring her. We don’t do that anymore.”
But the old woman didn’t laugh. She just looked at me, eyes sharp as glass. “Customs die hard, dear. Some things are better left unquestioned.”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh, shudder, or politely excuse myself. The room around us was filled with music and laughter, guests clinking glasses, and the soft hum of wedding preparations. But for some reason, her words clung to me like smoke.
That night, as I lay in bed thinking about the upcoming ceremony, my thoughts kept circling back to that strange vial. What did she mean by “you won’t have a single happy day”? Was it just folklore, or had she truly meant it?
The wedding came and went like a dream. The music, the flowers, the dress—it was everything I’d ever imagined. We laughed, we danced, and when we finally returned to our hotel suite, I felt like the happiest woman alive.
Until I saw it.
The vial. Sitting right there on the nightstand beside the bouquet of wilted roses. I hadn’t brought it, and I was sure I’d left it back at Mark’s family home. But there it was, the lid slightly ajar, the green liquid shimmering faintly even under the dim lamp.
My heart skipped a beat. I picked it up carefully. The scent was sharp, metallic, with a hint of herbs. Maybe it was just some harmless family ritual, I told myself—an herbal tonic, perhaps. Something symbolic, like champagne for good luck.
Curiosity won over caution. I uncorked it, lifted it to my lips, and took a sip.
The taste was bitter, cold, almost icy as it slid down my throat. I grimaced, waiting for something to happen, half expecting nothing at all. But within minutes, my entire body began to feel heavy, strange, disconnected.
At first, it was mild—my fingertips tingled, and my breathing slowed. Then, the sensation spread, creeping through my limbs until I could barely move. Panic surged through me as I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey. My tongue felt like stone. I could see, hear, and feel everything—but my body no longer belonged to me.
“Mark…” I tried to whisper, but only a faint rasp escaped. My husband, already half-asleep beside me, didn’t stir. My mind screamed, but my voice was gone.
The room tilted. My vision swirled with light and shadow. For what felt like hours, I lay trapped inside my own body—conscious, aware, but completely paralyzed. It was the most terrifying experience of my life.
When morning came, I felt a rush of air as my lungs began to work again. My fingers twitched. My legs trembled as I managed to sit up. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, making the vial on the nightstand glimmer faintly like an eye watching me.
I stumbled out of bed, clutching it tightly. I needed answers.
When we returned from our honeymoon, I went straight to Mark’s grandmother. She was sitting on the porch, knitting, as calm as if she’d been expecting me.
“What did you give me?” I demanded.
Her eyes didn’t waver. “I told you to drink it before the wedding night. You did, didn’t you?”
“Yes—but what was it? I couldn’t move! I thought I was dying!”
She sighed, as though explaining something to a stubborn child. “It’s an old custom. Every woman in our family drinks that potion before her wedding night. It’s made from herbs that calm the body, stop the senses. It prepares you to pass from one life into another—single to married. It protects you from pain, from fear. You weren’t supposed to fight it.”
My skin crawled. “Protect me? You call that protection?”
She looked up then, her eyes suddenly glinting with something darker. “You wouldn’t understand yet. But you will. Soon.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. Her words echoed in my head. What kind of tradition rendered a woman paralyzed, helpless, on the night she was supposed to begin a new chapter of her life?
Days passed, but the unease didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger. Sometimes, I’d wake in the middle of the night feeling that same cold sensation creep back into my arms. My heart would race, but my body refused to respond. It always passed after a few minutes—but each time, it lasted longer.
I began to notice strange things around the house, too. The vial, which I had hidden deep inside a drawer, would sometimes reappear—on the dresser, by the sink, even in my purse. Mark said I was imagining it, that I was just tired from adjusting to married life.
But one night, I found him talking quietly on the phone, his voice low.
“…Yes, she drank it,” he said. “…No, she doesn’t remember much. She thinks it was just herbs.”
My blood ran cold.
When I confronted him, he looked genuinely frightened. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he said softly. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it, Mark?” I snapped. “What’s in that bottle? Why won’t your grandmother tell me the truth?”
He hesitated, eyes darting toward the door. “It’s… tradition,” he said finally. “It’s been in our family for generations. The women take it before their wedding night. It’s supposed to ensure loyalty—connection. It binds you to the family in a way that can’t be broken.”
“Binds me?” I repeated. “Like a curse?”
He didn’t answer.
The more I pressed, the more distant he became. Soon, I started feeling strange again—dizzy, disoriented, like something inside me was shifting. My reflection in the mirror looked pale, almost translucent. My heart would race without warning, and sometimes I’d wake with faint green stains on my wrists, the same shade as the liquid.
I went back to the grandmother one last time, desperate for the truth.
She met me with a faint smile. “You’re part of us now,” she said simply. “There’s no undoing it. The potion was meant to keep you safe—to keep you here.”
“Safe from what?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
After that, I began researching. I found records of similar “family rituals” in rural parts of Europe—strange potions used in weddings, said to contain plants that induce paralysis, hallucinations, even trance-like states. But one account caught my eye: the so-called “Binding Herb,” used by old families to “tie the soul of a woman to her husband’s bloodline.”
It sounded insane, yet everything matched—right down to the green hue.
The next morning, the vial was gone. Every trace of it had vanished.
Sometimes, I still wake in the night, unable to move, feeling that icy numbness creeping over me again. And when I look toward the doorway, I swear I can see her—his grandmother—standing there, just smiling.
I’ve stopped telling people about it. Who would believe me, anyway?
But every now and then, when the air turns cold and I catch a faint metallic taste on my tongue, I know it’s happening again. And I remember her words:
“If you don’t drink it, you won’t have a single happy day in your life.”
I drank it. And now I understand—she wasn’t warning me.
She was claiming me.
