The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Whispering Brew   
by Kathleen McCluskey

When Aiko inherited the teahouse, the deed came with no key and a single note in her grandmother’s handwriting, Never serve what grows beneath the floor.

The building had once been a zen monastery, long before the war and the weather had hollowed it out. Her grandmother restored it decades ago and quietly built a reputation for serving rare teas to those who craved silence. The locals said that she could brew peace into a cup.

After the funeral Aiko returned to the teahouse with the intention of honoring tradition. Dust clung to the tatami. The kettle was cold. But the air held the scent of barley and old paper, like something had just been steeped. She began cleaning and clearing the space, sifting through boxes of dried herbs and jars sealed with wax.

That’s when she found a scroll, hidden in the back of the drawer. It contained a single recipe, Shizukesa, or Stillness and a box of dried flowers she did not recognize. They were curled white petals and black stems, brittle but fragrant. There was a note with them, it didn’t list measurements, only two phrases. For those who still listen. Only serve the Stillness to those who seek it.

Curious, Aiko brewed the tea in a blackened iron pot. The aroma was oddly cold, like winter air steeped in Chamomile. The ingredients were simple enough, barley, plum, Chrysanthemum and one of the strange white flowers. She brewed it alone that evening, letting the aroma seep into her skin. When she drank, the room around her seemed to hush. Not just the sounds, everything. Her heart slowed. Her mind softened. Grief retreated. In every way, a perfect silence.

She opened the teahouse the next week.

The first quests came cautiously. Most were older. Widows, monks, women with empty hearts where children’s clothes used to hang. They drank the tea and sat for hours in contented silence. Oftentimes weeping. Others bowed deeply. One man whispered, “I heard her voice again.”

Business grew, so did the whispers. They called it  “ghost tea”.” People traveled for it, describing its power like a drug. Aiko served it without question. Always with respect.

Until the woman in the red shawl.

She drank too quickly. Gulped it down like she hadn’t tasted water in weeks. At first, she smiled. Then she laughed. Her laughter sharpened into something wet and strangled. She dropped to her knees holding her temples. “They’re inside the petals.” Blood bloomed from her nose and ran down her chest. When Aiko tried to help, the woman shoved her and ran barefoot into the night.

After that, Aiko stopped serving Shizukesa, but the flower kept appearing. Beneath the kettle. Inside the water jar. Sprouting fresh from a crack in the wood.

Then, one night after she had closed, the woman with the red shawl returned.

Aiko awoke to the sound of crying and found her sitting in the middle of the teahouse. Naked. Her skin slick with moisture. Her body had changed, lumps moving under her flesh like something alive underneath. Thin vines had pushed through her collarbone and spine, white flowers blooming from her arms and the side of her neck. Her eyes were black, her pupils blooming outward with inky vines.

“They gave me peace,” she said, more of a chorus of whispers. “I was not ready.”

As Aiko stepped back, she felt something shift inside of her own chest, like a second heartbeat. The room filled with the scent of the flower: soil, rain and bone. The dead woman’s vines curled toward her. Not to harm, just curious. They reached in recognition, humming slightly.

The tea set was already placed for her, cups filled on their own. Aiko understood. She hadn’t just inherited a building, she was the blood heir. Her grandmother had made a pact with something far more ancient than gods and demons. The roots of the Stillness ran far deeper, beneath the crust and down to the soul of the planet. It was not meant to soothe the grieving, it was meant to feed on their sorrow.

Aiko felt warmth at the base of her skull as the first flower pushed through. She didn’t cry out. Her fingers twitched but she didn’t resist. She turned and started the kettle for the next set of guests that were walking up the mountain.

The white flowers coiled over the bloodstained floor like gentle hands, pulling the gore and torn flesh back into the cracks of the tatami, as if cleaning up after a guest.

Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

More from Kathleen McCluskey:

The Long Fall: Book 1: The Inception of Horror

Lucifer always cunning and intelligent challenges father to a battle of wits. Being the angel of light he casts a judgemental eye upon mankind. He begins a war with his fellow archangels and God. Michael, along with his siblings defend their home and mankind from their deranged brother. Broad swords and hand to hand combat drench heaven in blood. The four apocalyptic steeds are released, each having their own destructive power. Betrayal and lust are at biblical levels. Understand the very creation of evil and the consequenses that transpire in the first of THE LONG FALL series.

Available on Amazon!