The Red Thread

 Title: The Red Thread

There’s an old superstition in my family about the “Red Thread.” My grandmother used to say that on Valentine’s night, the thread connects people who are meant to be together. Romantic, right? But there’s a darker side to the story that no one likes to talk about.

It starts like this: if you go to bed alone on Valentine’s night, you might wake up with a red thread tied around your pinky finger. The thread is invisible at first, but as the night goes on, it becomes more visible—more real.

No one knows where it leads.

Last year, I found out the hard way that it’s not just a story.

I was single, bitter, and dreading Valentine’s Day. While my friends went to parties and posted their perfect dates online, I stayed home, scrolling my phone until I fell asleep.

When I woke up, the first thing I felt was pressure on my pinky. I sat up and froze.

There was a thread.

Thin and crimson, it looped around my pinky and stretched across the room, disappearing under the door. I stared at it, my heart pounding. It didn’t make sense.

At first, I thought it was some kind of prank. I tried pulling it off, but no matter how hard I tugged, it wouldn’t budge. It didn’t even feel like thread—it felt like it was part of my skin.

I decided to follow it.

I grabbed my phone for light and opened the door. The thread stretched down the hallway, turning the corner toward the stairs. My house was completely silent, but the thread seemed alive—vibrating faintly, like it was leading me somewhere.

My throat tightened.

I followed it down the stairs, through the living room, and into the kitchen. The thread led to the basement door.

I hesitated. The basement always gave me the creeps, even as a kid.

But the thread pulled against my pinky, harder this time. Like it was urging me forward.

The stairs creaked as I descended into the basement. The air was damp and cold, and the smell of mildew was overpowering. My phone’s flashlight barely cut through the darkness, but it was enough to see the thread winding through the room, disappearing into the far corner.

I stepped closer, my hands shaking.

The thread ended at a small wooden box. It was old, the wood splintered and cracked. The moment I touched it, the thread detached from my finger and vanished.

I didn’t want to open the box. Every instinct told me to run, to leave it alone. But something stronger—something hungry—forced my hands to lift the lid.

Inside was a heart.

Not a paper heart, not a Valentine’s decoration. A real, human heart. Fresh, wet, and still beating.

I dropped the box, stumbling backward, but then I heard it.

Breathing.

Slow, rasping, and just behind me.

I spun around, but there was no one there. The basement was empty—except for the faint red glow of another thread.

This one was thicker.

And it was coming toward me.

I ran. I don’t even remember making it back upstairs, but I locked my bedroom door and sat there until sunrise.

The thread was gone the next morning, but I wasn’t safe.

Every Valentine’s night since, I’ve woken up with a thread around my pinky. Each time, it’s redder, stronger, and harder to ignore.

I don’t know what happens when the thread fully pulls me in.

But tonight, it’s not just around my pinky.

It’s tied to my wrist.

And I can feel someone pulling on the other end.

If you see the red thread, don’t follow it. Don’t touch it.

Because once it finds you, it never lets go.