It all started on a quiet autumn evening. Alex came home from work tired, irritated, and hungry. The rain was tapping against the window, and the empty fridge greeted him with its dim light and echoing shelves. The only thing he found was a small plastic container labeled “Homemade food. Do not open.”
He didn’t remember ever buying or bringing it home. Maybe his neighbor left it there by mistake? Or perhaps his mother had dropped by while he was at work? Curiosity, stronger than caution, pushed him to peel off the lid.
Inside was something that looked like beef stew — thick sauce, potatoes, and tender-looking chunks of meat. The smell was unbelievably good, rich and spicy, like something from an expensive restaurant. His stomach growled. Without thinking twice, Alex heated it up and ate every last bite.
An hour later, he woke up on the bathroom floor. Cold sweat covered his body, his stomach twisting in unbearable pain. He vomited violently — and that’s when the nightmare began.
Among the half-digested food, something metallic clinked against the porcelain sink. At first, he thought it was a coin. But when he looked closer, his heart stopped. It was a small silver ring — delicate, feminine, engraved with a name: Elena.
Alex froze. That was the name of his ex-girlfriend who had disappeared two years ago. The police never found her.
Hands trembling, he washed the ring and stared at it under the light. The engraving was unmistakable. It was her ring — the one she wore every single day, even after they broke up.
Suddenly, fragments of the past flooded back. The night she came over, the argument, the shouting, the way she said, “You’ll regret this.” He had blacked out after too many drinks and woke up the next morning to an empty house and a note saying only: “Goodbye.”
For two years, he told himself she had just left town. But now, with the ring lying in the sink and the taste of that “homemade stew” still lingering in his mouth, another possibility began to claw at his mind — one too horrifying to believe.
He stumbled back into the kitchen, opened the trash bin, and pulled out the empty container. There was no brand, no barcode, no expiry date — just a faint smell of metal and something else… something rotten.
A knock at the door made him jump. When he opened it, a delivery man stood there with another identical container in his hands.
“Delivery for Alex Ivanov,” the man said flatly.
“I didn’t order anything,” Alex whispered, his voice shaking.
The man shrugged. “It’s already paid for. Same as before.”
Alex looked down at the container — the same label, the same warning:
“Homemade food. Do not open.”
And this time, underneath the sticker, barely visible, were two new words written in red marker:
“We warned you.”
