Yellow Tea

In the hush of an ordinary home, where silence should feel comforting, something begins to stir. A faint murmur drifts from a rarely used bathroom at midnight. Shadows slide across a bedroom ceiling when the branches outside are still. Metallic clangs echo from inside a locked garage. Footsteps circle the driveway in slow, deliberate loops. Warm breaths rustle the bushes at dusk. Laughter—high, mocking, childlike—spills from an empty side yard. These are the small disturbances that invade the lives of ordinary people in Yellow Tea, N L Simpson's haunting yet slyly humorous collection of short stories. Each tale opens a quiet door onto unease: a solitary writer recording whispers that refuse to be captured, a systems analyst watching shapes pulse above his bed, a woman marching to her garage with a baseball bat, a man in an attic office listening for giggles that arrive like clockwork. The protagonists are relatable—thirty-somethings and forty-somethings who live alone or quietly, who value silence, privacy, and routine. They are not ghost hunters or paranormal investigators; they are simply people trying to sleep, work, or exist in spaces that suddenly feel watched. As the disturbances grow bolder—chills that follow from room to room, lights that pulse in irregular heartbeats, footsteps that pause beneath windows—the reader is pulled into the same spiral of doubt: Is this real? Is something here with me? Or am I losing my mind? Yet Simpson never lets the dread become despair. With precise, economical prose and a keen ear for atmosphere, he builds tension masterfully, only to release it in moments of revelation that are as satisfying as they are unexpected. The sources of fear—when finally unmasked—are not supernatural entities or malevolent spirits, but the overlooked mechanics of everyday life: a dripping faucet echoing through old pipes, a loose fan blade casting distorted shadows, a temperature-sensitive toolbox lid rising and falling with the furnace cycle, a forgotten solar-powered garden gnome laughing at the afternoon sun. These twists are never cheap; they feel earned, logical, almost inevitable once seen. What begins as terror ends in rueful laughter and relief—and often a lingering question: How many times have I dismissed something ordinary as nothing… only to wonder later? Yellow Tea is subtle horror at its most intimate: no gore, no jump-scares, no ancient curses. Instead, it explores the thin line between perception and paranoia, the way familiar objects and routines can suddenly seem alive when examined too closely in the dark. The stories are short, sharp, and perfectly paced—ideal for late-night reading when the house is quiet and every creak carries weight. Readers who enjoy the quiet dread of Shirley Jackson, the psychological layering of Paul Tremblay, or the clever domestic unease of modern "cozy horror" will find much to savor here. This is a collection that rewards close attention, that invites you to question your own surroundings long after the final page. Above all, Yellow Tea reminds us that the scariest thing in any home is rarely a monster. Sometimes it's just the house… being a house. And sometimes, that's enough. Prepare to smile at the reveal, then glance toward the hallway anyway. Because even when the explanation arrives, the silence never quite feels the same.