I Discovered Family Videos That Shouldn’t Exist

My brother passed away when I was seven. He was thirteen, and he drowned in the lake just a few streets from our house.

My parents never dared enter his room afterward. They tried once, but it was too much. So the door remained closed, untouched. Over time, the room became like a shrine to him—frozen in the past.

Eleven years later, nothing had changed. This morning, as I was packing for college, I finally decided to step inside. Nothing dramatic—just to grab a few hoodies, maybe a small keepsake to take with me. Something to hold onto when I missed home.

I’d been in that room plenty of times before. Sat on the bed, glanced at the shelves. But I had never really searched, dug into drawers. That felt wrong. Today, though, I was just looking for a small piece of him.

I didn’t expect to find anything unusual. Yet, at the bottom of a drawer in his dresser, I discovered a stack of DVDs—three of them, labeled 1, 2, and 3.

The only DVD player in the house still sat by his old TV. Everything else went digital years ago. I debated leaving them alone. They weren’t mine. They shouldn’t matter. But that night, I felt drawn back. A tug in my chest I couldn’t ignore.

I crept down the hall, slipped into his room, and locked the door. The first disc went into the player.

Static filled the screen, then slowly the image sharpened. The room flickered, but something was off. The furniture was distorted—too large, too small. Shadows moved unnaturally, not matching the voices in the background.

There were voices. Familiar ones—laughter, clinking dishes, my mom calling my brother’s name. His laugh echoed, reverberating in my skull. Then came another voice—low, deliberate, almost whispering:

“You haven’t noticed yet.”

The video cut off abruptly.

I tried to replay it, desperate to hear him again, but the voice seemed to linger, separate from the recording. It was like it spoke directly to me.

Each frame was a disorienting mix of familiarity and wrongness. Walls that were too narrow. Colors washed out. Rooms that almost looked real but not quite. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting.

Then I froze the frame just before he laughed. In the corner, a faint yellow caption appeared:

July 30, 2015.

Seven months after my brother’s death. I forced myself to rationalize it—a glitch, a timestamp error—but panic rose anyway. I pressed play again. His laughter filled the room, a bittersweet mix of comfort and grief.

And then the voice returned. Closer this time, wet and broken, cutting in and out:

“You noticed.”

I yanked the DVD out and threw it across the room. My hands shook uncontrollably.

I hid under my covers, trying to convince myself it was nothing, but the videos seemed to pull at me, unfinished, demanding attention. I couldn’t sleep.

The rain started. The faucet in the bathroom dripped, louder than usual, echoing like footsteps in the darkness.