My sister begged to stay with us after her sudden eviction. One week later, she left her laptop open on the kitchen island. A folder named ‘Project Home’ caught my eye, so I clicked it and STAGGERED back. It contained detailed blueprints of my house with every exit blocked off. The file title read ‘TOTAL CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL’.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a grand slam breakfast hitting the grill. I felt the blood drain from my face. It pooled somewhere in my non-slip shoes.

I stared at the screen until the pixels started to blur. I saw red lines drawn over the front door and the sliding glass door in the kitchen. There were notes in the margins that just said “SEAL,” “REINFORCE,” and “NO ESCAPE.”

I thought about the last week. Stephanie had been quiet. Too quiet. She spent hours in the basement with the door shut. I assumed she was crying over her breakup or looking for a new apartment. We’ve always been different. I’m the one who serves the food; she’s the one who complains about the service.

Now I pictured her down there sharpening knives. Or mixing concrete to wall us in.

I wanted to grab my husband, Christopher, and run out the front door right then. But Christopher was at work. Stephanie was at the grocery store. I was alone in a house that my own sister was apparently turning into a prison.

I closed the laptop. I wiped my fingerprints off the trackpad with the hem of my apron. I didn’t want her to know I knew. Not yet. I needed to think.

I grabbed my keys and drove straight to the diner. I needed to be somewhere that made sense.

The diner is my sanctuary. It smells like old maple syrup, burnt bacon grease, and that industrial lemon cleaner we use on the countertops. It’s a place of organized chaos. I know exactly where the ketchup bottles go. I know exactly how long to brew the decaf so it doesn’t taste like battery acid.

I walked behind the counter. It wasn’t even my shift, but I needed the routine. I picked up a rag and started wiping down the stainless steel pass-through. The friction felt grounding in my hand.

I scrubbed a stubborn coffee stain near the register. Scrubbed until my shoulder burned.

I moved to the silverware station. I grabbed a handful of forks and started rolling them into napkins. Fold, tuck, roll. Fold, tuck, roll. The repetition usually calms me down, but today my hands were shaking. I dropped a spoon and it clattered loudly on the tile floor, sounding like a gunshot in the empty afternoon lull.

My mind was still racing though. I kept seeing those blueprints. Why would she want to trap us? Stephanie was flighty, sure. She stole my clothes in high school and ruined my credit score once in college. But she wasn’t evil.

Or was she?

You know that feeling when you watch a documentary about a serial killer, and the neighbors always say the same thing? They say, “She was such a nice girl,” or “She was so quiet.” You never think it’s going to be the person who eats cereal at your kitchen table. You never think the monster is the one who borrows your mascara.

I stayed at the diner until the dinner rush started to pick up. I didn’t take any tables. I just refilled salt shakers and stared at the wall. My manager, Brenda, asked if I was okay, and I just told her I had a migraine. A migraine named Stephanie.

When I finally drove home, the sun was setting. The house looked normal from the outside. The siding was still beige. The bushes were still overgrown.

But as I walked up the driveway, I noticed something. There was a weird residue on the garage door frame. It looked like someone had been measuring it with sticky tape.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The house smelled like lasagna. It smelled delicious, which was the scariest part.

— Hey! You’re home late!

Stephanie walked out of the kitchen. She was wearing an apron over one of my old t-shirts. She was smiling. It was a big, bright smile. Too bright.

— Yeah. Late day at the diner.

— I made dinner! Christopher is already washing up.

I looked at her hands. No cuts. No bruises. Just tomato sauce. Or was it? No, definitely tomato sauce.

We sat down to eat. The lasagna was actually good. Usually, Stephanie burns water. This felt like a trap. A last meal before the containment began.

I watched her pour water for Christopher. I watched her cut a piece of bread. Every movement seemed calculated. I gripped my fork so hard my knuckles turned white.

— So, Steph. What did you do today?

I tried to keep my voice steady. I tried to sound like a sister, not an investigator.

— Oh, not much! Just did some research. Planning my next move, you know?

She winked. She actually winked at me.

My stomach churned. I put my fork down. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t sit here and eat cheese and noodles while she planned “Total Containment.” I felt a bead of sweat roll down my back.

— Research? What kind of research?

— Just… business stuff.

— Business stuff involving the house?

Her smile faltered. Just for a second. Her eyes darted to the side, looking at the windows I now knew she planned to seal.

— What do you mean?

— I saw your laptop, Stephanie.

The room went dead silent. The only sound was the refrigerator humming in the corner. Christopher looked back and forth between us, a piece of garlic bread halfway to his mouth.

— You looked at my laptop?

— It was open. I saw the blueprints.

Stephanie’s face turned bright red. She dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the china.

— Michelle! That is private!

— Private? You have the exits blocked off! You have a file called Total Containment! What are you planning to do to us?

I stood up. My chair scraped loudly against the floor. I was ready to fight. I was ready to flip the table. I saw Christopher slowly reach for his steak knife, sensing the danger in my voice.

— I’m not doing anything to you!

— Then why are you sealing the doors?

— It’s for the customers!

I froze. Christopher froze. The air left the room.

— Customers?

Stephanie threw her hands up in the air. She looked exasperated, not homicidal. She looked like she did when we were teenagers and I caught her sneaking out.

— Yes! The customers! I’m starting a business, Michelle! I’m going to be an entrepreneur!

— What kind of business requires sealing my house?

— An Escape Room!

I blinked. I looked at Christopher. He looked just as confused as I was. The tension in my shoulders didn’t leave; it just changed into confusion.

— An Escape Room? Here?

— Yes! It’s brilliant! I was reading about low-overhead startups. People pay like thirty bucks a head to get locked in a room and solve puzzles. We have a basement! It’s perfect!

I sank back into my chair. The adrenaline was leaving my body so fast it made me dizzy. I put my head in my hands. They still smelled faintly of bleach and coffee grounds.

— You want to turn our basement into an Escape Room?

— Not just the basement. The “Total Containment” package uses the living room too. That’s the premium tier. I have to reinforce the exits so they don’t just walk out. It ruins the immersion.

She started talking faster, using her hands to draw in the air. Her eyes lit up with that manic energy she always gets right before a disaster.

— I was going to cut you in on the profits! I’ve been designing the puzzles all week. The theme is “Suburban Psychopath.” It’s very meta.

I rubbed my temples. My head was throbbing. It was the same feeling I got when a customer tried to send back an omelet because it was “too egg-like.”

— Stephanie. You can’t just turn our house into a business. We live here.

— But I need the money! I can’t live on your couch forever!

— You definitely can’t lock strangers in our living room! That’s kidnapping! Or a fire hazard! Or both!

— It’s not kidnapping if they sign a waiver!

— I am not letting you board up my windows!

— It’s temporary! Just for the weekend rush!

I looked at my sister. She was an idiot. A complete and total idiot. But she wasn’t a killer. She was just the same chaotic girl who once tried to sell our parents’ toaster at a lemonade stand.

I felt a laugh bubble up in my chest. It was a hysterical, jagged thing. I started laughing and I couldn’t stop.

— You’re laughing? I’m trying to build an empire here!

— You… you terrified me. I thought you were going to murder us.

— Murder you? Eww. Who would clean that up?

Christopher started laughing too. He grabbed his water glass and downed the rest of it in one gulp. The relief in the room was palpable, heavy and sweet.

— Steph, honey. No Escape Room.

— But the blueprints! I spent hours on Canva!

— No.

— Fine. What about a rage room? We just let people break stuff in the garage?

— absolutely not. Do not touch my husband’s tools.

— You guys are stifling my creativity!

We finished the lasagna. I made her delete the file. I made her promise not to invite strangers over to be locked in our house.

Later that night, I went down to the basement just to check. There were no cages. No chains.

Just a pile of cardboard boxes she had started taping together. On the side of one, written in sharpie, it said: “Do Not Enter – Toxic Waste Zone (Puzzle 3).”

I kicked the box. It was empty.

You have to love family. You really do. Because if you didn’t, you’d change the locks and move to a different state. My sister is still staying with us, but I put a password on the Wi-Fi. And I told her if she wants to start a business, she can start by picking up a shift at the diner.

Sometimes the scariest thing isn’t a monster under the bed. Sometimes it’s just your sister with too much free time and a subscription to an entrepreneur blog. Be careful who you let crash on your couch, and always, always check what they’re planning on their laptop!

If you have a crazy sibling story, drop a Like and make sure to Share this so I know I’m not the only one living in a potential crime scene!