Selling our grandparents’ house wasn’t easy. It had been in the family for as long as I could remember, and the thought of letting go was hard for me. But my sister Megan had made up her mind. After our grandmother passed away, the house felt different to her, like it was suffocating under the weight of too many memories. We agreed to sell it, even though part of me wasn’t ready.

The house itself had character—creaky floors, dim hallways, and plenty of stories hidden in its walls. My grandfather had spent countless hours fixing things around the house. He was the kind of man who never sat still, always tinkering, always building. I learned so much from him, and every time I walked through those halls, I could still hear his voice teaching me how to change a light fixture or fix a leaky faucet.

When the house sold, I thought it was the end of that chapter. But then, a few weeks after the closing, I received a text from the new owners thanking me for an extra set of keys. The problem? I hadn’t left any extra keys. Even stranger, none of the locks in the house matched the keys.

Puzzled, I texted Megan to see if she had left anything behind. Her response shook me: “No, I didn’t. Tell them to leave the house. Now.”

That was when everything changed.