It started as a simple text from the new homeowners, a message thanking me for an extra set of keys I supposedly left behind in my grandparents’ old house. But there was one problem—I never left any extra keys. The house had been in my family for generations, and when my sister Megan and I decided to sell it, we made sure everything was in order before handing over the keys. Or so I thought.

I’m Emily, and the house in question belonged to my grandparents. It wasn’t just any house—it was the home where my sister and I grew up, filled with memories of family dinners, Christmas mornings, and lazy Sunday afternoons. My grandfather was a quiet man, but he was always busy fixing things around the house, teaching me how to repair faucets or refinish floors. Every corner of that house held a memory, and parting with it was harder than I ever imagined.

My sister Megan, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to sell it. After our grandmother passed away, the house felt heavy to her, like it was holding too many memories, too much grief. She wanted to move on. I wasn’t ready, but I knew she was right—holding onto the past wasn’t going to help us heal.

So we sold it. And that’s when things got strange.

A few weeks after the sale, I got a text from the new owners: “Thanks for the extra keys! But what’s the significance of #1135?”

I stared at my phone, confused. I hadn’t left any extra keys. I replied, asking where they found them. “In a drawer in the kitchen,” they texted back. “But none of the locks match the keys. We tried every door, and nothing works.”

A cold chill ran down my spine. I immediately texted Megan, asking if she had left any extra keys behind. Her response came fast and frantic: “NO. Tell them to get out of the house. NOW.”

That’s when I knew something was seriously wrong.