Grandfather left me a rotten house on the outskirts in his will, and when I stepped inside the house, I was stunned.
I wasn’t expecting much when the lawyer handed me the old brass key.
“To the house your grandfather left you,” he said. “Somewhere in the hills. Elder Ridge, I believe.”
I blinked. “That place still exists?”
The last time I had been to Grandfather’s house, I was six. It was the kind of place you remember through cobwebs and creaky wood. My parents never spoke much about it after we left. Eventually, they passed, and I hadn’t heard from Grandfather since.
Until now.
The letter was short, handwritten in his trembling cursive:
“To my granddaughter Evelyn — the house is yours now. But beware, not all is as it seems.”
At first, I laughed. Then I reread it. That last line stayed with me the entire drive up the winding country road.
When I reached Elder Ridge, the house stood like a forgotten memory — weathered wood, sagging roof, vines creeping up the porch. It was rotting, sure. The shutters hung crooked, and a strange silence blanketed the place like fog. But it was still standing.
I pushed open the front gate. It creaked, of course.
The front door took some effort, the hinges rusted stiff.
Then I stepped inside.
And I froze.
The inside of the house was nothing like the outside.
The moment I crossed the threshold, it was as if I’d stepped into a different world. The floors were polished mahogany, shining under golden lamplight. The walls bore beautiful oil paintings—landscapes, portraits I didn’t recognize. A faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. The furniture was antique but in perfect condition, dust-free and warm, like someone had just plumped the cushions.
I blinked, turned back toward the door, and opened it again.
Outside: the same rotting porch, the overgrown lawn, the broken fence.
I closed it and turned back inside.
Still perfect.
What in the world?
I wandered through the rooms. The kitchen was warm, a fire somehow crackling in the old stove. The kettle steamed gently. I dared to touch a teacup on the counter. Warm. Freshly poured.
There was a note on the table in neat handwriting:
“Welcome home, Evelyn. We’ve been expecting you.”
I stumbled back, the cup clattering.
“We?”
I ran upstairs, half-expecting to see someone — anyone. But no one appeared.
At the top of the stairs, I found Grandfather’s study. The door creaked open easily. His old desk stood exactly as I remembered it. On it was another note:
“The house remembers. The house chooses. And you were chosen.”
I turned slowly, my skin tingling with unease.
I was alone.
But it didn’t feel that way.
That night, I slept in the master bedroom. The sheets smelled of rosemary. The bed was warm and soft, as if someone had tucked me in.
But sleep didn’t come easy. I kept waking to faint whispers—voices just beyond the walls, like people walking in the halls downstairs. I told myself it was just the wind. Or mice. Or the house settling.
At 3:14 a.m., I heard a knock on my door.
Three knocks. Sharp. Deliberate.
I sat up. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
I opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
But at my feet sat a small wooden box. My name carved into the lid.
I took it inside, hands shaking, and opened it.
Inside was a silver locket. I recognized it immediately.
It had belonged to my mother.
She had lost it when I was a child—here, in this very house.
I gasped.
What was happening?
The next morning, I decided to leave.
I packed my bag, rushed down the stairs, and pulled open the front door.
And stopped.
The world outside was… wrong.
The road was gone. The forest loomed thick and endless. The sky had a strange golden hue, like dusk frozen in time. Even the air felt different—warmer, heavier.
I stepped back, heart racing.
The house wouldn’t let me go.
Desperate for answers, I returned to Grandfather’s study and began pulling out drawers. I found notebooks filled with odd diagrams, handwritten symbols, and dated entries about “the house’s choosing,” “time folds,” and “guardianship.”
At the very back of the bottom drawer was a final journal.
The first line read:
“To Evelyn, if you’re reading this, it means the house has accepted you. And now, you must uncover the truth it holds.”
I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor of Grandfather’s study, the journal open in my lap, my heart racing with each word I read.
“The house is alive in a way most cannot comprehend. It exists between layers of time, preserving what would otherwise be lost.”
“Every generation, one member of our bloodline is chosen to be the keeper. You, Evelyn, are next.”
My hands trembled. Grandfather had always been strange—whispers to shadows, midnight walks, long stares into the fireplace. I used to think it was just age creeping in.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
I spent the next few days exploring every room in the house.
Some opened into places that couldn’t exist—like a door under the stairs that led to a sunlit garden with birds I’d never seen before. Or the attic, which seemed to stretch into infinity, filled with memories in jars—glowing softly, whispering faint echoes when opened.
In one corner of the house, I found a sealed door with carvings that pulsed faintly when I touched them. I tried every key, every handle. Nothing worked.
Until one night, I dreamed of my grandfather standing beside that very door.
He whispered, “Use the locket.”
I woke with a start and clutched the locket around my neck. Heart pounding, I approached the sealed door again and pressed the locket into the center carving.
The door creaked open.
Behind it was a staircase, descending deep into the earth.
With only a lantern from the kitchen, I stepped down into what looked like an underground library. Books lined the walls—books older than anything I’d ever seen. And in the center sat a stone pedestal, and on it, a book titled “The Book of Echoes.”
As I opened it, a soft voice filled the room.
It was my grandfather’s voice.
“This house is a vessel. It holds forgotten time. People, memories, lost fragments of the world that need protecting.”
“Once, the world was full of places like this. Safe havens. But time has no mercy. Most faded. This is one of the last.”
I stood frozen, understanding dawning like sunlight.
He had been protecting something far greater than property.
And now… so was I.
That evening, as I sat in the study, the fireplace sparked to life without touch. Shadows danced across the walls. I felt no fear now—only purpose.
The house had called me home for a reason.
But then, something strange happened.
A knock.
At the front door.
It was the first knock I’d heard in days that sounded… real.
I opened it slowly.
A man stood outside—tall, weathered, and dressed in clothes that looked oddly out of time, like a mix of eras. His eyes locked onto mine.
“You’ve activated the house,” he said. “That means it’s open to others… not all of them friendly.”
I blinked. “Who are you?”
“Another guardian. Of another house. Or… what’s left of it.”
He stepped inside, looked around, and gave a slow nod.
“She’s waking up fully now. You’ll need to learn fast.”
Over the next days, he told me things I could hardly believe. About lost realms. Hidden timelines. About how the world once flowed differently—more fluid, more magical—and how certain people, certain homes, kept that memory alive.
But those homes were vanishing.
And creatures—things from forgotten eras—were beginning to seep back into the world, looking for cracks, doors, or guardians too weak to hold the line.
“You’ll be tested, Evelyn,” he warned. “And not just by what’s outside. The house itself has its own will. It’s kind to the worthy. But merciless to those who fail it.”
It all felt so unreal… until the storm came.
Dark clouds boiled across the sky, surrounding the house. The air turned cold. The front windows shuddered as if from an unseen hand.
Then the door burst open.
Shadow figures surged in, tall and shifting, with glowing eyes and no faces. They howled like wind and flame combined.
But the house responded.
Walls shifted. Doors slammed shut behind them. Light spilled from every painting, and symbols burned bright across the floorboards.
And I—I felt something ancient awaken inside me.
Not fear. But power.
I raised my hand and the locket glowed.
The spirits halted.
I stepped forward, whispering words from The Book of Echoes, words I didn’t remember learning but somehow knew by heart.
The intruders screamed, then dissolved into ash, pulled back through the broken windows as the storm died with a whimper.
Silence.
Then… peace.
Afterward, I sat beside the fireplace, the man watching me with a strange smile.
“You’ve done well. Most don’t survive their first breach.”
I stared into the flames. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“No one ever is,” he said. “But you’re chosen. The house knew. Your grandfather knew.”
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “And now, Evelyn Lancaster, you are the last guardian of Elder Ridge.”
The house groaned gently above us, as if approving.
I was no longer just a girl with an old key and a crumbling inheritance.
I was part of something greater.
Something forgotten.
And I would protect it.
No matter what.