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My grandmother di:ed three years ago and left her house to me. Not long after, my father remarried and suddenly decided to move back in. He didn’t ask. He informed me.
“I’m her son,” he said flatly. “That house should’ve gone to me, not you.”
His new wife took things further. She tossed my belongings into trash bags like clutter she couldn’t wait to erase.
“I live here now,” she said with a satisfied smile. “This place needs to meet my standards.”
By the next morning, she was screaming in terror.
I had never heard a sound like that before.
The scream slices through the house at exactly 2:17 a.m.—violent, unhinged, primal. I’m already awake when it happens, my body tight with awareness. I sit up in the dark of my old bedroom, the one they relegated me to as if I were an afterthought, while they claimed the rest of the house room by room.
The shriek comes again. Then hurried footsteps overhead.
Something crashes—wood hitting wood, glass shattering.
Then nothing.
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