Megan loved her new house. It wasn’t perfect—creaky floors, drafty windows, a little too much space for one person—but it felt like a fresh start. She moved in with only her dog, Max, a loyal golden retriever who had never given her reason to worry.
That’s why, on her third night in the house, she couldn’t explain his behavior.
Max began pacing, whining, and then barking—loud, frantic barks that echoed through the halls. At first, Megan thought someone was outside. But then she realized he was staring at a door.
The closet at the end of the hallway.
Max planted himself in front of the closet, ears back, teeth bared. His barking grew so fierce that Megan’s skin prickled. She tried coaxing him away, even offering treats, but he refused to budge.
“It’s empty,” she muttered nervously. She had opened it before—just a coat rack, a shelf, and dust. Nothing unusual.
But tonight, Max acted as if something unseen was lurking inside.
Her heart hammered as she reached for the knob. Every instinct told her to leave it closed, but the barking was unbearable—and her curiosity stronger than her fear.
Slowly, she pulled the door open.
At first, it looked the same: coats hanging limply, shoes scattered on the floor. But then she noticed something. The coats swayed gently, as though someone had brushed past them. The air was colder inside than in the rest of the house.
Max growled, low and guttural. His eyes followed the shadows near the back wall.
Megan stepped closer and gasped. Behind the coats, the wall didn’t look right. She pushed the clothes aside, revealing a small, square panel—slightly ajar. Her fingers shook as she tugged it open.
Inside was a narrow crawl space. Dust swirled as she shined her phone’s flashlight inside. And there, wedged in the corner, was a small wooden box.
Her breath caught as she pulled it out. The box was old, its hinges rusted, its surface carved with strange initials. Inside were letters—dozens of them—yellowed with age. She unfolded one and felt her stomach twist.
They were written by a woman begging for help. The last one ended abruptly with the words: “If anyone finds this, know that I am not safe here…”
Megan’s knees weakened. Max pressed against her leg, still trembling, as though he had known all along that something was wrong.
The house wasn’t just old. It carried secrets buried in its walls—secrets no one had warned her about.
She locked the closet door that night and sat awake until dawn, the letters spread across her table. The dog had led her to a story of someone forgotten… and now Megan couldn’t shake the feeling that whoever had written those words might still be waiting to be heard.
