I Was Hired to Watch a Dead Man’s House

They told me he’d been dead for three years.

The listing was bizarre from the start: “Caretaker needed. One-month contract. Must stay overnight. No cleaning, no errands. Just stay. $10,000 upfront.”

I thought it was a scam. But the money was wired before I even signed the contract. The lawyer who handled it wore a gray suit and a face like wet cardboard. Said the client — Mr. Alton Graves — had left behind a very specific will. Someone must be in the house at all times. No cameras. No phones. No guests.

All I had to do was exist in that house.

I took the job.

Graves’ mansion sat on the edge of a forgotten cliffside, where the wind screamed like it was mourning. It was grand, empty, and cold. Every night, I lit a fire. Every morning, I checked the locks. I didn’t ask questions.

Until the third night.

That’s when the piano played by itself.

I was upstairs, brushing my teeth. The first note rang out like a memory. A slow, somber tune. At first I thought it was the wind. But wind doesn’t press ivory keys with such… grief.

I crept down the staircase. The piano in the west wing stopped as I entered. Silence like a breath held too long. I checked every room. Nothing.

The next morning, the lawyer called. He didn’t ask about the piano. Just said, “You’re doing great. Only 27 nights to go.”

I should’ve left. But curiosity shackled me.

The following nights escalated. Footsteps above me, even though I was on the top floor. Books rearranged themselves. The mirrors fogged up with words: “STAY”, “DON’T LEAVE”, “SHE’S HERE.”

I stopped sleeping.

On the tenth night, I found the hidden room.

The fireplace had a loose brick. Behind it, a narrow passage. It led downward — deeper than any basement should go. The walls were lined with paintings. Hundreds. Each one with the same man — Mr. Graves — but his expression changed. From pride. To fear. To rage.

At the bottom was a steel door.

I didn’t open it.

I should have.

Instead, I returned to the living room and sat, shaking, until the fire died out. At midnight, I heard two knocks from below.

Not from the door. From under the floor.

That’s when I realized: Graves was still here.

Not alive. Not dead. Just… here.

His will wasn’t about protecting the house. It was about containing something inside it.

Me.

I tried to leave.

The front door wouldn’t open. Not jammed — just wrong. The handle twisted endlessly, like the house itself refused my exit. My phone was dead. Windows wouldn’t break. The house began to groan, as if waking from a long, terrible dream.

On the fifteenth night, I screamed into the dark.

And someone screamed back.

A woman.

She said her name was Miriam.

She had been the first caretaker. Five years ago.

“No one remembers me,” she whispered through the wall. “No one can. When the house takes you, it rewrites you. It eats you.”

I wept.

She sang lullabies at night, to keep the house from whispering. She taught me how to make the floors creak the wrong way, so it wouldn’t notice me walking. We became shadows together.

But shadows fade.

On the twentieth night, Miriam was gone. Her room — empty. The sheets — cold. And on her mirror: “One must stay.”

I understood then.

The contract wasn’t about watching the house.

It was about replacing someone else.

On the twenty-seventh night, I saw the man in the painting blink.

On the thirtieth, the lawyer returned. Same cardboard face. Same monotone voice.

“You did well,” he said. “You may leave.”

The door opened like it had never been locked.

I ran.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the city.

But no one remembered me. My apartment was leased to someone else. My bank account was gone. My name returned zero results online. It was like I’d been erased.

Then a new listing appeared.

“Caretaker needed. One-month contract. No cleaning. Just stay. $10,000 upfront.”

I stared at the address.

My old apartment.

That’s when I realized: I never left the house.

The world I escaped into? It isn’t real.

I’m still in there.

And if you’re reading this…

Don’t answer the listing.