When my grandmother passed away, the reading of her will was straightforward — except for one strange instruction meant for me. Among the sentimental trinkets and an old countryside house she left me, there was a handwritten letter:
“Emma, my dear, whatever you do, burn everything in the attic. Don’t open a single box. Just burn it.”
It was so unlike her. My grandmother had been a kind, gentle woman who loved her history. Why would she want to destroy it?
The day I moved into her house, curiosity gnawed at me. The attic had always been locked when I was a child, and now I had the key. I told myself I’d just take a peek before deciding what to do.
The moment I opened the door, a musty, cold air rushed out. Piles of boxes covered in dust stood in neat rows, almost like soldiers guarding a secret. I reached for the nearest box, opened it — and froze. Inside were dozens of photographs of people I didn’t recognize… but they all had one thing in common: every face had its eyes scratched out.
I felt a chill crawl down my spine. The next box was worse — bundles of letters written in my grandmother’s handwriting, each addressed to a man named “Henry,” full of loving words… and desperate pleas for him to “stop.”
In the third box, I found a small leather journal. The entries revealed a dark family secret: Henry was my grandmother’s brother, who had vanished mysteriously before I was born. He had been involved in crimes — terrible crimes — that had threatened to destroy the family’s reputation. My grandmother had hidden all the evidence in the attic to protect everyone… but feared it could someday resurface.
The final page of the journal stopped my breath:
“If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone. Burn it all, Emma, before his children come looking. They believe he left behind proof of his innocence. He didn’t. He was dangerous. If they find this, they will come for you too.”
At that exact moment, I heard the front door slam downstairs. Heavy footsteps echoed through the house.
I grabbed the journal, ran down the stairs, and slipped out the back door before the footsteps reached the attic. I burned everything that night in the garden — every box, every letter, every photo — just as she’d asked.
As the last flame died, my phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number: “We know you have something that belongs to our father. We’ll be in touch.”
That’s when I understood — ignoring her warning had almost cost me my life.
