I got the mirror up there and saw a small wooden box sitting on the shelf. It was completely covered in dust except for one clean mark across the top, like someone had recently reached in and moved it. I lowered it carefully and found a name carved into the lid — the same surname as the family who had owned the farmhouse for generations.
Inside were twelve envelopes, each one sealed and dated. The earliest was from 1947. The most recent was dated only six years ago, long after the daughter had supposedly moved to Ohio and the house had been empty. I opened the newest one first, and the letter inside was only three sentences long.
It said the box had been hidden in the chimney because there were things the family couldn’t keep in the house, but couldn’t bring themselves to destroy either. The writer said that if anyone ever found it, they should read the envelopes in order. I started with 1947, and by the third letter I realized these weren’t family memories.
They were records of something that had happened inside that farmhouse — names, dates, payments, and one address that I recognized immediately. It was the address of a house I had swept only two weeks earlier, and the final envelope had one instruction written across it: “Before you read this, find out who owns the chimney now…”
