When I lifted the panel, there was a narrow cavity underneath the subfloor. It wasn’t part of the original construction. Someone had deliberately created it, then gone to a lot of trouble to make sure nobody would notice. Inside was a plastic container wrapped in an old towel, completely dry despite the dampness around it.
I opened the container and found several envelopes, a small key, and a photograph of my grandmother standing beside my uncle. The strange part was the date written on the back. It was from 2023, two years after my grandmother had died. My uncle had been living in Arizona the entire time, according to everyone in the family.
There was also a handwritten list with names and dates. Some of the names were familiar, but one wasn’t. At the bottom of the list, my grandmother had written a sentence I’d never heard her say: “If he comes back, don’t let him inside.”
I called my uncle immediately. He didn’t answer. I left a message and kept going through the box. Then I found one final envelope addressed to me, with my full name written in my grandmother’s handwriting. Inside was a single photograph of the same living room — taken from the exact spot where I was standing — and written across the back were the words: “You were never supposed to find this until he came looking for it…”
