While the family was celebrating my grandmother’s 85th birthday, my husband suddenly leaned toward my ear and whispered, “Grab your bag. We’re leaving. Don’t ask, don’t do anything strange.” I thought he was overreacting… until we got into the car and he locked the doors, his voice shaking: “There is something very, very wrong inside that house.” Ten minutes later, I called the police—and what was discovered sent my entire family into panic.

# **“There’s Something in That House”**

### *A 2,000-word thriller short story*

I’ve never forgotten that moment — the moment when **every truth about my family** collapsed like a tablecloth ripped from a magician’s hands.

My grandmother, Eleanor Banks**’s 85th birthday took place in the same place she’d lived for the past 60 years:
**The old blue-gray wooden house** on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina — where I grew up, where my family had eaten Thanksgiving, Christmas, every big and small dinner.

For the first time in years, **all the children and grandchildren were there**.

Laughter, clinking glasses, the old jazz that Grandma always played at family reunions.

Everything was perfect… until my husband walked in.

He leaned close to my ear.

His voice was low, tight, so tense that it froze me:

**“Grab your bag. We’re leaving. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”**

I looked at him, dumbfounded.

He never spoke like that. And his eyes… were really scary.

I was about to ask, “What’s going on?”, but he shook his head.

Just a shake of his head, but it was like an order:

**Go.**

I did it. Unconsciously.

As if my body knew there was something in that house… that I didn’t want to know.

—

## **Leave the party**

We lied and said I had a stomachache.

My mother frowned: “It’s your grandmother’s birthday… are you leaving now?”

I just smiled awkwardly, holding my husband’s hand.

We walked out into the yard. The sound of family laughter followed me—warm, harmless, familiar.

The door closed.

And **all sense of security vanished**.

My husband — Mark — pulled me into the car, slammed the door shut, and the automatic lock *clicked*.

When the car started, he let out a breath, as if he had just escaped from a suffocation.

I whispered:
“Mark… what’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at me.

His voice shook as if he was trying to stay calm:
**“There’s something very, very wrong in that house. I can’t explain until we’re far away from here.”**

I started to shake.

I grew up in that house for 25 years. Every corner was familiar.
How could it be “wrong”?

We had been driving out of the neighborhood for almost 10 minutes when Mark pulled over to the side of the road.

He turned to me, his face pale:

**“I think… there’s someone in the house.”**

—

## **What does “someone” mean?**

“You mean a thief?” — I asked.

Mark shook his head:
“No. Not a thief. I don’t think that person… should be there.”

I felt every pore on my body go cold.

“Mark, explain.”

He looked straight at me:

**“Do you remember the storage room in the basement of Grandma’s house?”**

“Of course. Grandpa used it to store his carpentry tools.”

Mark nodded.

Then he said slowly:

“I went down there to find ice. When I turned on the light… I saw a *folding table* in the corner. On the table was… food. Freshly cooked. Still warm.”

My heart sank.

“Food? In the basement?”

“There were also men’s clothes. A pair of shoes. And… you have to calm down… a makeshift bed made of cardboard boxes and old blankets.”

I froze.

Mark continued, his voice low:

“And I heard breathing. Soft, but clearly someone… hiding in the dark corner behind the tool rack.”

I covered my mouth.

“Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head:

“I immediately backed away and went up. I didn’t want to confront him without knowing who he was. I just knew… he was living in your house.”

—

## **Call the police**

My hands shook as I dialed 911.

The operator asked:
**“Is there a break-in right now?”**

Mark snatched the phone from my hand:
“No. But there are signs of illegal residence in the house. We just left. Request an urgent inspection.”

15 minutes later, a patrol car arrived.

We returned with them.

I’ll never forget the feeling when the police opened the basement door.

Just a few seconds later:

“There’s someone here!” — an officer shouted.

“Hands up!” — the sound of a gun being pulled from its holster rang out.

I instinctively shouted:
**“Don’t shoot! That’s my grandmother’s house!”**

Then I saw “that person” being pulled out of the dark corner.

And when his face was revealed…

My whole body fell freely.

—

## **The strange man… yet familiar**

He was about 40 years old, thin, long hair, bushy beard, dull eyes.

But I recognized him immediately.

**I had seen that face before.
Many times.
In the old photo frame in my grandmother’s living room.**

I exclaimed:

**“Oh my God… that’s Kenny.”**

Kenny Banks.
Grandma’s youngest brother.

**The man who was said to have “run away from home at 19 and never returned.”**

My family said Kenny was a drug addict, a troublemaker, and ran away.
No one knew anything more.
No one found him.

My grandmother only said when I asked:

**“He ran away. That’s all.”**

But now…

Kenny was standing there — or rather, shaking, dirty, like a cornered animal — handcuffed in front of my family.

—

## **That night, the confession began**

The police called the family back to the living room.
That familiar room suddenly felt as strange as a crime scene.

My grandmother sat on the sofa, her hands shaking.

“Do you know who this person is?”

?” — the officer asked.

She closed her eyes, nodded.

And we heard unexpected words:

**“He never left. He never left this house. For 36 years.”**

No one breathed.

I whispered:
“What… are you saying?”

Eleanor opened her eyes. An old, exhausted look, as if tormented by time:

**“Kenny had schizophrenia. Severe paranoia.
One night, he had an attack, thought I was a bad guy and pushed me down, breaking my arm.

I was scared… but I couldn’t put him in an institution. I couldn’t abandon him.”**

Tears fell onto her hands.

“Back then, no one accepted mental illness. I called a few centers but they refused. They told the family to handle it themselves.”

“So… what did you do?” — my mother asked, her voice filled with anger and fear.

She looked up, desperate:

**“I hid him in the basement.”**

—

## **The Horrifying Truth**

The air froze.

“You raised him… for 36 years?” — I asked in disbelief.

She nodded.

**“I bring him food every night. Teach him to avoid noises. Sometimes he sneaks up to watch TV in the middle of the night.
I always tell my children: the basement is broken, don’t go down.”**

I remembered.

It all made terrifying sense.

The basement door was always locked.
Every night she went down to “take out the trash”.
The strange noise I heard as a child and she called it “rats”.

But that was only half the truth.

The police officer asked:
“Why was it discovered today?”

Grandma wiped away her tears:

**“Because I know… I don’t have much longer to live.”**

She looked straight at us:

**“I don’t want to leave him alone.
I was going to tell the family after his birthday today.
After I saw everyone for the last time.”**

She choked up:

**“But Mark came down… sooner than I expected.”**

—

## **The final twist – Kenny wasn’t the only one in the basement**

Kenny was taken for a medical check-up and detained for a psychiatric evaluation.

My family was devastated.
No one knew whether to be angry or sorry.
No one knew how to look at her anymore.

But just as the police were about to leave, an officer came up from the basement, holding an **old wooden box**.

“We found this behind the shelf. Do you want to explain?”

Grandma stiffened.

The officer opened the box.

Inside were:

* a very old **bunch of keys**
* some yellowed letters
* and a silver necklace with a child’s pendant

I recognized it immediately.

It was a picture of **Joseph Banks**, the oldest brother — missing in 1989, when he was 14.
The family believed he had been abducted by strangers.

The top letter trembled:

> **“I didn’t go anywhere, Mom. I just didn’t want to leave Kenny.”**

I read another:

> **“I’ll look after Kenny. Don’t tell anyone. I’ll be here, down here, with him.”**

My legs buckled.

Mark hugged me.

The whole family gasped in horror.

**Not only Kenny had lived in the basement for 36 years.
But Joseph — who had died in that same basement years before, trying to take care of Kenny but no one knew.**

Grandma collapsed, crying like a child:

**“I just wanted to keep the family together…
I didn’t know Joseph was hiding down there too…
By the time I found his body, it was too late…”**

The officer whispered:
“We’ll have to do a full investigation.”

—

## **End**

Kenny was transferred to a long-term psychiatric care center.
Grandma… was under house arrest pending investigation, old and weak.

And me?

I couldn’t sleep for many nights.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Kenny huddled in a dark corner of the basement…
And Joseph, the 14-year-old boy who had sacrificed his whole life to stay with his mentally ill brother in the darkness for many years.

All just one floor away from me…
.
All my childhood.

Mark hugged me every night, whispering:

**“At least you left that house in time.”**

But only I knew the scariest truth:

**If Mark hadn’t gone down to the basement that day…
Grandma would have told the family after the party.

And I — like every year — would have been the last one to clean up, the one who went down to the basement to get things to put away.**

I would have been the one to turn on the lights.

And see Kenny in the shadows dark.

And what else did he whisper in my ear that day that I will never forget:

**“I’m not afraid of Kenny.
I’m afraid of the look in your grandmother’s eyes when she looks down into the basement.
As if… she’s saying goodbye to someone for the last time.”**