For as long as I can remember, my grandmother Evelyn was everything to me. My father was never around, and my mother died in a car accident when I was 12. After that, my grandmother took me in and cared for me as if I were her own daughter. Her small house on the edge of town felt like a haven — my swing outside, the smell of cinnamon pies, long late-night talks in the kitchen. In the backyard, she had a garden, and behind the house, there was an old basement with heavy metal doors. Those doors were ALWAYS LOCKED, and I was never allowed to go near them.
It was her ONE RULE. “Honey, there are dangerous old things in the basement that could hurt you. That’s why I keep the door locked.” I never questioned it. Eventually, I moved to the city with my fiancé, Noah, but I still visited my grandmother every weekend. A few months ago, she got sick and passed away quietly. Losing her was devastating. After the funeral, Noah and I returned to her house to pack up her belongings. She had lived there for four decades. Putting all those memories into boxes was unbelievably hard. After finishing with the bedrooms, I stopped near the basement door — STILL LOCKED — and realized I had never seen the key.
“I think we should open the basement door. There might be more of Grandma’s things down there that we need to pack,” I told Noah. We had to break the lock. Noah finally managed to push open the heavy metal doors. A wave of cold air rose from below. I carefully went down. Cobwebs covered everything. My stomach twisted at what I saw at the bottom. “Oh my God… my grandmother hid this for 40 years?!” MY VOICE TREMBLED AS I SCREAMED.
