Audio Podcast 4 minutes

The old house on the hill had stood empty for decades, its windows dark and its walls weathered by time. Clara had passed it every day on her way to town, always wondering about the stories it held. One crisp autumn evening, as the sun dipped low, she noticed something different—a faint flicker of light in the upstairs window. Curiosity tugged at her, and against her better judgment, she decided to investigate.

The front door creaked open with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for her. Inside, the air was thick with dust, and the faint scent of lavender lingered. Clara’s footsteps echoed on the warped wooden floor as she climbed the stairs, drawn to the room where she’d seen the light. The door at the top was ajar, and a soft glow spilled out.

In the room sat a woman, her back to Clara, hunched over a small table. She wore a faded dress, its hem frayed, and her silver hair cascaded down her back. A single candle burned before her, casting long shadows across the walls. Clara hesitated, then cleared her throat.

The woman didn’t turn. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her voice low and steady.

Clara froze. “Expecting me? I don’t even know you.”

“You don’t need to,” the woman replied. “You’re here for the truth, aren’t you?”

Clara’s heart thudded. She hadn’t told anyone she was coming, hadn’t even known herself until moments ago. “What truth?” she asked, stepping closer.

The woman gestured to a chair across the table. “Sit. I’ll show you.”

On the table lay a small wooden box, intricately carved with swirling patterns. The woman slid it toward Clara. “Open it,” she said.

Hands trembling, Clara lifted the lid. Inside was a photograph, yellowed with age. It showed a young girl, no more than five, with wide eyes and a shy smile, standing in front of this very house. A man and woman stood beside her; their faces blurred by time. Clara frowned. “Who is this?”

The woman finally turned; Her face illuminated by the candlelight. Her eyes were sharp, piercing, and oddly familiar. “Look closer,” she said.

Clara studied the photo again, then gasped. The girl’s dress—the same faded fabric, the same frayed hem—matched the one the woman wore now. “That’s… you?” she stammered.

The woman nodded. “I’ve waited a long time for you to come back.”

“Come back?” Clara’s mind raced. “I’ve never been here before.”

The woman smiled faintly, a sad curve to her lips. “You have. You just don’t remember.”

Clara’s gaze darted between the photo and the woman, confusion mounting. Then the woman reached across the table, her cold fingers brushing Clara’s hand. A jolt surged through her, and suddenly, memories flooded in—running through these halls as a child, laughter echoing, the smell of lavender in her mother’s arms. She stumbled back, clutching her head. “What’s happening?”

“You were taken from this house,” the woman said softly. “Taken from me. I’ve been here ever since, waiting.”

Clara’s breath hitched. The blurred faces in the photo sharpened in her mind’s eye—her parents, younger, happier. And then she understood. The woman wasn’t just a stranger. She was her grandmother, preserved by some strange force in this house, tethered to it all these years.

But the truth hit her as she looked down at her own hands—hands that now shimmered faintly, translucent in the candlelight. She hadn’t just come to uncover a secret. She’d come because she, too, had died long ago, and this house was calling her home.

The key detail—that Clara is a ghost—remains hidden until the final sentence, recontextualizing the entire story. Did it catch you off guard?