A stranger showed up at my door, claiming he used to live in our house. He seemed anxious—said he’d accidentally left something behind during a rushed move years ago. Against my instincts, I let him in after he showed old photos of himself in the house. But instead of heading to the basement like I expected, he walked straight to the kitchen, climbed onto a chair, and unscrewed the air vent without hesitation. My heart pounded as he pulled out a plastic-wrapped bundle of cash.
Panicked, the man—Walter—begged me not to call the police. He claimed he’d hidden the money during a messy divorce to keep it from his ex-wife. “I never thought I’d come back, but I need this to start over,” he said. His story sounded rehearsed, but the desperation in his voice made me pause. Against my better judgment, I let him leave with the cash—part of me still unsure if I’d made a huge mistake.
When my husband got home, he was furious that I’d let a stranger in, especially someone who knew exactly where to find something so specific. We started asking questions. Two weeks later, the truth unraveled: Walter had never owned the house. There was no record of him anywhere. We had no idea who he really was—or what we’d gotten ourselves into.
Now, every sound in the house puts us on edge. We reported the incident to the police, but there haven’t been any updates. I still lie awake wondering how he knew about the vent. Did he know someone who lived here? Or is something else hidden in this house—something we haven’t found yet? All I know is, if I could go back, I never would’ve opened that door.