MY AUNT NEVER LET ANYONE INSIDE HER HOUSE—UNTIL I SAW WHAT WAS BEHIND THE SLIDING DOOR

Every summer, Aunt Lorraine throws her famous “deck party.” Same setup: her in a green tank top, beer in hand, gossiping by the railing. But no one ever goes inside. Ever.

Bathroom? “Use yours, sweetie.”
Need drinks? “I’ll grab ‘em—stay put.”
Even in storms, she won’t open the sliding door behind her.

We used to joke about her “Mystery Shack.”

Last summer, I went in.

The house was silent, cold. I crept down the hall and found an old wooden door—locked. Then I heard footsteps.

A man stood there. Gray hair, vintage clothes, eyes that didn’t blink. I didn’t know him.

Then Aunt Lorraine appeared. “That’s my brother,” she said, smiling too tightly. I’d never heard of a brother.

Back outside, the party carried on. But I couldn’t forget his stare.

Weeks later, I learned the truth: he wasn’t her brother. He’d lived there decades ago. Died years back. She never let go—kept his room sealed like a shrine.

Grief had turned into something else.

Some things, when locked away too long, don’t stay gone. They wait.