We recently moved into a new house. The daughter of the previous owner, who passed away, sold it to us.
From day one, something strange kept happening. Every day, an old dog with a collar would show up at our place. He looked well past his prime but always came asking for food and water, which we gave him. Then, he’d just wander off.
One day, my son noticed a name on the dog’s collar: “Christopher Jr.” Christopher was the name of the previous owner who passed away. The dog started whining and seemed to be begging us to follow him.
My son convinced me to go after the dog, and after walking for 20 minutes, we found ourselves on a path leading into the woods. We kept following him, and where he took us to the spot he wanted us to be at.
The dog stopped at a patch of earth, pawing and whining frantically. My son knelt down and brushed aside the leaves — and there it was: a half-buried, rusted tin box.
Hands trembling, I dug it out and pried it open. Inside were dozens of old photographs, letters… and at the very bottom, a will. Not the one the daughter had used to sell us the house — no, this one named someone else entirely: Christopher Jr.
The dog — his dog — had led us to the truth.
And suddenly, the woods around us felt heavier, as if the very trees were holding their breath, waiting to see what we would do next.
