Life was perfect until we moved into that house. My husband George thought it a steal, but something felt off.
The neighbors were distant, barely nodding. Our kids seemed to hurry past our yard. The streets were eerily quiet.
The first morning, animal bones appeared on our doorstep, neatly arranged. George dismissed it as a prank.
But bones kept coming. Larger ones, in perfect circles. Fear crept in. We set up hidden cameras.
Our neighbor Hilton seemed eager to talk. “That house isn’t right. Something dark inside.” He warned us to leave.
Cameras revealed Hilton scattering bones, sneaking up our driveway at 3 a.m. Police arrested him.
Hilton’s wife explained his obsession with treasure, consuming him since the previous owner’s death.
We found vintage jewelry and copper candlesticks in the basement, family heirlooms belonging in a museum.
With Hilton arrested and the truth revealed, our home felt peaceful. Kids slept soundly. A stray cat explained mysterious noises.
Sometimes I check our doorstep, old habits lingering. But now our house is home, welcoming, and free from fear.
