e laughed when we discovered the message carved into the closet of our new house.
**NEVER GIVE THE HARRISES A KEY.**
Our neighbors seemed so friendly that the warning felt almost ridiculous.
Six months later, I was staring at our doorbell camera as those same neighbors unlocked our front door and walked inside.
I stared at my phone, barely breathing.
Tom and Linda Harris were standing on our porch.
Tom was holding something in his hand.
At first, I assumed it was his phone.
Then he lifted it toward our front door.
A key.
I shot upright so quickly I nearly spilled my drink.
Jason looked over at me.
“What is it?”
Without answering, I handed him my phone.
Together, we watched Tom slide the key into our lock.
It turned.
The door opened.
Linda glanced behind her before following him inside.
Then they closed the door.
Jason stared at the screen.
“What the hell?”
I was already dialing the police.
“We never gave them a key.”
“I know.”
“Maybe Margaret gave them one.”
The words carved into the upstairs closet immediately flashed through my mind.
**DON’T EVER GIVE THE HARRISES A KEY.**
“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t think she did.”
We were almost two hours away, visiting my sister, but Jason immediately grabbed his car keys.
Police called while we were driving home.
Two officers had already reached the property.
Tom and Linda were gone.
There were no signs of forced entry.
Nothing obviously seemed to be missing.
“Did these neighbors have permission to enter your house?” the officer asked.
“No.”
“Could they have gotten a key from the former owner?”
“I don’t know.”
I hated myself for giving that answer.
For six months, Margaret’s warning had been sitting only a few feet from where we slept every night.
And we had laughed about it.
When we finally arrived home, two police vehicles were parked outside.
The Harris house next door was completely dark.
Officer Ramirez met us at our front entrance.
“Anything especially valuable or private in the house?”
Jason shook his head.
“Laptops. Jewelry. Normal things.”
Then something occurred to me.
“The basement office.”
Jason frowned.
“What about it?”
I was already walking downstairs.
The tiny office behind the laundry room appeared untouched.
The desk was still there.
The bookshelf looked normal.
The filing cabinet was closed.
Then I noticed the rug.
One corner had been pulled back.
Underneath it was a square metal panel embedded in the concrete floor.
Jason stared at it.
“I’ve never seen that before.”
Neither had I.
Officer Ramirez carefully lifted the panel.
Beneath it was a shallow safe.
And it was already open.
Inside was nothing except dust and a white envelope.
My name was written on the front.
Officer Ramirez put on gloves before opening it.
The first sentence made my stomach drop.
**If you’re reading this, they came back.**
The message was from Margaret, the woman who had owned the house before us.
My knees suddenly felt weak.
The letter continued.
*Tom and Linda do not have permission to enter this house.*
*They once had a key.*
*I changed the locks.*
*If they have another key now, they made it themselves.*
*Call me before you confront them.*
A phone number appeared beneath the message.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
