My wife and I were settling into bed after MasterChef when a sharp clack echoed from the kitchen—like metal rolling on the floor. We froze. I checked: a measuring cup on the floor, from a closed drawer. We chalked it up to a fluke.
It happened again the next night—a cumin jar fallen, cap cracked. Same timing. We searched for mice; nothing. A week later, at 2 AM, the faucet ran full blast. Locks were secure, but fear set in.
We changed all locks, added cameras and sensors. Alert: our neighbor, Mr. Holbrook, standing in our yard at 2:41 AM, staring.
I confronted him. “Sleepwalking,” he said, eyes red. His wife Marlene died last year.
Then, returning from lunch, our back door unlocked. On the counter: old Polaroids of Marlene, a baby, their 1950s home. Handwritten: “Marlene – summer of ‘58.”
Police revealed: Holbrook lived in our house 40 years ago. Their baby born here; Marlene died birthing the second. He kept the original key, returning nightly to touch memories—the clacks, spills, faucet. Not malice, just grief.
Heartbroken, we didn’t press charges. Instead, I invited him over. He shared stories: strawberry pies, crawling babies, Elvis dances. We cooked together; tears flowed.
Noises stopped. The house felt fuller, welcoming.
Holbrook passed six months later, leaving a letter of thanks. We framed Marlene’s photo.
Lesson: What seems a haunting is often a heart unfinished. Listen closer—find the story. (198 words)
