“The Old Woman Asked Me to Help Her Get Rid of ‘Rot’ — I Thought She Meant Mold… Until I Realized She Was Talking About Her Own Family”
Right after graduation, when my student debt felt like it was pressing on my chest every morning, I landed what seemed like the world’s quietest side job.
The ad read:
“Companion needed. Elderly woman. Light errands. Good conversation. Weekly pay.”
Simple. Harmless.
That’s how I met Ms. Adelaide Crane.
She lived alone in a decaying hilltop mansion — one of those grand old homes that looked like it belonged in a forgotten black-and-white film. The windows stretched tall and narrow, draped in velvet curtains that always seemed to move, even when the air was completely still. The whole house smelled faintly of old perfume and dust — the kind of scent that clings to your coat long after you leave.
Ms. Crane wasn’t warm or cuddly. She was sharp, witty, and walked like a queen who had ruled over centuries and seen kingdoms crumble.
She wore only dark dresses, always buttoned to the collar, and every single day she pinned on the same jeweled brooch — a thing that looked like it could stab, not sparkle.
Two grandsons lived there too.
Or rather — crashed there.
They barely acknowledged her unless they needed something. Treated the house like it was a free hostel and her like background noise. I never once heard them call her “Grandma.” Not even once.
At first, I just felt bad for her.
Then the strange things started.
Doors I had just closed would be open again when I turned around. Dishes I’d brought up would be gone the next day — as if someone had crept in at night and taken them without a sound. And one afternoon, while I was helping her water the garden, she turned to me and said — crystal clear:
“They’re waiting. For me to fall. To forget. But I won’t give them that gift.”
I gave a nervous laugh, expecting her to chuckle back.
She didn’t.
And then came the night that changed everything.
It was during our usual hour in the garden — dusk, when the light goes gold and the air feels thick with something unspoken. She paused near the roses, turned to me slowly, and spoke in a low, serious voice:
— “It’s time. I’m ready to cut the rot out by the root.”
Then she reached into her coat and placed two things into my hand:
a sealed envelope… and a small brass key.
I blinked, confused.
— “Rent a van. Tomorrow night. Park behind the greenhouse. When the clock strikes two… whatever happens, don’t look back.”
My mouth went dry.
— “What’s in the envelope?” I managed to whisper.
She smiled — but it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
— “My confession. Just in case I don’t make it out.”
I haven’t opened it yet.
But the van is already parked behind the greenhouse — exactly where she told me to leave it.
And the clock?
It’s almost at two.
I sat in the driver’s seat of the rented van, hands clenched around the steering wheel, staring out into the night. The mansion loomed ahead — silent, but not asleep. It was one of those houses that watched you back.
The greenhouse stood to the left, its glass panes catching the moonlight like shards of ice. I had parked exactly where Ms. Crane instructed — under the thick shadow of the overgrown wisteria, hidden from every angle except the back door.
The clock on the dashboard blinked: 1:57 AM.
I could feel my heartbeat in my throat.
That envelope was still in the glove compartment. I hadn’t touched it. My curiosity had been screaming for hours, but something inside me — instinct maybe — said don’t open it unless you have to. Like it was cursed.
And then, at exactly 2:00 AM, I saw her.
Ms. Crane.
She stepped out of the greenhouse door like she was gliding, dressed in a long black coat that billowed behind her like wings. The brooch was gone.
In her hand — a weathered suitcase.
In the other — a garden spade.
She didn’t look at me. Not even once. Just walked straight to the van and opened the back door.
— “Drive,” she said flatly.
Not a question. A command.
I shifted into gear and pulled away, gravel crunching under the tires.
As we turned the corner and the mansion faded from view, I finally broke the silence.
— “What… what just happened?”
She looked straight ahead, eyes cold as glass.
— “Let’s just say the house has fewer pests now.”
I didn’t know if she meant the metaphorical kind… or something much, much darker.
The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward. It was heavy. Like something was still in the van with us — something unsaid.
After ten minutes, she reached into her coat and held the envelope out toward me.
— “Now you can open it,” she said. “If you still want to.”
I hesitated. My fingers trembled as I tore the seal. Inside:
A hand-written letter.
Three pages.
And at the bottom — the names of her two grandsons.
With the words:
“In the event of my death, please deliver this to the sheriff’s office.”
But she wasn’t dead. She was sitting beside me, very much alive, staring out the window as if she’d just buried something — or someone — behind her.
I folded the letter back up slowly.
— “So… what happens now?”
She finally turned to me, eyes sharper than ever.
— “Now? We disappear. For a little while.”
She smiled. And this time, it did reach her eyes.
— “Rot doesn’t just remove itself, darling. Sometimes, someone has to dig it up and burn it.”
And with that, we drove into the night. No destination. No map.
Just an old woman, a silent envelope, and one very dangerous secret buried behind velvet curtains.
(To be continued… in the next part)
