She ran to the mailbox to check the mail. It was early in the morning on a Thursday.
To her surprise, there was a letter with no return address. But what caught her attention was her own name written across the envelope in bold black ink. The handwriting didn't look like anything she had ever seen before — elegant, strange, almost ancient.
The envelope was heavy and thick, sealed with a wax stamp that she didn't recognize. It looked old.
She turned it over and over in her hands, examining every detail, trying to guess where it might have come from. Something about it felt off. Unsettling. Like it didn't belong in this century.
Inside the envelope was only one line, written neatly in the same unfamiliar script:
"To claim your inheritance, you must live in the house."
There was no signature on the letter.
The more she read it, the stranger it seemed. There was no contact information either — no phone number, no return address. Just her name and a street address at the bottom.
The address wasn't even in the same country. In fact, it was a place she'd never heard of, let alone visited.
She was just about to throw the letter away.
But she stopped herself. Something about it didn't feel right — or maybe it felt too right. Like it was meant for her. And the thought of owning a house, especially a mansion, for free… that was tempting.
She sat with the letter all afternoon and into the night, running her fingers across the paper, imagining how different life could be. How nice it would be to have something that was hers — untouched by anyone else.
The next morning, sipping her coffee in silence, she made her decision.
She'd go. Just to look.
She didn't tell her family.
Not her therapist.
Not even her best friend, who had spent the last month trying to convince her to stop running from her problems.
But this didn't feel like running.
It felt like answering something she didn't have words for. A calling. A shift. A chance to have more — maybe even be more.
She arrived later that day.
The mansion was tucked into the hills, rising high above the town below — a town that looked like it had stopped aging decades ago. Faded signs, weather-worn rooftops, streets that stretched into silence.
The house stood at the end of a long gravel path, flanked by tall, pale trees.
Dead, but still standing.
They didn't move in the wind.
They didn't feel like trees.
While standing at the tree line, she stared at the sentence written on the inside of the envelope, reading it over and over again:
"To claim your inheritance, you must live in the house."
It didn't make sense to her.
Who would actually let someone else have an entire mansion?
And why was she chosen for the invite?
She couldn't help but question it over and over again, but something about it made her uneasy. She didn't feel comfortable approaching a house she knew nothing about — especially one that looked old and creepy.
She stood next to the tree line, considering leaving. But the desire to have a mansion for free… that was a dream come true. Even if she didn't want to live inside it, she could always sell it and start her life somewhere else.
After a few minutes of debating with herself, she finally made up her mind — she'd at least check the perimeter.
Besides, she wanted a better view of the outside of the old, creepy place.
She didn't want to waste her time. Or the gas. Especially if the whole thing turned out to be nothing.
She stepped carefully from the trees and followed the gravel path along the edge of the property. The closer she got, the more details began to stand out — and not all of them made sense.
The windows were spotless. Not shattered, not boarded up — just clean, like someone had wiped them down recently. The porch steps didn't creak when she tested one with her foot. The curtains inside some of the windows weren't tattered or yellowed, but neatly drawn. She paused.
If this place had really been abandoned, why didn't it look like it?
She started to walk around back when an old man appeared at the side door, just around the corner of the house.
"Hello," he said calmly, as if he'd been expecting her. "I see you got the letter. Welcome."
He walked toward her and extended his hand. She hesitated, then shook it, still trying to process what was happening.
She blinked at him. "Who are you? And why did I receive this letter?"
"I'm the groundskeeper," he replied with a small smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
He looked harmless enough — worn jeans, a button-up shirt, silver hair, steady eyes. But she stayed cautious.
"I have no clue why you received the letter," he added, "I just come by every few weeks to keep up the lawn and make sure things are in order. Though… I did hear someone was supposed to show up."
"You heard someone was supposed to show up," she repeated, narrowing her eyes. "From who? And who do you even work for? Does the person own this house?"
The man looked at her, calm but unreadable.
"I don't actually know who owns this old place," he said with a shrug. "I work for a company that hires me to take care of it — lawn maintenance, small repairs, that kind of thing. I've been doing it for years."
She waited, hoping for something more. He just smiled politely.
"Maybe the company knows who does," he added. "But they don't tell me much. I just show up when I'm told."
"Well, I'm the one invited here," she said, frustration creeping into her voice. "And I have no one to ask how or why."
The old man nodded slowly, unfazed.
"I do know this," he said. "There are cars here sometimes — when I'm not around. Maybe they're the ones who sent the letter. Maybe they can assist you."
She crossed her arms, her grip tightening around the mysterious envelope.
"By the way," the man added, "what kind of letter was it? Might help me figure out how to point you in the right direction."
She hesitated, then held it out.
The old man took the envelope carefully, opened it, and read aloud:
"To claim your inheritance, you must live in the house."
He looked back up at her, expression unchanged — but his eyes lingered on hers just a little longer than before.
"Well," he said, handing it back, "I guess that means you're staying, doesn't it?"