A local bus, raising a cloud of dust, pulled up near a roadside bus stop.
A young man stepped down, a backpack slung over his shoulders.
The bus pulled away again, leaving behind a swirling cloud of dust.
The boy checked the address on the paper in his hand.
17 Mill Road.
His name was Michael, a 22-year-old university student who had come to visit his grandfather's house—though his grandfather had passed away long ago. He had come here for a special purpose, one for which he had traveled the longest journey of his life.
He started walking past the bus stop, following a reddish-brown brick road. On either side stretched wide, empty fields — a few dried trees scattered here and there, and far off, a small settlement was visible.
It didn't take him long to reach it.
The number of people here was very few — a couple of elderly people caught his eye, walking slowly, as if time had become as lazy as them. It was clear that this small settlement may have once been lively, but now most of the people had migrated to the big cities in search of a better life.
In front of an old shop, leaning against the side of a pickup truck, a middle-aged local man squinted at Michael. His gaze carried both curiosity and a hint of suspicion.
"Are you lost, city boy?"
Michael stopped. "Gutmann house. Where is it?"
The man smiled and pointed to a dirt road through the trees.
"Walk down that one. Go left by the canal. The old Gutmann house is over there."
Michael suppressed a sigh. Still more walking. Damn it, old man — even from the grave, you make things difficult.
The man spoke again.
"Boy, who are you, by the way?"
Michael just nodded and said,
"I am the grandson of Karl Gutmann."
He didn't stick around for more questions. He started walking. The man looked like he had more to say, but Michael didn't care. He didn't have time for small talk.
He took the dirt road. Trees and undergrowth crowded both sides like a wild forest. The branches leaned so far overhead that they formed a natural roof above the path. There were no bird calls in the air — only the occasional faint crack of a dry twig somewhere in the distance.
After walking a while, the canal appeared through a gap in the trees, its water glinting faintly. The gray sky's reflection shimmered on its surface, and a thin mist hovered over the water. Turning left along the canal bank, he finally saw the Old Gutmann House.
From a distance, it looked like a house stuck in an old picture frame — a two-story wooden structure with a rusty tin roof. The land around it lay empty, overgrown with tall grass and weeds that climbed the walls as if trying to consume the house entirely.
From what Michael knew, his grandfather had built this place in the 1950s — once strong and beautiful, now slowly collapsing under the weight of time and neglect.
Michael stood and looked at the house for a while. Finally, he reached his destination.
He slowly walked toward the house and stopped in front of the door.
Reaching into his bag, he pulled out an old brass key.
The key slid into the lock but met stubborn resistance. Years of rust and swollen wood had fused metal to metal.
He twisted — nothing. Another firm turn — the door shuddered in its frame, as if protesting the disturbance.
On the third attempt, with a sharp jerk of his wrist, something inside gave way.
Click.
Michael drew a deep breath, then slowly pushed the door open. From the narrow gap burst a gust of dust and stale air, like a breath held for decades suddenly set free.
He turned on his phone's flashlight and stepped inside. Though evening had not yet fallen, the heavy curtains over the windows let in very little light.
Michael walked to the nearest window. With his fingers, he pulled the curtain aside; dust rained down, and a thin shaft of light entered through the gap — though still not enough to brighten the room properly.
The house had been abandoned for ten years, so there was, of course, no electricity.
Still, something caught his eye — a brass candle stand, its surface coated in dust, standing on a wooden table. A spiderweb clung to the dried wax around the candle.
He picked it up and brushed the dust away. The brittle bodies of long-dead insects fell to the floor.
From his pocket, he took out a lighter and lit the candle. The yellow-orange flame slowly pushed the darkness back.
Michael put the candle back on the table, then slowly looked around the room.
The paint was peeling from the walls, the corners of the ceiling heavy with cobwebs. Dry leaves littered the floor, probably blown in through cracks in the windows. The old furniture was thick with dust — a single swipe of the finger left a clean streak.
The silence in the house was so dense, even the sound of his own breathing felt loud.
He made his way carefully toward the stairs. There was a creaking sound as he stepped onto the first step.
Michael slowly climbed up, holding the light from his mobile phone. With each step, the air seemed to get colder. A dark corridor at the top of the stairs — doors closed, some half-open. Large cobwebs hung in the corners of the walls, and old family photos hung in one place — faces obscured by dust.
His destination was the last room at the very end — his grandfather's bedroom.
When he pushed the door open, he found it a little brighter than the rest, thanks to a small glass window high up on the wall. Sunlight streamed through it, dust motes swirling in the beam like tiny golden dancers.
He put his bag down on the floor and took out an old leather-bound diary from inside. He turned the pages until he stopped at one place. On the page was written — "That thing is under my bed… that I vowed to protect until my last breath."
Michael then immediately shone the light of his mobile phone under the bed. In the darkness, there was dust, dried insects, and a large iron box in the middle. As soon as he pulled out the box, a gust of dust flew up and entered his nose and mouth, and he moved aside, coughing.
The box was covered in rust, and an old lock was hanging from its mouth. Michael didn't have the key to it, and it didn't look like it would open, so he decided to break it.
He looked around for a while. There was a wooden cupboard on one side of the room; the bottom drawer was half-open. When he pulled the drawer open, there were some tools covered in dust inside, and one of them was a heavy, rusty pair of pliers. He took the pliers.
Then he knelt beside the iron box. The first strike rang sharply in the quiet, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. Another. And another. Each blow left a dull vibration in the wood beneath him.
On the sixth hit, the lock snapped with a dry, metallic crack.
Then he opened the box and found another box inside. It had a combination lock.
Michael's brow furrowed. He opened the diary again, turning the pages with his finger.
"Password, 1962."
He spun the dials, lining up the correct numbers. The lock clicked open.
Finally, he gave a small smile.
But when he saw what was inside, his expression changed to surprise.