Zacząłem czuć, że coś jest nie tak w moim własnym domu, kiedy wprowadzili się mój syn i synowa. Szepty za zawsze zamkniętymi drzwiami i obcy ludzie wchodzący i wychodzący w środku nocy nie dawały mi spać. Nie mogąc dłużej czekać, postanowiłem sam się przekonać. Powiedziałem im, że jadę na wycieczkę, ale tak naprawdę po cichu wróciłem. Starszy sąsiad dotknął mojego ramienia i powiedział: „Poczekaj do północy. Zobaczysz wszystko”.

My name is Elellanena. This house where I’ve lived for the last forty years is my sanctuary, my history. My entire life was built here with effort, side by side with my late husband.

Every corner holds our memories. The kitchen where we prepared Sunday morning breakfast with bacon sizzling on the stove and the smell of fresh coffee drifting through the air. The living room where we watched our son Robert grow up, his cartoons blaring on the TV while we argued over Dodgers versus Yankees. The backyard garden we cultivated with our own hands under the California sun.

When my husband died seven years ago, Robert insisted on moving here with his wife, Audrey.

“So you won’t be alone, Mom,” he told me.

At the time, I thought it was filial love.

How naive I was.

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The first few months were quiet, almost happy. We ate dinner together, talked, and laughed. Audrey was attentive, even affectionate. She helped me with the grocery shopping at Ralphs, cooked my favorite meals like a good pot roast or mashed potatoes. Robert fixed things around the house that broke down. I thought,

“What a blessing to have my family close in my old age.”

But about four months ago, something changed. It was as if someone had flipped an invisible switch.

The smiles became mechanical, the conversations forced. And the whispers began.

At first, I thought it was my imagination, that my age was playing tricks on me. But the whispers were real. Every time I entered a room, they would abruptly stop talking. Robert would quickly put away his phone with a swift, almost guilty motion. Audrey would change the subject with a tense smile.

“What were you talking about?” I would ask them.

“Nothing important,” Audrey replied with that sweet voice that was starting to sound hollow to me.

“Work stuff, Mom,” Robert would add without looking me in the eye.

Then I noticed other details. The door to my old master bedroom, the one I had converted into storage after my husband’s death, was always locked now. Before, it always remained open.

“Why do you lock that room?” I asked one day.

Audrey responded too quickly.

“It’s just that there’s a moisture problem. We don’t want your things to get damaged.”

But I didn’t remember giving permission for them to touch that room. I didn’t remember talking about moisture. And when I walked down the hall at night, I heard strange noises coming from there—footsteps, muffled voices, laughs that weren’t my son’s or my daughter-in-law’s.

One night close to eleven, I heard the unmistakable sound of the front door opening. I got out of bed and walked carefully to the hallway, making sure not to make a sound. From my bedroom, I could see the entrance.

I saw Audrey receiving a young woman with a small suitcase. They spoke in a low voice. The woman handed something over—cash, maybe—and Audrey quickly tucked it into her pants pocket. Then she guided her down the hall precisely toward that room that supposedly had a moisture issue.

I heard the sound of the key turning. The door opened. Yellow light spilled out and then it closed again.

The next morning during breakfast, I didn’t mention anything. I only observed. Audrey prepared coffee with that perfect smile that no longer fooled me. Robert was reading the news on his phone, distracted.

“Did you sleep well?” I asked casually.

“Very well, Mom,” Robert replied without looking up.

“Like babies,” Audrey added.

Liars. Both of them were liars.

But I needed proof. I needed to know exactly what was happening in my own home before I confronted them.

That same afternoon, while Audrey was out at the grocery store and Robert was at his job in downtown L.A., I tried to open the room’s door. I had my own set of keys. Of course, it was my house. But when I tried to use my master key, I discovered they had changed the lock.

They had changed the lock on a room in my own house without telling me anything.

My heart pounded hard. Rage began to boil in my chest. Who did they think they were? This was my property, my home. Every inch of this house belonged to me legally.

But rage solves nothing. Rage only clouds judgment.

So I took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. If they were hiding something, I needed to discover it without them suspecting that I knew.

I needed a plan.

And then it occurred to me. I would fake a trip. I would tell them I was visiting my sister in another city, maybe Boston. I would leave them alone, and I would watch from afar what they did when they thought I wasn’t around.

That’s when I talked to Moses, my lifelong neighbor. He lives right across the street from my house in our quiet cul-de-sac, with a direct view of my front entrance.

I told him my suspicions, and what he told me chilled my blood.

“Elellanena, I’ve noticed strange things, too,” Moses told me in a low voice while pouring me some iced tea in his small, neat kitchen. Moses is seventy-two years old, a widower like me, and we’ve been neighbors since my husband and I first bought this house back when this part of Los Angeles was still being developed. He knows every corner of my life, every joy, and every sorrow.

“For weeks, I’ve wanted to tell you something, but I didn’t know if I should get involved. I didn’t want to worry you without being sure.”

His hand trembled slightly as he held the cup.

“What have you seen, Moses?” I asked him, feeling fear settle in my stomach like a cold stone.

He sighed deeply before answering.

“I’ve seen people coming and going from your house at odd hours, always at night, always with suitcases or backpacks. Sometimes they are young women, sometimes couples. Never the same people. They arrive in taxis or private cars. Audrey receives them at the door. They talk briefly and then they go inside. The next day, early in the morning, they leave. Everything is very fast, very discreet, as if they are doing something they don’t want anyone to see.”

His words confirmed my worst suspicions. I wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t my imagination. Something really was happening in my house. Something that involved strangers, money, and secrets.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked him, feeling a mixture of relief and anguish.

“Because I hoped I was wrong,” Moses replied. “Because I wanted to believe there was a logical explanation. Maybe friends of Robert’s, I thought. Maybe family of Audrey’s who needed temporary lodging. But when I saw Audrey receiving cash at the door last week, I knew this was a business, and a business done in secret is never an honest business.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice as if someone could hear us.

“Elellanena, I think they are using your house for something. I don’t know exactly what, but it’s something they don’t want you to know. That’s why they wait for you to be asleep. That’s why they act normal during the day.”

I then told him my plan. I told him I would fake the trip, that I would make them believe I would be gone for a whole week, and that I needed his help to watch my house from his window.

Moses immediately accepted.

“You can stay here in the guest room,” he offered. “And from the upstairs window, you can see your entrance and part of your living room perfectly. We’ll see everything they do.”

I felt immense relief. I wasn’t alone in this. I had an ally, a witness, someone who could confirm what my eyes saw, so they couldn’t later say that I was confused or senile.

That same night, I returned to my house and began the performance.

During dinner, I casually announced, “Tomorrow, I’m traveling to visit my sister for a week. I haven’t seen her in months, and she’s been insisting a lot.”

The reaction was immediate. Robert looked up from his plate with bright eyes. Audrey stopped chewing for a second and then smiled—a smile that was too wide, too enthusiastic.

“That’s great. It will do you good to get out a bit, to change the scenery, right, Robert?” she said.

My son nodded vigorously.

“Yes, Mom. You deserve a break. We’ll take care of the house. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Don’t worry about a thing.

Those words resonated in my head with a sinister echo, the way they said it, with that barely concealed relief, with that urgency to see me leave.

I continued with my act.

“I need you to water the plants in the garden every other day, and please keep the house tidy. You know I don’t like clutter.”

Audrey nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Of course, everything will be perfect when you return. Enjoy your trip.”

Perfect.