I knocked on the third floor bedroom door, again. Everyday for the last three years, two months and four days I have knocked on this door, this old door. My knock’s have never been answered. Before today that is.

I inherited this house from my Great Aunt May, whom I had previously never met or really even heard of. I’ve been told she was very fond of my mother, but still, giving me a house like this seemed weird. It’s a very big house though, and for the most part it’s only about nine years old. I wasn’t going to complain that I didn’t deserve it.

With the keys and the deed the executor of the will gave me a list of instructions which I was asked to follow whenever I stayed in the house.
Foremost among these was my previously mentioned task. I also have to leave a bowl of milk outside the kitchen’s backdoor every night, water the odd plants in the inner court yard the gardener doesn’t visit, and a half dozen other odd little things.

They’re a dead woman’s last requests, it’s the least I can do.

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