When Becky packed her children into the car and set out for the coast, she carried with her a picture-perfect memory. For years, her grandmother’s beach house had been her secret place of peace, the sanctuary she returned to in her mind when life felt overwhelming. She imagined lace curtains catching the morning light, the soft hum of the radio in the kitchen, and the soothing creak of the rocking chair on the porch at night.
This trip was meant to be a celebration—an escape after years of hard work and sacrifice. Her children, Daniel and Rosie, were giddy with anticipation, chattering about bunk beds, sandcastles, and salty breezes. But the moment Becky unlocked the door, her dream shattered.
The air inside was heavy with smoke and stale beer, undercut by the smell of rot. The carpet squelched beneath her shoes, and overturned furniture told a story she hadn’t prepared for. Her grandmother’s beloved coffee table lay broken, and the rocking chair that once symbolized comfort was abandoned on its side. Rosie clutched her mother’s hand and whispered, “Mommy, what happened here?”
Becky did her best to hide her fear. She sent the children outside and moved through the house, trying to take control—but the destruction only worsened as she went deeper. Then came the sound that stopped her cold: a steady snore from the main bedroom.
Continue reading on next page…