It would be hard to believe what unfolded with my family unless you had witnessed it with your own eyes, though in dreams nothing is ever truly impossible. All of it began about half a year ago, when my dear grandfather passed away, leaving behind a charming flat right in the heart of London. A month after his passing, my family and I made up our minds to tidy up the flat, preparing it for the estate agents. During the daylight hours, we dutifully packed up all my grandfathers belongings into great sackfuls.
As twilight descended, everyone drifted back home, save for my brother, who decided, rather peculiarly, to spend the night in the London flat. The clock had only just struck six in the morning when my phone jolted me awakemy brothers voice was trembling with something like terror, urging me to come at once. I dashed to the flat without pausing to think. The moment I stepped inside, I saw the fear still etched across my brothers face; he looked as pale as moonlight on water. There were the unmistakable sounds of footsteps echoing in the living room, but eerily, there was nobody there at all. The air seemed thick with shadows, and I felt goosebumps prickle from head to toe. Overwhelmed by dread, we fled hastily out onto the street.
It took us a good half hour, breathing in the early morning fog, before we could pluck up the courage to return. When we finally did, we gaped in astonishment: every last item belonging to our grandfather was back exactly where it always was, neatly set out as if arranged by invisible hands. The relief was mixed with something altogether uncannya sense that wed wandered through someone elses dream. After that, we resolved not to visit the flat again and handed everything over to the estate agency. Thankfully, the new tenants never encountered any peculiar happenings after the sale, priced in pounds, and settled in without complaint. Yet, whenever I reflect on that uncanny night, a shiver still scuttles down my spine, as though Im drifting through some surreal, fog-bound dream.
