The family home. A huge house of about four hundred square meters built, with a little over than a century old. The great-grandparents started living there already four generations ago, and then the house passed to the hands of the grandfather, with whom, despite his advanced age, I was able to meet and spend a lot of time with him. I still remember all the things we used to do, he used to tell me his stories of “better times”, and when he started to lose his sanity due to senile dementia, he started to talk about his friend who used to visit him daily when he was alone, and who, according to him, would be no more than thirty-five years old at the time, quite young compared to him.
He used to describe his friend in a very detailed way, and that painting next to the wall where the hallway connecting the bedrooms of the house was what my grandfather, every time he passed by, would greet, recognizing the man in that paint as the friend who visited him daily.
I must have been about fifteen years old at the time Grandpa passed away, and to my surprise, in his will he wrote that that house would become my property when I was of legal age to own it. This did not sit well to some relatives, but in the face of all the stipulations that Grandpa had meticulously prepared so that his will could not be revoked, they could do nothing about it and simply gave in. He had also left in writing that my father, as my legal guardian, could grant permission to allow another relative to live there, or rent the property, but never sell it, at least not until I was old enough to act with full responsibility and conscience.
Then, after a few months, my aunt with her little boy of about five years old at the time suffered an economic setback and needed a place to stay, at least for a few months, my father asked me about allowing them to stay in the old family home and I, of course, agreed. What surprised me was that, in less than two months, my aunt, even without improve her situation, wanted to leave that place. Eventually, I learned the reasons. Her son had been telling her on several occasions about a man visiting him when he was home alone, playing with him, and my aunt, upon inquiring about it, could only find out that it was the man in the painting, the painting next to the wall in the hallway connecting the bedrooms.
Scary? A bit, yes. However, when I turned eighteen, that property became legally mine, and with it, I had a solid enough foundation on which I could build my life and be able to direct my efforts in other areas, since housing was no longer a concern.
Eventually, I found a partner, things went quite well and after a few months we decided to take a step forward and live together in my house. The move went well, but upon returning inside home from the yard, after paying the movers for their hard work, my girlfriend complained rather angrily, berating me for never telling her about my housemate. Those words completely confused me. I explained that I hadn't shared that house with anyone until now that she would be there too, and asked her where she had gotten that from. With an incredulous gesture she explained that my "partner" had shown up while I was out, and had then gone to the kitchen to get something to eat. She also criticized me for how odd it was to have such a large picture of that guy next to the hallway leading to the dormitories.
Shivers went down my spine. When I managed to react, the first thing I did was to head for the kitchen, where my girlfriend said that stranger had gone, by not finding him, I went to where that painting was located. I looked at the guy portrayed there, I checked at as many details as I could, and I remembered the descriptions of both my grandfather and my nephew years ago. No doubt he was the person they had described. Then I looked closely at the frame of that painting, and then, I decided to call the police.
About ten minutes after I called, a guy I had never met before, but whose face I had seen for over a decade, came out of my property in handcuffs. Behind the painting, a door opened into a passageway to a small room where this guy had lived for at least the last fifteen years in hiding. I guess I'll never know exactly who that guy was, or why he decided to live there, or how he got in, just as I'll never know why my great-grandfather built a house with a secret room, or what he would use that room for.