The next day, a call from Margaret, the previous owner, confirmed my suspicions that something was off. She offered to buy back the house at a reduced price, hinting there was more to the place than she’d disclosed. Determined not to be scared away from the home I’d finally managed to buy, I set up a camera in front of the locked basement door.
That night, the eerie giggle returned—this time accompanied by a wisp of what looked like fog drifting out from underneath. The next morning, I checked the footage and felt my blood run cold. The camera caught Margaret herself sneaking in, planting a speaker and a fog machine near the vent before slipping away. It was all a staged act to spook me into leaving.
Armed with this proof, I involved the police once more. When Margaret came to repeat her trick, she was caught in the act, her excuses falling flat. Under the glare of flashing lights, she was led away in cuffs.
Standing on my porch afterward, I exhaled in relief. The house—its squeaky floors, peeling paint, and all its quirks—was finally and truly mine. That locked basement door no longer held any secrets. Though the journey had been unsettling, I’d fought for this home and won, securing a fresh start in a place I had rightfully claimed.