I Inherited a Remote House in Montana. Something Was Living Beneath It.

A man inherits a remote Montana house from an uncle he never knew existed. The property has been sitting empty for ten years. The lawyer, Dominic, hands over the keys with careful, evasive language—something about the estate being administered in stages, something about complexities. He advises selling quickly, without conducting an extensive search. The narrator, Clifford, decides to take a look first.

Inside the kitchen cabinet he finds a small red bag. Inside it: a key and a note from Dominic, written in neat block letters, repeating the advice to sell immediately. The note mentions that Clifford's uncle "may have been involved in activities of a legally compromising nature." No further details. Clifford puts the bag back and decides to wait until Monday.

That night, curiosity gets the better of him. He goes down to the basement, notices a shelving unit that doesn't sit flush against the wall, and finds a hidden metal door behind it. The key fits. Inside is a small room with a heavy-gauge metal cage. Sitting cross-legged inside the cage, hands on its knees, back straight, is a skeleton in a black robe. Empty eye sockets. It is looking at the door.

The letter and the journal

Clifford finds a handwritten letter in the basement, yellowed and folded. It is from Andrew, his uncle. The letter is a confession.