A chilling story based on real events that I still struggle to recall without trembling.

When I was a child, I spent my summers at the house of my grandfather Elías. He was a reserved and meticulous man who lived at the far end of town in an old mansion with high ceilings, creaking wooden floors, and the faint smell of melted wax. What I rarely mentioned in my school stories was the fact that his house wasn’t just any house—it was also a funeral home.

My grandfather’s demeanor was as serious as the profession he practiced. He prepared bodies for burial, coordinated wakes, and sometimes—though no one openly admitted it—he consoled souls. His bedroom was next to the main hall, where coffins rested before being transported to the cemetery. I, on the other hand, slept in a small room at the back of the house, where I could hear every sound: the muffled sobs of visitors, the faint tapping of wood, and occasionally… noises that defied explanation.

The first night I slept there alone, something woke me around three in the morning. A low murmur, like a hoarse prayer, came from the wake room. I got up cautiously, still in my pajamas, and crept toward the source of the sound. I hid behind a curtain, peeking into the room. There was the coffin of an elderly woman from the village, whose face I had already forgotten. But what I saw that night is something I’ll never forget: the coffin moved. Not much—just a slight knock. Then another. Silence. It wasn’t my imagination. I swear it wasn’t.

The next morning, I told my grandfather about what I had seen. He didn’t scold me or dismiss it as a nightmare. Instead, he stared at me with a solemn expression and said:
—The dead don’t always rest well, niña. We have to help them cross.

From that moment onward, the house seemed different to me. With every visit, strange occurrences became more frequent.

One particularly cold night, while my grandfather was watching over the body of a man who had died in an accident, I noticed the hallway mirror fogging up as if someone were breathing in front of it. I approached cautiously and saw, reflected behind me, a girl about my age dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Her face was blank, emotionless, as she stared at me. I spun around quickly, but no one was there.

The following nights brought whispers. They seemed to echo through the house—sometimes in my room, sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes even in the bathroom. Occasionally, I heard my name: “Martina…” I told my grandfather about the whispers, and though he didn’t say much, one night he offered me a piece of advice:
—Don’t answer them. They only hear you if you pay attention.

By then, I had started sleeping with the lights on.

The most terrifying experience happened one Friday night during a thunderstorm. The electricity had gone out, and my grandfather was at the cemetery, burying a body before the storm worsened. He left me alone in the house with an old flashlight that barely worked.

At first, everything was calm. But then I heard dry, scraping noises coming from the basement. My heart pounded as I descended the stairs. The basement smelled of dampness and wilting flowers. At the far end of the room, something moved. It wasn’t an animal—it was something that seemed to drag itself across the floor. Suddenly, a figure lunged at me from the shadows. Its skin was ashen, and its mouth was wide open as if screaming, though no sound came out. Its eyes—or lack thereof—were the most horrifying part. I screamed as loudly as I could and ran upstairs, locking myself in the bathroom until my grandfather returned.

When he came back, I sobbed and told him everything. He listened patiently, then hugged me and said:
—That was Joaquín. We watched over him years ago. He never found peace. I shouldn’t have left you alone.

The next morning, my grandfather took me to a local healer. She performed a cleansing ritual with herbs and gave me an amulet to wear.
—You have an open door, niña —she said—. That house thirsts for energy. And you shine like a beacon.

After that, I stopped visiting the funeral home as often. Over the years, the business closed, and my grandfather passed away shortly after. But even now, when I pass by the abandoned house, I feel as though someone is watching me from the window of the main hall. Sometimes I wonder how many souls remain trapped within the wooden walls of that old mansion.

Because there are places where death isn’t the end. It’s only the beginning.