When my husband and I moved into our new house,
the reclusive neighbor next door, Mrs. Harper,
always seemed to be watching.
Rumors swirled about her late husband,
but I brushed them off — until the day I caught her in my yard with a shovel.
I was sick on the couch when I saw her digging by our old oak tree.
Heart pounding, I stormed outside. “Mrs. Harper!
What are you doing?”She froze, then pulled out a small,
mud-caked bag. Inside were gleaming “gold” and “diamonds.”
My jaw dropped.
Through trembling hands, she confessed:
her late husband had found the items years ago with a metal detector.
She’d spent decades guarding them, terrified of treasure hunters,
convinced the secret had cost her husband his life
I urged her to donate the items for peace of mind.
Days later, at the museum, the appraiser shook his head.
“They’re fake. Worthless imitations.”
We both burst into laughter — years of fear over nothing.
As we left, Mrs. Harper squeezed my arm. “Thank you, April.
For helping me finally let go.”
And for the first time, she didn’t look like the haunted woman in the window. She looked free.
