I manage a house where every tenant disappears after 1 month
The third tenant was a pale guy, tattoos all over his arm, and a large piercing in his ear.He looked sick and walked slowly. He told me he wanted to live in that house to get over his past, and I didn’t want to ask for details. What really caught him was the forest view from the porch.

He signed the contract on the spot, and the very next day his moving truck was parked in the garage.

Two weeks later I realized I’d left my folder with some documents in the house and called the guy. No answer. I decided to drive out there and found the place empty, which was strange. He’d brought a lot of stuff during the move.

His car wasn’t in the garage, but I rang the bell anyway. Nothing. The door was unlocked, and I stepped inside, convinced something was wrong.

But there was nothing to see. The house was empty, no furniture, dusty, just like it had been when I first showed it to him.

A few months earlier, while eating breakfast, I got a call from a property owner who said she’d found me on Instagram. She told me she needed an experienced, fast-moving realtor to handle rental contracts for her house. And I lied, said I was that guy, even though I’d only had my license for a little over a year.

Her voice was old, raspy, almost broken, like someone with throat problems. She said she lived abroad, and needed someone local. I wouldn’t even have to look for tenants, she pitched. There was already a list of people interested, and they’d meet me at the house.

I wasn’t too excited. It didn’t sound like much of an opportunity until she mentioned my commission. I nearly choked on the sandwich I was eating.

I repeated the number back to her, sure she’d made a mistake, but she insisted it was right. That amount would be handed to me, in cash, once the tenant signed and moved in.

The only condition, she said, was that if a contract was broken due to my negligence or choice, I’d have to pay one month’s rent. On paper it didn’t sound bad. I accepted right away.

The next day I went to see the property. It was huge, isolated, no close neighbors. Inside, there were expensive wooden furniture pieces, sculptures, installations that must’ve cost a fortune.

The porch opened up to a wide view of a forest. Big wooden chairs faced the woods, and the owner made a point of stressing that they could not be moved from their place. I imagined myself retired there, sipping coffee, birdwatching.

Coincidentally, the first tenants were a retired couple escaping the chaos of the city. When they signed, I went home torn between excitement and anxiety. Would the owner really pay me that much? I was broke.

But a few days later, a suitcase showed up at my doorstep with the full amount in cash. Stacks of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in rubber bands.

Weird, yeah, but not weird enough to stop me from trading it in for a new car.

About a month later, the owner called again. Said the couple didn’t work out, and new tenants wanted to see the house that day.

I didn’t ask questions. Couldn’t complain about another commission.

This time it was two women, a couple. One was a writer who told me she’d chosen the place to work on her next novel. Signing was easy, and another suitcase of money arrived the same way.

Life was good, but honestly, I barely had other clients. All my golden eggs were tied to this strange owner I barely knew. Her name and info looked fake. Still, with the new tenants in, I figured I wouldn’t hear from her for a while.

Wrong.

Another month later, same story. The women had left. Another new tenant.

I was happy but suspicious. Why did everyone leave that house so quickly?

Curiosity got me, so I called one of the last tenants. The number didn’t exist anymore.

I tried the old couple too. Same thing.

After the third tenant, I tried to forget it. Not my problem. Who cared if they stayed or left? My fat commission was all I needed.

Then, like clockwork, a month later, she called again. This time she sounded excited. Said the new clients were special, and she’d pay me double.

I thought about asking questions, but double was too good. That kind of money could help me put a down payment on an apartment.

I drove to the house determined to sign as fast as possible.

I got there early and snooped around. No sign of anyone ever living there. Not even a pin dropped during moving chaos. Nothing.

When the bell rang, I opened the door to a young couple holding a newborn baby wrapped in a blanket.

I showed them the house, my stomach churning at what I could be part of.

And of course, they loved it. The dad talked about how his kid would grow up running in the fields, exploring the forest, the childhood he never had.

They signed right away. My hands were shaking when I handed over the paper.

The next day was supposed to be their move-in. I went home and couldn’t sleep. Tossed and turned, thinking I might be helping some crime happen.

Around 1 a.m., I gave up and drove back to the house. I needed to check everything with my own eyes.

I searched every corner. Bedrooms, closets, everything. Nothing. But I’d seen three moving trucks unload here. Not a single mark on the floor. Impossible.

I stepped onto the porch, resigned that I’d never figure it out. Sat on one of those big wooden chairs, thinking what I might’ve missed.

That’s when I saw it. Something shiny stuck in a crack in the chair. I pulled it out. It was a piercing, probably from the last tenant. On the needle was a small red stain. Blood.

I reached into the crack again, feeling around, and touched something soft.

I pulled it out.

It was an ear. Darkened, rotten, with a torn hole where the piercing had been ripped out.

I decided to push the chair to see what was underneath it, and with a lot of effort I managed to move it a foot to the side.

On the wooden floor there was a symbol I couldn’t recognize. Circles and shapes carved into the boards right under where the chair had been, like some sort of ritual. There were more traces of blood there.

I froze, staring at it, heart pounding. What snapped me out of it was a laugh that came out of nowhere.

A woman’s laugh, echoing from the darkness of the forest. It started low and distant, but quickly grew louder, hysterical.

Then more laughter followed, all of them female, all coming closer, aimed at me. It was like a whole crowd was hiding in those woods.

The sound grew louder and louder, until my instincts took over. I bolted to my car, started it up, and sped down the road.

The next day I called the couple and told them the deal was off. Made up some excuse. They weren’t happy, but I didn’t care.

Soon after, the owner called me again. I didn’t pick up, and blocked her number.

But the calls kept coming, from all sorts of different numbers. I answered one, and it was her voice, angry:

“You broke our pact. The rent will be collected at the end of the month.”

She kept repeating it, and I hung up every time.

I went to the police. They went to the property, found nothing, then came back pissed because I had wasted their time. There were no ears, no marks, no nothing.

Today is the 23rd, and next week the month ends. I keep wondering if I did the right thing, if maybe I should’ve just carried on with that commission.

Every day that passes, I feel the panic building. My phone is always turned off, and I’ve rented a room in a roadside hotel outside the state.