One winter night

Back when I was eighteen, I dated a girl who lived in a quiet little town. Her grandfather and I got along well. We both loved old western movies and could talk for hours about them.

One winter night, after everyone else had gone to bed, we sat in the living room, still talking. It was past midnight when we heard a loud noise outside, like something banging against metal. He looked at me and said, “Wanna see something strange?”

We put on our coats and stepped out into the cold. The air was still, but the sound was coming from behind the house. We walked through the snow, and when we reached the back, I saw a small wooden shed with a single light inside. The door was slightly open, swinging in the wind.

As we got closer, I could see shadows moving inside—like something was thrashing around. Tools clattered against the walls, and the light flickered like someone was shaking it. My stomach tightened.

“What the hell is that?” I whispered.

He didn’t look surprised. “Happens every now and then,” he said.

We stepped right up to the door. He reached for the handle, then stopped and looked at me. “Just wait.”

Then, he grabbed it.

The moment his fingers touched the handle, everything went still. The light shut off, the noises stopped. Nothing but silence.

“Guess it’s over,” he said.

We walked back without another word.

Years later, I ran into my ex. I told her about that night, wondering if she had ever heard the story. She shook her head. “Grandpa never said a word about that.”

Right then, she called him. She put the phone on speaker and asked, “Did something weird ever happen behind the house?”

There was a long pause, then his voice came through. “Oh yeah, I remember that.”

She just smiled. “Sounds like him.”