I Rented My Upstairs To A Girl Who Seemed Nice. Then One Night I Smelled Something Strange...

Empty Rooms

I'm Eileen Harper, 70, and the farmhouse Walter and I shared for over forty years feels too empty now.

Every morning, I wake up to the same creaking floorboards and the same deafening silence where his humming used to be.

Sometimes I catch myself setting two coffee mugs on the counter before remembering there's only me. The garden's gotten smaller too—I can't manage all the rows we used to plant together.

And don't get me started on the bills. Walter's pension only covers so much, and the property taxes on this old place keep climbing like ivy up the side of the house.

Yesterday, I sat at our kitchen table—my kitchen table now—and spread out all the bills, calculating and recalculating until my eyes hurt.

That's when I decided to do something about both the emptiness and my dwindling savings. The upstairs has its own bathroom and a separate entrance from the side porch.

Walter and I talked about renting it out years ago but never got around to it. This morning, I pulled out the step ladder and climbed up to dust the ceiling corners.

I scrubbed the bathroom until it sparkled and polished the hardwood floors until I could see my reflection.

By afternoon, I'd placed an ad in the local paper and online: 'Upstairs apartment for rent in charming farmhouse. Quiet tenant preferred.

' The house feels different already, like it's holding its breath, waiting. I never thought I'd be sharing my home with a stranger at seventy, but life has a funny way of rewriting your plans when you least expect it.

Image by RM AI

Fresh Paint and New Beginnings

It started with a fresh coat of paint and the smell of lemon polish—I'd just finished preparing the upstairs for a tenant when Brielle walked up the gravel driveway with a polite smile, a backpack, and a soft voice that reminded me of my granddaughter.

The walls gleamed with their new eggshell finish, and the hardwood floors shone like honey in the afternoon light.

I'd spent three days on my hands and knees, scrubbing baseboards and washing windows until my arms ached.

'This place hasn't looked this good since 1992,' I thought to myself, arranging the vase of daisies from my garden on the kitchen table.

I was surprised how quickly the responses came in after I placed the ad—seven calls in just two days.

But Brielle was the first to actually show up. She stood on my porch with careful posture, calling me 'Mrs. Harper' and asking thoughtful questions about the neighborhood.

When she mentioned her parents were both in assisted living, something in me softened. 'I'm studying nursing,' she added, her eyes bright with purpose.

'I work part-time at the hospital, so I'll be quiet coming and going.' As I handed her the key that same afternoon, I felt a flutter of hope—maybe this arrangement would solve more than just my financial worries.

Maybe it would fill some of the silence Walter left behind. What I couldn't have known then was how that simple act—giving a stranger access to my home—would change everything.

Image by RM AI

The Girl with the Backpack

I heard the crunch of gravel before I saw her. Standing on my porch, I watched a young woman with a neat ponytail make her way up the driveway, backpack slung over one shoulder.

She had this careful way of walking, like someone who's mindful of the space they take up in the world. 'Mrs. Harper?

' she called out, her voice soft but clear. 'I'm Brielle Matthews. We spoke on the phone about the apartment?

' Something in that voice—gentle, respectful—reminded me instantly of my granddaughter Lily. I invited her in, watching as she took in the house with appreciative eyes.

'It's beautiful,' she said, running her fingers lightly over the banister Walter had refinished three summers before he passed.

'I'm 26, studying nursing at the community college,' she continued as we climbed the stairs. 'My parents are both in assisted living now, so I understand the importance of a quiet, respectful home.

' The way she said 'Mrs. Harper'—not 'Eileen' or the dreaded 'ma'am'—with such natural respect made me feel seen in a way I hadn't in months.

As we toured the upstairs, she asked thoughtful questions about the neighborhood, the heating system, whether I minded if she kept a small herb garden on the windowsill.

By the time we returned downstairs, I'd already made up my mind. There was something about Brielle that felt right, like the universe had sent exactly who I needed.

I couldn't have known then that sometimes the most dangerous people are the ones who know exactly what you want to hear.

Image by RM AI

First Impressions

I poured us both a cup of Earl Grey as Brielle settled at my kitchen table, her hands wrapped around the mug like she was savoring its warmth.

'My parents moved into Oakridge Assisted Living last year,' she explained, her eyes downcast. 'Dad's Parkinson's got worse, and Mom couldn't manage alone.

' The way she spoke about them—with such tenderness and concern—touched something in me. When I mentioned Walter and our forty years in this house, she leaned forward slightly, asking questions about how we'd met and what the neighborhood was like back then.

Not the polite, obligatory questions of someone just being nice, but genuine curiosity. 'The nursing program is intense,' she continued, 'but helping people like your husband, in their final chapter—that's what matters.

' I found myself nodding, sharing stories I hadn't told anyone in months. By the time we walked upstairs for a second look at the apartment, I'd already made up my mind.

The way she ran her fingers appreciatively along the freshly painted walls, commented on the 'perfect reading nook' by the window, and asked if she could possibly plant herbs on the small balcony—it all felt right.

'I think this could work beautifully, Mrs. Harper,' she said, and I handed her the key that afternoon.

How was I to know that the respectful young woman standing before me, with her neat ponytail and grateful smile, would soon make me question my own sanity?

Image by RM AI