Last year, I found an old, dusty lamp at a garage sale. The guy selling it claimed it was cursed, but I laughed it off, bought it for $2, and brought it home.

That night, my cat knocked it over, and something inside rattled. I pried it open, expecting coins or something valuable, but instead, I pulled out a tiny, folded note. It simply said, “Check under your bed.” I froze. I live alone.

Last summer, during one of my weekend treasure hunts at neighborhood garage sales, I stumbled upon an old, peculiar-looking lamp. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, with faded bronze engravings that gave it an eerie, antique charm. The guy selling it was an older man with a scruffy beard and deep wrinkles that made him look like he had seen things—things he didn’t want to talk about.

“You sure you wanna buy that?” he asked, squinting at me with a knowing look.

I chuckled. “Why? Is it haunted or something?”

The man leaned in slightly and muttered, “Not haunted… cursed.”

I laughed, assuming he was just trying to spook me into buying it for a good story. “How much?”

“Two bucks,” he said. “Just take it.”

Two dollars? For something this old and unique? I couldn’t pass up a deal like that. I figured at the very least, it would make a cool decoration or a conversation piece. So I handed over the money, grabbed the lamp, and went home, completely unaware that I had just made the worst purchase of my life.

That night, as I was settling in with a movie, my cat, Whiskers, decided to do what all cats do best—create chaos. In a single swipe of her paw, she knocked the lamp off the shelf. It crashed onto the wooden floor with a dull thud, and I heard something rattle inside. My curiosity piqued. Maybe there was something valuable in there—a secret stash of coins? A hidden gem? A long-lost treasure map?

Excited, I pried open the bottom of the lamp with a butter knife. Inside, instead of gold or riches, I found something far more unsettling—a tiny, folded piece of yellowed paper. My stomach tightened as I carefully unfolded it.

The note was short. Just three words.

“Check under your bed.”

I stopped breathing.

Now, let me clarify something—I live alone. No roommates, no significant other, no family crashing on my couch. Just me and Whiskers, who at that moment was busy licking her paw, completely unbothered by my impending panic attack.

I swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest. It’s a prank, I told myself. The guy at the garage sale probably planted this note to mess with whoever bought the lamp.

But then another thought crept in, an unwelcome, chilling thought—what if it wasn’t a prank?

I sat frozen on my couch, staring at my bedroom door. The room beyond it suddenly seemed darker, more ominous than usual. I had slept in that bed for years, never once thinking to check underneath it. My mind raced. Had I heard any strange noises lately? Was there an odd smell I had ignored? Was I about to become the lead in my own horror movie?

For a full minute, I debated my options. I could ignore it, pretend the note never existed, and sleep on the couch for the rest of my life. I could throw the lamp in the trash and move to another state. Or… I could check.

Slowly, with my phone in hand and the flashlight app turned on, I crept toward my bedroom, feeling the weight of every step. Whiskers trotted beside me, blissfully unaware that she was accompanying me on what could very well be my final mission.

Reaching the bed, I hesitated. My knees felt weak as I lowered myself to the floor, the beam of my flashlight trembling slightly in my grip.

And then—I saw it.

Something moved.

I yelped and jumped back so fast I knocked over my nightstand, sending my alarm clock crashing to the floor. My heart was in my throat. Whiskers, proving to be completely useless in this situation, merely meowed in protest.

With shaking hands, I aimed the flashlight again, forcing myself to look.

A pair of yellow eyes stared back at me.

It took me several terrifying seconds to realize what I was looking at.

A possum.

A godforsaken possum.

Somehow, some way, this little trespasser had made my bedroom his home, and judging by the look in his eyes, he was just as horrified as I was.

I sat there in stunned silence as the possum blinked, then casually turned around and waddled deeper under my bed, as if to say, Oh, you actually live here? My bad, dude.

The fear drained out of me, replaced with sheer exasperation. I had nearly had a heart attack over a freeloading marsupial. Fantastic.

The next morning, after an embarrassingly long process involving a broom, a trail of cat food, and me talking to the possum like he was a stubborn tenant refusing to vacate, I finally got him out of my house.

As for the lamp? I didn’t want to take any more chances. I wrapped it in three garbage bags, drove 10 miles out of town, and left it at a donation bin with a note that read: Good luck.

Whoever found it next, well… they were on their own.