I used to do HVAC work. About twenty years ago, I had to fix something in an attic, and the only entrance to that attic was through a large, messy room that obviously belonged to a teenage boy. At first, it seemed normal. Eventually, though, I realized everything in that boy’s room was kinda outdated. The CDs and magazines lying around had all come out a few years before, for example.

After finishing the job, I asked my boss about it. He told me that the kid had died a few years before from autoerotic asphyxiation (he accidentally strangled himself to death while jerking off), and his mother had found his body. She insisted that his room remain just as it was. She maintained it as some kind of shrine, unmade bed, jeans on the floor and all.

I couldn’t even imagine the emotional toll that must have taken on the family. Every. Single. Day. She refused to let them heal and move on. I only met the mother briefly, before I knew the whole story. I never met the husband or sister. I’m glad. Even if I was bribed to go back in that house, you couldn’t pay me enough to go upstairs. That kid’s room was, without exaggeration, the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen.