Every time my husband and I visit our daughter and her family, we walk to the shopping area less than a mile away. On the way we pass three semi-detached houses that have a street on both sides. The houses at both ends are in beautiful shape; fresh paint jobs, solid roofs, well-manicured yards, and attractive entryways. The house in the middle is a completely different story.

This visit, I stop and take a really good look at it. The gray tiled roof is surprisingly in good shape, as is the red brick exterior. However, the windows, garage door and front door are encased in a solid wall of dirty gray concrete. Much of the house is covered in trees, shrubs, and vines that creep over brick surfaces. Weeds are winning the fight for dominance and the brick steps leading up to street level and the area below them are littered. Several large stones are barely visible on the overgrown lawn, and once the prominent plants peek out, they search in vain for a space to grow as warm weather approaches.

My granddaughter, S, stops with me. “Look at that house,” I tell him. “Every time we visit, I wonder what happened to the owners and why all the windows, garage door and front door are cemented shut.”

Her eyes widen and I realize she’s seeing the house for the first time even though she drives past it often. “Let’s take a look at the front door,” I tell him. I start up the front steps, looking for loose bricks. She follows me, a look of fear and anticipation on her eight-year-old’s face. I’m having a great time, engaging her imagination.

We walk to the front door and look around, my husband yelling warnings to be careful behind us. S takes my hand and we examine the front door: there is definitely no way in. The cement is solid. So we turn and go down the steps, my husband offers me a hand because there is no railing.

“Maybe people had to leave in a hurry,” says S. “Maybe someone was sick or had no money.” She’s hopping from one foot to the other, excited and engaged with this game we’re playing. All the way to the shopping area, we talked about the house and wondered why people left. Perhaps they had to leave in a hurry and could not return or there was a fire in the house. Or maybe they are still there and have a secret opening to get food and water.

On the way back, I open the mailbox and take out the only piece of mail, a card covered in dirt and cobwebs. She’s been here for a while. S and I look at it: it’s dated October 2015 and it’s a notice to appear in court for creating a nuisance. Of course! What else could it be.

That night, we go to dinner at the house of S’s other grandmother. At the end of the evening, the subject of “the house” is discussed. S de ella tells her story, her raised voice and her animated face. I love to see her.

We all wonder if we could find any information about the house. A guest suggests we look at the public records. She thinks it would be hard to sell because whoever bought the property would have to pay off creditors. Also, there can be many links against the property. Someone else explains that the foreclosure process is initiated by creditors and a foreclosure sale would pay off any liens and would not encumber the property for the new owners. But we are all curious to know what happened to the house and the owners. Our circle of detectives has widened.

We talked about what might be inside. Someone suggests that there might be rats floating around in a flooded house; the floorboards could be giving way so the door had to be cemented for safety reasons; most likely it has been abandoned and turned into a marijuana house. It all seems plausible.

The next day we take another walk to the shopping area. This time S takes his camera (a Hanukah gift) and I take my iPhone. At the house, S and I started taking pictures, including taking pictures of the mailbox. When we are at home, we send each other our photos. Then S motions for me to follow her to his room. We sit on the bed and make ourselves comfortable.

“I know what’s in the house,” he confesses.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s a magical house.”

“Magic?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “You have to know the magic word to get into the house and only special people know it. And when you’re inside, you can float in the air and order food and eat it while you’re floating.” She laughs “Then you might gag!”

we both laughed. “I think you’re absolutely right,” I tell him. “The house is magical.”

Mystery solved.