Did it sound dangerous? I knew I should have brought Charlie with me—he might be a total softie, but his bark had always been perfect for scaring away unwanted visitors.

Glancing around the living room for something I could use as a weapon, my gaze landed on a stray golf club leaning up against the TV cabinet and I tiptoed to snatch it up as quietly as possible. The floor creaked and I cringed as I headed through a doorway into the kitchen. I did not want to alert the interloper to my presence before I had the chance to assess their danger factor.

But the rustling continued as I stealthily entered and I wasn’t sure whether I was relieved or horrified by the sight of a possum sitting in the middle of the table, tearing up an old cereal packet with its teeth.

It froze as it saw me and had the audacity to look at me like I was the intruder. Good God, this reminded me of the scene in one of Payton’s favourite movies where a man inherits a house in the country only to arrive and find a pig hiding under a sheet on the couch. I wondered how many other animals I might find as I explored the other rooms, and anyway, weren’t possums supposed to be nocturnal?

The possum must have decided I looked more foe than friend. It sprang from the table across to the bench, climbed up the half-shredded lace curtains at the window and then disappeared into a hole in the ceiling. My eyes widened as I took in not only the cracks everywhere, but also the brownish stains above me. A leaky roof or possum urine?

I wasn’t sure which was the better option.

Astonishingly, the kitchen was marginally tidier than the living room, but the surfaces were grotty. No way I’d put my beloved Thermomix in a kitchen looking like this, never mind actually cook anything here.

After the living room and the kitchen, I was prepared to find almost anything in the rest of the shack. The bathroom—although also outdated—harboured a little mould in the usual places, and I shuddered at the hair in the shower grate, but it could have been worse. A good scrub, a generous splash of bleach and a new shower curtain would do wonders.

My heart squeezed as I came to a closed door, which I guessed to be one of the two bedrooms. If I found bed bugs or it smelled like death—Wei hadn’t mentioned where his grandfather died—then I was out of there. With a quick breath, I pushed the door, but it hit something on the other side. Cautiously, I peered through the gap and discovered what I hoped to be the old man’s spare room. It was filled to the brim with boxes that looked to contain more tarnished bottles, newspapers and books, in addition to clothes, old shoes and all sorts of other paraphernalia.

Whatever else Wei’s grandfather was, he was clearly also a hoarder.