Whats the strangest thing you found in your house/property after you bought it?

Credits first: Question asked by u/jlew24asu in this post.
First two paragraphs as told by 4rsmit. Remainder created by author of this post, and edited a little from my original to clean up a couple of things.
A colorized (colors filled in by hand), very large black and white photograph in an ornate gilded frame, found in the attic. The photo showed a young child in a white lacy dress wearing a cowboy hat and boots, standing on the steps of a city building (think brownstone) with a pony. The house was in the midwest, and not near a city where such buildings might be found. It was an old photo, and you could not tell if this was a girl or a boy, since boys used to wear dresses. But what you could tell, and could not be denied, was that the child was the ugliest child any of us had ever seen. Scary ugly. I wasn't even envious about the pony - that kid was just so ugly.
We hung the photo in a prominent spot, and would make up a story about the person/pony/photo, taking turns. We left the thing in the attic when we sold the house. Didn't seem right to take it
But I have to admit that's only part of the reason we left the photo. Actually, we're all terrified of it. Especially me.
We had lived there for a couple of years and our tradition of telling those stories had been going strong for a while. My older sister was the best at it. Creative, funny, biting stories that somehow always worked in "that's when they started disciplining their children with the ugly stick". My little brother didn't like it. He would tell us the picture was getting uglier every time she told one of those stories and maybe we should stop, but everyone would laugh even harder.
We were gathered in the kitchen one morning a few days after Christmas making breakfast, and someone had put bread in the toaster that wasn't toasting. My sister, finding the cord unplugged, held it up and said "who unplugs the toaster? We never unplug the toaster," and shoved the prongs into the outlet.
She didn't even scream, just shook for what seemed an eternity and fell back, lifeless. The smoldering toaster flew off the counter but freakishly landed upright on her abdomen. Her hand was locked around the electric plug in a death grip.
It took us the better part of a year before we started acting like ourselves again. Humor was especially hard to come by, as no one seemed to have the energy for it. And it wasn't until the following Christmas I finally made a crack about the photo and included the bit about the ugly stick. There was a silent moment, and then uproarious laughter, and then tears when Mom pointed out that my sister would have been proud of that one. It actually helped us all move along to a better place in the grieving process.
Another year passed, and things were mostly normal. Except that my younger brother, now 6, would leave the room every time the ugly picture story-telling tradition got rolling, especially when I would mention the ugly stick. Normally sociable and friendly, he snapped at us one day. "She doesn't like it! He. Whatever. The kid with the pony doesn't like it! Can't you see it's getting uglier!?" And he started crying.
Mom and Dad shared a glance and began talking to him gently as if he was still grieving for his sister, but he was inconsolable, insisting that the picture was different. Dad walked over to take a close look at that photo and scratched his head. "Honey? There's something weird. It DOES look different." Mom scowled. "Oh no, not you, too?" To placate him, Mom, the family archivist, pulled up a photo album of our first Christmas in the house, taken right after we had moved in. She scrolled through it until she found one with the photo of the kid with the pony in the background.
She zoomed in.
We leaned in for a closer look. It got very, very quiet. That picture on the screen was of an unattractive kid. But not really ugly. And certainly not angry.
As a group, we tiptoed over to the photo on the wall. It was of an ugly, angry kid. This was not the same photo. Well, it was, but it wasn't.
Mom scoffed, but her voice lacked confidence. "Come on, it's the resolution and the zooming. Come back here and look at this." And she pulled up a photo of my sister from Christmas a few days before she died. "Oh, look how happy she looked. I miss her."
Do you ever really look at anything in your house? I mean, really look at it? That colorful knick-knack that sits on the shelf, for example. If someone changed one of the shades of paint on it by just a little, would you even notice?
Over my sis' shoulder in the Christmas photo was the kid with the pony. Mom zoomed in. It looked like an ugly, angry kid...and the eyes were looking, I swear, right at my sister.
Then Mom put that pic right next to the one taken two years prior. It was most certainly not the same photo. Homely had become ugly and angry, two years later. Dad, almost in a trance, retrieved the framed photograph from the wall and held it up next to the screen.
Even the two angry versions were different. In the one with my sister, the kids eyes were set right, towards my sis. But now, in the framed one held by my Dad, its eyes were set left. My little brother spoke. "Now he's looking at you," he said calmly, pointing to me.


Source.