0 reactions
My Grandpa was Hiding Something from Us
A few weeks ago, my grandpa died. I wasn't close with him anymore, but I had been when I was a child. I would go over to his house almost every weekend. He had all the things a young boy could ever want. A pool, an Xbox, and porn magazines were some of the many things I would spend my time with when I was at his house. He was like the stereotypical “cool” grandpa.
So when I found out he had died, it hit me pretty hard. It had been a while since I experienced a death in my family. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I feel guilty, like I was somehow responsible for his death. I thought that if I had gone to see him just once recently, then maybe he would still be alive. Over the past few years I hadn't gone to see him much. It was one of those, growing up things, as I saw my parents less and less, I barely saw him. So I was surprised when I was told I was in his will. Not only that, I was surprised that he left me his house. It was especially unbelievable since his daughter, my mother, was still alive and well.
I had guessed he wanted to give me a head start in life. As a college student, the notion of owning a house seemed impossible, but now I was presented with one. There were no strings attached. The mortgage was already paid off and my grandpa lived there until the day he died, so it wasn't like the house was dilapidated. I obviously jumped at the opportunity and moved to the house within the week. I had still been living with my parents, but with how much time school was consuming, I wasn't home unless it was to sleep. I'm a second year engineering student, so the workload is understandably thick to say the least.
With my own place, I wouldn't have to worry about coming home late and disturbing my parents. That exact scenario was something that happened often. They went to bed early, so me stumbling through the doorway at a late hour of the night didn't make them the happiest. With my own place, I wouldn't have to worry about paying rent, I could just focus on school work. It was a win-win situation for both me and my parents. My mom was ecstatic about the entire situation, while my dad seemed a bit off put.
“I've never really liked this house,” he said with an exhale. We stood outside the house, boxes in hand. He was breathing hard. “Just always gives me a bad vibe.” He stared at the house for another few seconds before turning towards me.
“I like it.” I meekly said, my mom nodding in agreement, not staying a word herself. With a sigh my dad continued forward to the door and pushed it open. It had already been unlocked, seemingly by the agent who handed me the deed early that week. We spent a few quiet hours unpacking my belongings. As I looked through each room, a wave of nostalgia hit me. I had remembered so many things from my childhood. My makeshift cooking classes in the kitchen, the bruise I got on my left knee while running through the living room, and the mess I made in the bathroom when I came down with the flu. So many hours of my life had been spent wandering these halls, so to be back made me smile uncontrollably.
I'm sure with a title like this you're expecting me to ramble about a room I was never supposed to enter. A long lost memory of my grandpa telling me to stay out of the basement. Yet it was nothing like that. I had been through every room of the house. This was like a second home to me and nothing felt off. I wasn't the protagonist of a horror story, I was a boy who just got his first taste of the real world. The only thing odd about the house was my grandma's room. He had died in his sleep, so seeing his bed freshly made and pristine just felt uncomfortable.
“We should probably get you a new bed.” Mom had joined me in the doorway. She was somberly looking at the bed, a small frown encroaching her lips.
“Yeah, I can go after I'm done packing,” I whispered. The weight of his death was still looming over me. It had only been around a week since he died at that point. I could only imagine how my mom was feeling as she looked down to his final resting place.
“Let's go now, We've been at it for a while.” It was clear that my mom was just trying to get out of the house for a while. I can't say I blamed her. I could almost smell the scent of death as she closed the door in front of me. I noted that the entire room needed to be changed. Not just the bed.
The trip to Walmart was uneventful. We picked a comfortable looking mattress, grabbed some sheets, then left. I already had blankets packed up so there was no need to grab new ones. As we got back to the house, the sun was nearly setting. It was that moment right before sunset where it's still bright outside, but you can just tell the sun is about to set.
When we parked in the driveway, we were greeted by two older people. There was a man and a woman, both looking to be in their sixties. They were standing on the porch of the house, facing the front door. The woman held a tray in her hand, although from behind it was hard to tell what was in it.
“Can I help you,” dad said as he stepped out of the car. The man was the first to turn around. He chuckled.
“What a coincidence! We just rang the doorbell and there you are right behind us. We heard someone was moving into Jerry's house, but we didn't think it would be a family.”
“No, no,” my dad shook his head, “it's just my son. Me and my wife were just helping him move.” The old couple walked down from the porch and met us in the driveway. The man shook my hand first, and then my father's. He ignored my mother, but his wife greeted her with a hug. Mom seemed a bit confused by the notion but went along with it.
“Welcome to the neighborhood dearie,” the wife had spoken for the first time. “It's a pleasure to meet you. You must be Stephen, right?”
I shot her a perplexed look.
“I'm Ian, I was Jerry's grandson.” She met my look with an even more confused one. Her husband was looking over to her and gave her a gentle nudge.
“Sorry about that, my wife forgets things. She used to have a friend named Stephen and well…”
“I don't forget things Ronny!” The woman suddenly yelled out. “Remember? We were told that
Stephen would be moving in. They sent it in the letter!” Her voice was getting louder as she talked. It wasn't a volume that came from anger, rather an excitement. One that wasn't shared by her husband.
“Dear, you're doing it again.” He rubbed his hand against her back. “I'm so sorry folks,” he looked over to us, to my father in particular. “Her mind is getting all muddled. She's got mild dementia.”
“It's alright, really.” My dad didn't really know how to respond. The woman's behavior was odd, sure, yet the idea of her having dementia just made everything feel somber.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the new place Ian. This really is a lovely neighborhood,” the man quietly said. His wife had pushed herself into his arms. I thought I could hear a faint sobbing sound coming from her.
He said his goodbyes to us and then walked his wife across the street and over to, what I could assume, was their house. Despite the fact that I had come over countless times as a child, I never really knew grandpa's neighbors. From the looks on my parents' faces, I assumed they also didn't have much interaction with his neighbors. We all agreed not to speak much about it, as we all felt bad for the woman, and moved ourselves and my new mattress into the house.
When we got inside I set the bag of sheets down on the living room couch. My parents followed in after me, my mom sitting down on the couch.
“Welp, you're on your own now, Ian,” she said with a laugh. We started laughing too. My mom was always good at lightening the mood. Whenever things were tense she would just make us laugh.
We bantered for a bit longer then, within the hour, my parents were gone. My grandpa's house was about thirty minutes away from my parents house, and with the sun being almost fully set at that point, they decided to leave. An immediate freedom pushed itself deep into my brain. For the first time in my life, I was truly by myself. While that may not seem as positive as I am spinning it, I assure you it was. I've always been a bit of an introvert. The prospect of having a whole house all to myself, all the time, was incredible.
The mattress box sat on the ground of the living room, waiting to be opened. I had promised my parents I would set it up myself, however staring down at it on my floor gave me all the reasons I needed to put it off until the next day. For tonight, I would sleep on the couch. First, I needed to look around the house some more. I wasn't too keen on sleeping in my grandfather's room. Something about sleeping in the same room he died was just disturbing to me.
I walked through the kitchen and over to the stairway. My grandpa's house consisted of two small, but packed floors. Each floor consisted of around 5 rooms, more than enough for an old man. The entire upstairs was designed for his children and then, in his latter years, their children. Walking up the stairs I immediately made my way to the right. There sat a rather faded, wooden door. The knob was a light golden color and, with how much the paint was chipped, it was obvious how much use it had seen. I opened the door and was pleasantly surprised to see the room within was left exactly as I remembered it. When I was a child the game room was my favorite place in the house. Grandpa always made sure to keep up to date with the latest consoles and board games. Any time I came over, I was met with a new game. Halo, Call of Duty and board games like Apples to Apples, were the objects of my obsession. Back then, the game room was a sanctuary. I could leave all my troubles behind and just be myself for a few hours. It might be selfish to say, but I feel like that's one of the reasons I really loved my grandpa. Now, the game room reflected something else entirely. I felt a deep sense of sorrow entering the room and finding everything to be exactly the same. It was like Grandpa kept up a facade for just us and in reality he didn't care for any of these rooms.
I remember one night in the game room. He told me all about the time he tried call of duty and how he “sucked at the game”. I reassured him that no matter how bad he was at video games I would always be there for him and he would always be my favorite family member. But now he's gone and I found myself left with emotions I couldn't quite quantify. I looked around the room, eager to unlock some hidden memories that would send me down the nostalgia trip of a lifetime. Instead, I found myself drawn to the cabinet in the far left of the room. It was tucked away behind those little alphabet mats that teachers used to have in their classroom in a vain attempt to have students learn the alphabet. My grandpa picked them up in order to attempt to get me to learn the same thing. I was never really great with words, especially when I was younger. I struggled to focus in class and as such failed to learn the alphabet when I was three.
I moved the mats to the side, reaching out to the cabinet and opening it. Previously, it was used to house all of the board games, however now it looked barren. All that was left within the cabinet was a crumpled up piece of paper. I grabbed the paper, not thinking much of it, and unfolded it gently. Unbeknownst to me, something had fallen to the floor, creating a tiny metallic ringing sound as it did. The paper itself was blank, so I threw it back into the cabinet. My attention shifted to the metallic sound, and I reached down to my feet, grasping the object in my hand. I pulled it up and within view. It was a small ruby colored key. This was odd for two particular reasons. The first being that Grandpa never kept anything in his house locked. I was always able to wander the house whenever and wherever I pleased. The second oddity regarding this key was where it was placed. Why would a key be shoved into a piece of paper? On top of that, why would it be stuffed in a random, empty, cabinet?
The most logical answer to that first oddity was that the key belonged to his office door. I thought that perhaps in his old age he had grown weary about leaving his office unlocked at all times. Of course, now I know how wrong that was, but it was my working theory then. I kept hold of the key as I made my way down the stairs and over to his office door. As per usual, it was closed. He did always keep it closed though one simple turn of the knob would open it. I placed my free hand on the knob, twisted, and was met with nothing. The door refused to open. I was right, I thought to myself as I pushed the key into the lock and twisted. The faint clicking noise that followed indicated that the door had now been unlocked.
This time, when I twisted the knob, I was greeted by a thick coat of dust that covered not only the room, but now, what felt like my entire body. I coughed a bit at the sudden change in air quality. It tasted stale. My nose itched as I forced myself in the room, fighting past the invincible dust bunnies, of whom I now considered enemies. In the center of the room sat a large mahogany desk. Splayed out across the desk were various sheets of paper, along with a typewriter. My grandpa never quite moved into the digital age when it came to his studies. He preferred the feeling of the typewriter over the hard clacking of a computer keyboard. Perhaps that’s the reason all his work was so beautiful. No matter what he wrote there was always an aura that surrounded it. The font of the typewriter and the sophisticated words darted across the page, made all his writing seem so foreign, yet stunning.
Behind the desk, were all of his bookshelves. They stretched across the entirety of the office's back wall. He always took great care of his books, so it was bizarre to see how much dust they had collected. In order for this much dust to be present, the room would have to lie abandoned for at least a year or two. I struggled to understand the implications of those thoughts as I paced over to the desk. Getting a closer look at the papers strewn across the desk, I could see that they were all part of a larger work. I collected the pages, wiping off the built up dust in the process, and rearranged them. It was quite easy since they all contained page numbers. When I finally collected all the pages, I took a glance at them. My heart sank as I read the first line of page one.
“Dear Ian,”
I froze in place. There was a tense feeling in the air, one that wasn’t present before. If this room had been locked up for at least a year, then why was there a letter addressed to me. More alarmingly, was the length of the letter. It wasn’t the typical short, formal letter, it was a long, story-like account that was addressed to none other than me. Curiosity got the better of me and I continued reading. For the sake of your understanding I’ll transcribe the letter, in its entirety, here.
*“Dear Ian,*
*If you’ve acquired this letter, then I’m afraid that means I’ve perished. If you've gotten this letter then that means I've roped you into my affairs, and for that I'm deeply sorry. You were the only trustful soul in this God forsaken place, it has to be you. Please, don't be alarmed at all of this. I'll try to explain everything to you the best I can. Truth is, even I didn't know everything. I'll start at the beginning, that should make it much easier to understand.*
*I first moved to Blythewood in my early twenties. When I was that young, this place was barely populated. A part of the highway had just been cleared, to make room for more housing and I was one of the first to apply for residency. There was some rather brief paperwork, but I was given a key to the house within the week. I acknowledged how strange this all was, how quickly everything had happened, but I was young and the prospect of getting a new house on the market for a cheap price was alluring. I had a few neighbors of course, but for the most part we were a small community. It was quaint. It was beautiful, son, it really was.*
*Over the next few years each of us began to build a family. I had your mother, and then shortly after my wife passed away. I'm not sure how much you've talked with your mom about that. It was a hard time for the both of us. Sandra was so young, she barely remembered her mother. I'm sure all she could remember was the countless nights I spent weeping. The countless bottles of liquor that littered the floor. Cancer is an awful disease. Not only did it take my wife, it took a piece of me with her. She was my everything. She was the one thing I'll regret not cherishing enough.*
*During that time, more homes were built. The neighborhood, now transformed into more of a town, was thriving. New families were moving in, the house values were up. Everything was peaceful, until the knock on the door.*
*As I was grieving in my room, I recall hearing a small knocking sound. At first I thought it was Sandra. She always loved to stomp around the house with her little dolls. Then the knock came again, this time much louder. It sounded aggravated, as if whoever was knocking was growing impatient. At that moment, I knew it had to be the door. I wiped my tears from my face and walked over to the front door. When I answered it I was greeted with an awful smell. It was as if the very embodiment of the sewer system was standing in front of me, only, it wasn't. In front of me stood a small boy, no older than your nine year old mother at the time. His brown hair was greasy and flung about everywhere. His clothes were torn to near pieces, holes sitting across his chest and sleeves. The smell hit me for a second time and I nearly gagged. It was silent for a moment, as I soaked in all the little boy's features. He wore a pained expression that looked almost as if he was waiting for me to offer something to him. I took the bait son, something about his face. It was like he was looking deep within me.*
*“Is there something I can do for you,” I answered in a near whisper.*
*“Food.” His voice was spine chilling. It was far deeper than anything that should've rightfully been able to be produced by a child. Even though he only uttered one singular word, I swear I could feel the earth tremble..*
*“I..um.”*
*“Food. Now.”*
*I was stunned. In my near drunken stupor I figured I must've been hallucinating. I wasn't sleeping well, and I could've sworn the young boy looked like my wife's younger brother. That would've been impossible however, since he died when he was twelve. It was a train car incident. I never pressed for the details. My wife always hated talking about it. So, faced with the bone rattling figure of the young boy, I decided the only way to deal with my assumed hallucination was to appease it.*
*“Alright, c'mon in sport. I'll fetch you something nice. Just wait right here.” I motioned for him to come in and sit on the couch. His eyes remained fixed on me as he took a step past the entryway.*
*“Thanks for letting me in, Mister,” he didn't take another step.*
*“Of course, do you need anything else?”*
*“No.”*
*I nodded slowly and practically ran to the kitchen, taking a deep breath as I entered. The smell was growing worse. It was invading my nostrils again and again, disappearing only to reappear once again. It was like it had pierced my very soul. I frantically searched the kitchen and as I did, Sandra rounded the corner.*
*“Daddy, what's that smell?” She was holding her nose tightly, an expression of disgust splattered across her face. I had been so caught up in my own delusions that I completely forgot about Sandra's existence. Her words made me stop right where I was standing.*
*“You can smell it too honey.”*
*She nodded.*
*“Go over to Daddy's room and get under the bed sweetie. Let's…play hide and seek.”*
*This boy, whoever it was, had been real. I don't know why I sent Sandra to hide at that moment, perhaps parental instincts took over, or perhaps I was just imparting my fear onto her. She nodded, giving a slight giggle in the process before skipping off to my room. Whenever we played hide and seek, I always made her count under my bed. If I didn't, she would cheat. Call me a sore loser, but even at my age I was determined to win at the children's game.*
*Having successfully sent my daughter off, I resumed my task. I quickly prepared a sandwich. As I write this I struggle to remember what it consisted of, but that's besides the point. I grasped the plate in my hand, trying as hard as I could to prevent it from shaking.*
*“It's all set!” I called out to the boy.*
*I was only met with silence.*
*“I said it's all ready!” I screamed out even louder than before.*
*Suddenly, and without any indication, the boy was in front of me. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his fingernails digging into the hardwood beam. He outstretched one hand, revealing his purplish palm. It was a color unlike any that was present on the rest of his body.*
*“Here,” I said, passing the plate over to him.*
*“Mister,” the boy said in a low whisper. He held the plate tightly. In my fear, I refused to let go. “Do you know what death tastes like?”*
*I pulled my hand from the plate. The boy's grip must've been flimsy since, as my grip loosened, he lost control of the plate and it fell to the ground. At that moment Sandra had entered the room. I hadn't accounted for the fact that she would hear my yelling when I attempted to summon the boy. I hadn't accounted for the fact that from my bedroom it may have sounded like I found my hiding spot and was ready for her to seek.*
*“Found you!” She said gleefully, before noticing the boy. All semblance of joy left her face as she saw, smelt, perhaps even tasted, the boy. She vomited almost immediately, and pressed herself up against the hallway wall.*
*“Mister, I asked a question.” The boy was stern.*
*“W-what?”*
*Everything was happening so fast. I felt as if I couldn't breathe.*
*“Have you ever tasted death?”*
*Sandra was still pressed up against the wall. She looked utterly prettified. I wanted to run to her and shield her from this horror that took the form of a young boy. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to tell her how much she reminded me of her mother. I couldn't. Before I had the chance to move, the boy reacted first. The fingernails that had been dug into the beam of the doorway, pulled away, revealing what looked to be a sharp claw. It was something so inhuman it's almost impossible to describe.*
*His claw-like hand glided across the air as he swung his body in my daughter's direction. There was a small, desperate scream, and then my very world went quiet. The boy's claw had found its way into my daughter's stomach. He burrowed it deep inside, a viscous red liquid beginning to coat the part of his arm that was still visible. Sandra flailed her arms, in an attempt to push the claw out of her, but with each spastic movement of hers, the boy dug his arm deeper within.*
*She was dead within a matter of minutes. Her last expression was one of pleading as she looked over to me. I wasn't able to move. No matter how many times I told myself I had to push forward and lunge at the boy, I couldn't. I was so crippled by fear that even my ears began to ring. The smell was becoming overbearing. Mixing with the sewers was now the distinct smell of metallic life force.*
*My brain was moving slower than my eyes. It took me a moment to process everything that had happened and when I did, I fell to my knees. My voice was hoarse and my mind was fighting every part of my body. Everything was burning, my eyes, my ears, my throat. All of this pain, all of this hate, culminated in a deep, guttural cry that spewed from deep within me. By the time I was able to look up from the tiled floor, the boy was gone. I was left in my kitchen, the clawed body of my daughter splayed out in front of me.*
*It took me a while before I was able to move again. The first part of me to return to normal were my fingers. I clenched them into a tight fist, my own nails digging into my flesh. It was just like he did to her. Claws to skin. I was going to skin him. I was going to kill whatever creature took my daughter away from me. It couldn’t have been human. I had been digging into my own flesh so ferociously that blood was beginning to drip down onto the ground.*
*It was only then that I was able to snap myself out of the blind rage I had found myself within. I was brought back to the scene in front of me. My dead daughter, still in front of me, as if it was a reminder from whatever damned god is watching over us. A reminder that a pure evil had snuffed her light out. I was going to snuff its light out. I was going to kill it*
That was all that was contained in the letter. It had seemed so incomplete, and as I would later come to find out, it was. As I found myself reaching the end of Grandpa's letter, my initial curiosity turned into what I can only describe as unfiltered fear. I would be quick to write off a story of this caliber, however I knew the man who was writing this. A swell of confusion consumed me as I stood by his desk. Grandpa would never lie about something like this, but my mom was alive. I had literally just seen her. There were so many unanswered questions that dawned on me in the moments I sat pondering in his old, creaky chair.
Perhaps the letter was nothing but a story, although judging by the fact that it was solely addressed to me, I was quick to dismiss this thought. I sat at his desk for a long while, simply collecting my thoughts. It was already well past dark by the time I finished reading the letter. I pulled out my phone, and pulled up my mom’s contact information. I deliberated quickly, before hitting the call button. The best way to confirm Grandpa's letter would be to just ask my mom. I knew she wasn’t dead, and that the letter likely wasn’t written in full as I had found it, so I assumed mom would have the other half of the story to fill me in on.
The phone rang twice before she picked up.
“Honey?” her voice sounded groggy. I had likely just woken her from a deep sleep.
“Hey mom, sorry to bother. I just had a quick question.”
I heard some shuffling from the phone mic.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just that…it's gonna sound stupid… but I just found a letter from Grandpa. It was addressed to me and it said that you were killed when you were younger. Is that…true?”
I realized the absurdity of my question right as it left my mouth. I waited to hear mom’s stern voice, yelling at me for drunk dialing her, or something like that, yet it never came. All I heard was her breath on the other end. She was breathing quite heavy, as if I had struck a chord with her.
“Your grandfather always loved his stories. He probably wanted to make his death seem like it had meaning. The letter is nothing but bullshit. I’m sorry he scared you like that. You should get some rest, honey. It’s been a long day.”
Before I could say anything in response she had already hung up. Her voice had sounded cold. I wasn’t used to hearing mom like this, but the idea of Grandpa writing a story about her death probably made her vastly uncomfortable. I wish I could say the story ended there. I wish I had gone to bed that night, and believed my mothers words as cold hard facts. There was just something about that call that made me believe something was deeply wrong. Mom never used curse words. It was something that, at the moment, I paid no attention to, however as I recall the events of the past few days and pour them into this written log, I’m unable to pretend that this held no significance.
#entertainment
source
A few weeks ago, my grandpa died. I wasn't close with him anymore, but I had been when I was a child. I would go over to his house almost every weekend. He had all the things a young boy could ever want. A pool, an Xbox, and porn magazines were some of the many things I would spend my time with when I was at his house. He was like the stereotypical “cool” grandpa.
So when I found out he had died, it hit me pretty hard. It had been a while since I experienced a death in my family. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I feel guilty, like I was somehow responsible for his death. I thought that if I had gone to see him just once recently, then maybe he would still be alive. Over the past few years I hadn't gone to see him much. It was one of those, growing up things, as I saw my parents less and less, I barely saw him. So I was surprised when I was told I was in his will. Not only that, I was surprised that he left me his house. It was especially unbelievable since his daughter, my mother, was still alive and well.
I had guessed he wanted to give me a head start in life. As a college student, the notion of owning a house seemed impossible, but now I was presented with one. There were no strings attached. The mortgage was already paid off and my grandpa lived there until the day he died, so it wasn't like the house was dilapidated. I obviously jumped at the opportunity and moved to the house within the week. I had still been living with my parents, but with how much time school was consuming, I wasn't home unless it was to sleep. I'm a second year engineering student, so the workload is understandably thick to say the least.
With my own place, I wouldn't have to worry about coming home late and disturbing my parents. That exact scenario was something that happened often. They went to bed early, so me stumbling through the doorway at a late hour of the night didn't make them the happiest. With my own place, I wouldn't have to worry about paying rent, I could just focus on school work. It was a win-win situation for both me and my parents. My mom was ecstatic about the entire situation, while my dad seemed a bit off put.
“I've never really liked this house,” he said with an exhale. We stood outside the house, boxes in hand. He was breathing hard. “Just always gives me a bad vibe.” He stared at the house for another few seconds before turning towards me.
“I like it.” I meekly said, my mom nodding in agreement, not staying a word herself. With a sigh my dad continued forward to the door and pushed it open. It had already been unlocked, seemingly by the agent who handed me the deed early that week. We spent a few quiet hours unpacking my belongings. As I looked through each room, a wave of nostalgia hit me. I had remembered so many things from my childhood. My makeshift cooking classes in the kitchen, the bruise I got on my left knee while running through the living room, and the mess I made in the bathroom when I came down with the flu. So many hours of my life had been spent wandering these halls, so to be back made me smile uncontrollably.
I'm sure with a title like this you're expecting me to ramble about a room I was never supposed to enter. A long lost memory of my grandpa telling me to stay out of the basement. Yet it was nothing like that. I had been through every room of the house. This was like a second home to me and nothing felt off. I wasn't the protagonist of a horror story, I was a boy who just got his first taste of the real world. The only thing odd about the house was my grandma's room. He had died in his sleep, so seeing his bed freshly made and pristine just felt uncomfortable.
“We should probably get you a new bed.” Mom had joined me in the doorway. She was somberly looking at the bed, a small frown encroaching her lips.
“Yeah, I can go after I'm done packing,” I whispered. The weight of his death was still looming over me. It had only been around a week since he died at that point. I could only imagine how my mom was feeling as she looked down to his final resting place.
“Let's go now, We've been at it for a while.” It was clear that my mom was just trying to get out of the house for a while. I can't say I blamed her. I could almost smell the scent of death as she closed the door in front of me. I noted that the entire room needed to be changed. Not just the bed.
The trip to Walmart was uneventful. We picked a comfortable looking mattress, grabbed some sheets, then left. I already had blankets packed up so there was no need to grab new ones. As we got back to the house, the sun was nearly setting. It was that moment right before sunset where it's still bright outside, but you can just tell the sun is about to set.
When we parked in the driveway, we were greeted by two older people. There was a man and a woman, both looking to be in their sixties. They were standing on the porch of the house, facing the front door. The woman held a tray in her hand, although from behind it was hard to tell what was in it.
“Can I help you,” dad said as he stepped out of the car. The man was the first to turn around. He chuckled.
“What a coincidence! We just rang the doorbell and there you are right behind us. We heard someone was moving into Jerry's house, but we didn't think it would be a family.”
“No, no,” my dad shook his head, “it's just my son. Me and my wife were just helping him move.” The old couple walked down from the porch and met us in the driveway. The man shook my hand first, and then my father's. He ignored my mother, but his wife greeted her with a hug. Mom seemed a bit confused by the notion but went along with it.
“Welcome to the neighborhood dearie,” the wife had spoken for the first time. “It's a pleasure to meet you. You must be Stephen, right?”
I shot her a perplexed look.
“I'm Ian, I was Jerry's grandson.” She met my look with an even more confused one. Her husband was looking over to her and gave her a gentle nudge.
“Sorry about that, my wife forgets things. She used to have a friend named Stephen and well…”
“I don't forget things Ronny!” The woman suddenly yelled out. “Remember? We were told that
Stephen would be moving in. They sent it in the letter!” Her voice was getting louder as she talked. It wasn't a volume that came from anger, rather an excitement. One that wasn't shared by her husband.
“Dear, you're doing it again.” He rubbed his hand against her back. “I'm so sorry folks,” he looked over to us, to my father in particular. “Her mind is getting all muddled. She's got mild dementia.”
“It's alright, really.” My dad didn't really know how to respond. The woman's behavior was odd, sure, yet the idea of her having dementia just made everything feel somber.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the new place Ian. This really is a lovely neighborhood,” the man quietly said. His wife had pushed herself into his arms. I thought I could hear a faint sobbing sound coming from her.
He said his goodbyes to us and then walked his wife across the street and over to, what I could assume, was their house. Despite the fact that I had come over countless times as a child, I never really knew grandpa's neighbors. From the looks on my parents' faces, I assumed they also didn't have much interaction with his neighbors. We all agreed not to speak much about it, as we all felt bad for the woman, and moved ourselves and my new mattress into the house.
When we got inside I set the bag of sheets down on the living room couch. My parents followed in after me, my mom sitting down on the couch.
“Welp, you're on your own now, Ian,” she said with a laugh. We started laughing too. My mom was always good at lightening the mood. Whenever things were tense she would just make us laugh.
We bantered for a bit longer then, within the hour, my parents were gone. My grandpa's house was about thirty minutes away from my parents house, and with the sun being almost fully set at that point, they decided to leave. An immediate freedom pushed itself deep into my brain. For the first time in my life, I was truly by myself. While that may not seem as positive as I am spinning it, I assure you it was. I've always been a bit of an introvert. The prospect of having a whole house all to myself, all the time, was incredible.
The mattress box sat on the ground of the living room, waiting to be opened. I had promised my parents I would set it up myself, however staring down at it on my floor gave me all the reasons I needed to put it off until the next day. For tonight, I would sleep on the couch. First, I needed to look around the house some more. I wasn't too keen on sleeping in my grandfather's room. Something about sleeping in the same room he died was just disturbing to me.
I walked through the kitchen and over to the stairway. My grandpa's house consisted of two small, but packed floors. Each floor consisted of around 5 rooms, more than enough for an old man. The entire upstairs was designed for his children and then, in his latter years, their children. Walking up the stairs I immediately made my way to the right. There sat a rather faded, wooden door. The knob was a light golden color and, with how much the paint was chipped, it was obvious how much use it had seen. I opened the door and was pleasantly surprised to see the room within was left exactly as I remembered it. When I was a child the game room was my favorite place in the house. Grandpa always made sure to keep up to date with the latest consoles and board games. Any time I came over, I was met with a new game. Halo, Call of Duty and board games like Apples to Apples, were the objects of my obsession. Back then, the game room was a sanctuary. I could leave all my troubles behind and just be myself for a few hours. It might be selfish to say, but I feel like that's one of the reasons I really loved my grandpa. Now, the game room reflected something else entirely. I felt a deep sense of sorrow entering the room and finding everything to be exactly the same. It was like Grandpa kept up a facade for just us and in reality he didn't care for any of these rooms.
I remember one night in the game room. He told me all about the time he tried call of duty and how he “sucked at the game”. I reassured him that no matter how bad he was at video games I would always be there for him and he would always be my favorite family member. But now he's gone and I found myself left with emotions I couldn't quite quantify. I looked around the room, eager to unlock some hidden memories that would send me down the nostalgia trip of a lifetime. Instead, I found myself drawn to the cabinet in the far left of the room. It was tucked away behind those little alphabet mats that teachers used to have in their classroom in a vain attempt to have students learn the alphabet. My grandpa picked them up in order to attempt to get me to learn the same thing. I was never really great with words, especially when I was younger. I struggled to focus in class and as such failed to learn the alphabet when I was three.
I moved the mats to the side, reaching out to the cabinet and opening it. Previously, it was used to house all of the board games, however now it looked barren. All that was left within the cabinet was a crumpled up piece of paper. I grabbed the paper, not thinking much of it, and unfolded it gently. Unbeknownst to me, something had fallen to the floor, creating a tiny metallic ringing sound as it did. The paper itself was blank, so I threw it back into the cabinet. My attention shifted to the metallic sound, and I reached down to my feet, grasping the object in my hand. I pulled it up and within view. It was a small ruby colored key. This was odd for two particular reasons. The first being that Grandpa never kept anything in his house locked. I was always able to wander the house whenever and wherever I pleased. The second oddity regarding this key was where it was placed. Why would a key be shoved into a piece of paper? On top of that, why would it be stuffed in a random, empty, cabinet?
The most logical answer to that first oddity was that the key belonged to his office door. I thought that perhaps in his old age he had grown weary about leaving his office unlocked at all times. Of course, now I know how wrong that was, but it was my working theory then. I kept hold of the key as I made my way down the stairs and over to his office door. As per usual, it was closed. He did always keep it closed though one simple turn of the knob would open it. I placed my free hand on the knob, twisted, and was met with nothing. The door refused to open. I was right, I thought to myself as I pushed the key into the lock and twisted. The faint clicking noise that followed indicated that the door had now been unlocked.
This time, when I twisted the knob, I was greeted by a thick coat of dust that covered not only the room, but now, what felt like my entire body. I coughed a bit at the sudden change in air quality. It tasted stale. My nose itched as I forced myself in the room, fighting past the invincible dust bunnies, of whom I now considered enemies. In the center of the room sat a large mahogany desk. Splayed out across the desk were various sheets of paper, along with a typewriter. My grandpa never quite moved into the digital age when it came to his studies. He preferred the feeling of the typewriter over the hard clacking of a computer keyboard. Perhaps that’s the reason all his work was so beautiful. No matter what he wrote there was always an aura that surrounded it. The font of the typewriter and the sophisticated words darted across the page, made all his writing seem so foreign, yet stunning.
Behind the desk, were all of his bookshelves. They stretched across the entirety of the office's back wall. He always took great care of his books, so it was bizarre to see how much dust they had collected. In order for this much dust to be present, the room would have to lie abandoned for at least a year or two. I struggled to understand the implications of those thoughts as I paced over to the desk. Getting a closer look at the papers strewn across the desk, I could see that they were all part of a larger work. I collected the pages, wiping off the built up dust in the process, and rearranged them. It was quite easy since they all contained page numbers. When I finally collected all the pages, I took a glance at them. My heart sank as I read the first line of page one.
“Dear Ian,”
I froze in place. There was a tense feeling in the air, one that wasn’t present before. If this room had been locked up for at least a year, then why was there a letter addressed to me. More alarmingly, was the length of the letter. It wasn’t the typical short, formal letter, it was a long, story-like account that was addressed to none other than me. Curiosity got the better of me and I continued reading. For the sake of your understanding I’ll transcribe the letter, in its entirety, here.
*“Dear Ian,*
*If you’ve acquired this letter, then I’m afraid that means I’ve perished. If you've gotten this letter then that means I've roped you into my affairs, and for that I'm deeply sorry. You were the only trustful soul in this God forsaken place, it has to be you. Please, don't be alarmed at all of this. I'll try to explain everything to you the best I can. Truth is, even I didn't know everything. I'll start at the beginning, that should make it much easier to understand.*
*I first moved to Blythewood in my early twenties. When I was that young, this place was barely populated. A part of the highway had just been cleared, to make room for more housing and I was one of the first to apply for residency. There was some rather brief paperwork, but I was given a key to the house within the week. I acknowledged how strange this all was, how quickly everything had happened, but I was young and the prospect of getting a new house on the market for a cheap price was alluring. I had a few neighbors of course, but for the most part we were a small community. It was quaint. It was beautiful, son, it really was.*
*Over the next few years each of us began to build a family. I had your mother, and then shortly after my wife passed away. I'm not sure how much you've talked with your mom about that. It was a hard time for the both of us. Sandra was so young, she barely remembered her mother. I'm sure all she could remember was the countless nights I spent weeping. The countless bottles of liquor that littered the floor. Cancer is an awful disease. Not only did it take my wife, it took a piece of me with her. She was my everything. She was the one thing I'll regret not cherishing enough.*
*During that time, more homes were built. The neighborhood, now transformed into more of a town, was thriving. New families were moving in, the house values were up. Everything was peaceful, until the knock on the door.*
*As I was grieving in my room, I recall hearing a small knocking sound. At first I thought it was Sandra. She always loved to stomp around the house with her little dolls. Then the knock came again, this time much louder. It sounded aggravated, as if whoever was knocking was growing impatient. At that moment, I knew it had to be the door. I wiped my tears from my face and walked over to the front door. When I answered it I was greeted with an awful smell. It was as if the very embodiment of the sewer system was standing in front of me, only, it wasn't. In front of me stood a small boy, no older than your nine year old mother at the time. His brown hair was greasy and flung about everywhere. His clothes were torn to near pieces, holes sitting across his chest and sleeves. The smell hit me for a second time and I nearly gagged. It was silent for a moment, as I soaked in all the little boy's features. He wore a pained expression that looked almost as if he was waiting for me to offer something to him. I took the bait son, something about his face. It was like he was looking deep within me.*
*“Is there something I can do for you,” I answered in a near whisper.*
*“Food.” His voice was spine chilling. It was far deeper than anything that should've rightfully been able to be produced by a child. Even though he only uttered one singular word, I swear I could feel the earth tremble..*
*“I..um.”*
*“Food. Now.”*
*I was stunned. In my near drunken stupor I figured I must've been hallucinating. I wasn't sleeping well, and I could've sworn the young boy looked like my wife's younger brother. That would've been impossible however, since he died when he was twelve. It was a train car incident. I never pressed for the details. My wife always hated talking about it. So, faced with the bone rattling figure of the young boy, I decided the only way to deal with my assumed hallucination was to appease it.*
*“Alright, c'mon in sport. I'll fetch you something nice. Just wait right here.” I motioned for him to come in and sit on the couch. His eyes remained fixed on me as he took a step past the entryway.*
*“Thanks for letting me in, Mister,” he didn't take another step.*
*“Of course, do you need anything else?”*
*“No.”*
*I nodded slowly and practically ran to the kitchen, taking a deep breath as I entered. The smell was growing worse. It was invading my nostrils again and again, disappearing only to reappear once again. It was like it had pierced my very soul. I frantically searched the kitchen and as I did, Sandra rounded the corner.*
*“Daddy, what's that smell?” She was holding her nose tightly, an expression of disgust splattered across her face. I had been so caught up in my own delusions that I completely forgot about Sandra's existence. Her words made me stop right where I was standing.*
*“You can smell it too honey.”*
*She nodded.*
*“Go over to Daddy's room and get under the bed sweetie. Let's…play hide and seek.”*
*This boy, whoever it was, had been real. I don't know why I sent Sandra to hide at that moment, perhaps parental instincts took over, or perhaps I was just imparting my fear onto her. She nodded, giving a slight giggle in the process before skipping off to my room. Whenever we played hide and seek, I always made her count under my bed. If I didn't, she would cheat. Call me a sore loser, but even at my age I was determined to win at the children's game.*
*Having successfully sent my daughter off, I resumed my task. I quickly prepared a sandwich. As I write this I struggle to remember what it consisted of, but that's besides the point. I grasped the plate in my hand, trying as hard as I could to prevent it from shaking.*
*“It's all set!” I called out to the boy.*
*I was only met with silence.*
*“I said it's all ready!” I screamed out even louder than before.*
*Suddenly, and without any indication, the boy was in front of me. He was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his fingernails digging into the hardwood beam. He outstretched one hand, revealing his purplish palm. It was a color unlike any that was present on the rest of his body.*
*“Here,” I said, passing the plate over to him.*
*“Mister,” the boy said in a low whisper. He held the plate tightly. In my fear, I refused to let go. “Do you know what death tastes like?”*
*I pulled my hand from the plate. The boy's grip must've been flimsy since, as my grip loosened, he lost control of the plate and it fell to the ground. At that moment Sandra had entered the room. I hadn't accounted for the fact that she would hear my yelling when I attempted to summon the boy. I hadn't accounted for the fact that from my bedroom it may have sounded like I found my hiding spot and was ready for her to seek.*
*“Found you!” She said gleefully, before noticing the boy. All semblance of joy left her face as she saw, smelt, perhaps even tasted, the boy. She vomited almost immediately, and pressed herself up against the hallway wall.*
*“Mister, I asked a question.” The boy was stern.*
*“W-what?”*
*Everything was happening so fast. I felt as if I couldn't breathe.*
*“Have you ever tasted death?”*
*Sandra was still pressed up against the wall. She looked utterly prettified. I wanted to run to her and shield her from this horror that took the form of a young boy. I wanted to tell her how much I loved her. I wanted to tell her how much she reminded me of her mother. I couldn't. Before I had the chance to move, the boy reacted first. The fingernails that had been dug into the beam of the doorway, pulled away, revealing what looked to be a sharp claw. It was something so inhuman it's almost impossible to describe.*
*His claw-like hand glided across the air as he swung his body in my daughter's direction. There was a small, desperate scream, and then my very world went quiet. The boy's claw had found its way into my daughter's stomach. He burrowed it deep inside, a viscous red liquid beginning to coat the part of his arm that was still visible. Sandra flailed her arms, in an attempt to push the claw out of her, but with each spastic movement of hers, the boy dug his arm deeper within.*
*She was dead within a matter of minutes. Her last expression was one of pleading as she looked over to me. I wasn't able to move. No matter how many times I told myself I had to push forward and lunge at the boy, I couldn't. I was so crippled by fear that even my ears began to ring. The smell was becoming overbearing. Mixing with the sewers was now the distinct smell of metallic life force.*
*My brain was moving slower than my eyes. It took me a moment to process everything that had happened and when I did, I fell to my knees. My voice was hoarse and my mind was fighting every part of my body. Everything was burning, my eyes, my ears, my throat. All of this pain, all of this hate, culminated in a deep, guttural cry that spewed from deep within me. By the time I was able to look up from the tiled floor, the boy was gone. I was left in my kitchen, the clawed body of my daughter splayed out in front of me.*
*It took me a while before I was able to move again. The first part of me to return to normal were my fingers. I clenched them into a tight fist, my own nails digging into my flesh. It was just like he did to her. Claws to skin. I was going to skin him. I was going to kill whatever creature took my daughter away from me. It couldn’t have been human. I had been digging into my own flesh so ferociously that blood was beginning to drip down onto the ground.*
*It was only then that I was able to snap myself out of the blind rage I had found myself within. I was brought back to the scene in front of me. My dead daughter, still in front of me, as if it was a reminder from whatever damned god is watching over us. A reminder that a pure evil had snuffed her light out. I was going to snuff its light out. I was going to kill it*
That was all that was contained in the letter. It had seemed so incomplete, and as I would later come to find out, it was. As I found myself reaching the end of Grandpa's letter, my initial curiosity turned into what I can only describe as unfiltered fear. I would be quick to write off a story of this caliber, however I knew the man who was writing this. A swell of confusion consumed me as I stood by his desk. Grandpa would never lie about something like this, but my mom was alive. I had literally just seen her. There were so many unanswered questions that dawned on me in the moments I sat pondering in his old, creaky chair.
Perhaps the letter was nothing but a story, although judging by the fact that it was solely addressed to me, I was quick to dismiss this thought. I sat at his desk for a long while, simply collecting my thoughts. It was already well past dark by the time I finished reading the letter. I pulled out my phone, and pulled up my mom’s contact information. I deliberated quickly, before hitting the call button. The best way to confirm Grandpa's letter would be to just ask my mom. I knew she wasn’t dead, and that the letter likely wasn’t written in full as I had found it, so I assumed mom would have the other half of the story to fill me in on.
The phone rang twice before she picked up.
“Honey?” her voice sounded groggy. I had likely just woken her from a deep sleep.
“Hey mom, sorry to bother. I just had a quick question.”
I heard some shuffling from the phone mic.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just that…it's gonna sound stupid… but I just found a letter from Grandpa. It was addressed to me and it said that you were killed when you were younger. Is that…true?”
I realized the absurdity of my question right as it left my mouth. I waited to hear mom’s stern voice, yelling at me for drunk dialing her, or something like that, yet it never came. All I heard was her breath on the other end. She was breathing quite heavy, as if I had struck a chord with her.
“Your grandfather always loved his stories. He probably wanted to make his death seem like it had meaning. The letter is nothing but bullshit. I’m sorry he scared you like that. You should get some rest, honey. It’s been a long day.”
Before I could say anything in response she had already hung up. Her voice had sounded cold. I wasn’t used to hearing mom like this, but the idea of Grandpa writing a story about her death probably made her vastly uncomfortable. I wish I could say the story ended there. I wish I had gone to bed that night, and believed my mothers words as cold hard facts. There was just something about that call that made me believe something was deeply wrong. Mom never used curse words. It was something that, at the moment, I paid no attention to, however as I recall the events of the past few days and pour them into this written log, I’m unable to pretend that this held no significance.
#entertainment
source
| 18,000 mlx | |
| 18 | |
| 0 |