Tchotchkes

(TW familial death)

Grandpa died on a Sunday. He passed silently, unnoticed by the walls around him, not a creak of the floorboards, or a squeak of the mattress he laid on, only the shallow release of breath to confirm the absence of life. The night had opened up and swallowed him giving birth to the early morning. A day emerged without him for the first time in 78 years. Just a lonely 650 square foot cottage surrounded by hemlock trees void of anyone to clock his last moments. 

His cause of death was undetermined, chalked up to his age due to the fact he’d received a remarkably clean bill of health by his primary physician just days before. His only symptom being his inability to sleep, which is curious considering he was in his bed when his neighbor found him. His final rest being the first one in months. 

It’s sad, really, that life can be snuffed out so seamlessly. It only takes one breath, one heartbeat to break this mortal plane. I wrestle the thought away, burying it in the back of my mind. The thoughts of death only make this place creepier and the task at hand more difficult. 

The rusty door flies open, sending it swinging into the wall, nearly shattering its frosted glass windows. The haze-filled shack fills with light as I swipe at the musty air. To the left is a simple living room with a faded paisley print sofa and what looks like a handmade coffee table. Grandpa always had a knack for carpentry. In the corner a worn leather recliner sits vacant, where the whisper of a memory scratches at the back of my neck. A thick layer of dirt blankets every surface. Oh boy. The small galley kitchen lay just beyond with a mound of dirty dishes in the sink. What have you gotten yourself into, Ezra?

 “Holy shit, look at this place.”  Jack exclaims, setting a box of cleaning supplies on the ground beside me. 

I sigh to myself and begin inspecting the cluster of boxes scattered about, two to three high, some labeled and taped, most overflowing in haphazard heaps. Jack trails in behind me, picking up a bundle of discarded button downs, flinging an eruption of dust and rat droppings onto the wood plank floor. 

“Rats,” he says, giving me a weary look. There's nothing I can do to keep my eyes from rolling.

“Let's just get as much packed as we can and get out of here.” I knew Jack wouldn’t be much help with morale, but since my mothers falling out with grandpa 6 years ago I was the only family member who was willing to make this trip, and Jack reluctantly agreed to accompany me, ever the protective boyfriend.  

“Why don’t you start in the kitchen, I’ll work on these over here,” I say motioning over the considerable mountain of nonsense before me. Jack complies with a huff, stepping over piles of books and clothing, toward the soiled mound in the sink. 

A few boxes are taped up and labeled in black marker, ready to be stored or sold, as if grandpa knew he was on his way out. My eyes lock on one particular grubby box, not yet taped, the corner of it chewed, tiny pieces in a confetti-like collection. That damned rat. Inside is surprisingly well-organized with a bouquet of tightly bubble wrapped cylinders. Hmmm. These must have been pretty valuable to be wrapped so precisely.

Unable to temper my curiosity, I pluck one from its pile, peel the tape and carefully roll the object from its 2 layers of wrap. A small figurine creature rests in the palm of my hand, a peculiar shape like a piece from an eclectic board game. Its ceramic finish is smooth against my fingers. I trace the little figure, running the tips of my fingers over pink pointed ears, glinting black eyes and a long aquiline nose, drawing my thumb over eerily hairlike whiskers. The figurine's body scaled and rough, similar to that of a serpent but with feet. No, not feet. What are those? They look like.. hooves?  

A crash from the kitchen steals me from my study. “Fuck, what was that? Did you see that?!” Jack's eyes shift wildly from me to the shattered plate on the floor. 

“What was it?” I ask, joining him in the kitchen, peeking into the half-filled sink as Jack carefully sweeps up glass shards from the floor.

 “I don’t know. It was huge.” 

“Was it a rat?” I ask, opening up a cupboard, seeing nothing.

“It hissed at me.” 

Now I feel silly. “That's not funny, Jack.” 

Annoyed, I resume where I left off, picking up another tightly wrapped cylinder, unrolling it until out pops another strange sculpture, one with the trunk of an elephant but the body of a kangaroo.

“Ezra, I’m not kidding. It did.” Jack pleads.

He knows about my fear of snakes, and delights in pranking me with fake ones often. 

I pluck another cylinder from the box and unroll it.

“Rats don’t hiss, Jack.” 

“Sometimes they do,” Jack replies, returning to his assigned chore, unsettled.

“Whatever” I return back to my growing collection of objects. Another weird half animal half reptile humanoid statue rolls into my palm. Interesting.

I unwrap the remaining cylinders until an assorted array of oddities line the coffee table. In addition to the mouse-serpent-horse and elephant-kangaroo is a half lizard half monkey with the gills of a fish, a toucan-crocodile, a bobcat with spindly red limbs hanging from a branch, and what looks like a bear with penguin feet and a beavers tail. Finally, the most unusual, the largest of the 7 is a statue of a lion with crow-like wings, black as night, and enormous dark blue eyes that seem to suddenly blink.

The motion startles me, making me drop the figurine as I bump into the coffee table, knocking over 3 more figurines, cracking them. 

“Fuck!” I yell, fumbling with the now broken lion-crow. 

“You okay over there?” Jack calls over his shoulder, finishing up the last of the dishes. 

“No,” I reply, holding the lion-crow in two pieces. “I just broke this thing” 

Jack dries his hands off on a hand towel and snatches the poor lion's head from my hand. 

“Well it’s not like he’s going miss them or anything” 

"Real nice, Jack. This is my grandpa you're talking about" I say as I snatch the lions head out of his hand, joining it with the rest of its body.

A crunching sound snaps me back to the table. The toucan-crocodile figurine is cracked in 3 places, a river of breakage along its scaled tail and vibrant beak. Suddenly, it shifts, rolling forward, and back, jolting me from my seated position.

"What the fuck" I exclaim. Jack is immediately behind me, both of us staring at the figurines. Two of them are moving, their cracks growing bigger, as if something inside is working to break free. It's almost like they're...hatching? Through the cracked mouse-serpent-horse, a little hoof kicks at the ceramic, breaking through just a bit more, freeing itself, inch by inch, a snake-like tail curving behind it. What the..

An abrupt violent roar explodes from outside, so loud the windows vibrate, making the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Jack and I stare at each other, frozen in place, too afraid to move. 

“What the hell was that?” Jack whispers.

“I don’t know.” I mouth. “It came from outside.”

Another roar shakes the cabin. Closer this time. The urge to hide is unbearable. Jack steps closer to the window, peering out. I want to stop him, to pull him away and run. 

“There! Right there!” Jack is pointing at the tree just outside the window. “See that?” He motions me to come closer. I move carefully, stepping lightly, not letting a sound give me away.

Finally, I get close enough to see what Jack is pointing at. Ten feet away, perched in the tree directly in front of my grandpa’s cabin, is a large crow with the head of a lion, a collar of fur around its neck, sharp teeth protruding from his enormous mouth, midnight wings outstretched ready for flight. 

“Oh my god. It's….” The little statue seems to burn in my hands. The head of a lion with the body of a crow.

A crow. A lion. 

The sound of pecking grows louder.

“What the fuck are these things?” I say, picking up the box, searching for any explanation. On one side scrawled in black marker is only one word. 

Tchotchkes.