Miserable Miss Hollydaye

As we drive over the winding, bumpy road on the outskirts of a small village, named Linkon I think, I see my dad shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat as my mother carefully navigates the terrain. He looks over at her, and she meets his eyes for a moment, almost like they are having a telepathic talk. For a reason unknown to me, they look… worried? 

The rhythmic flashing of the varying shades of green through the window and the gentle rocking of the car over uneven ground draw my attention back outside. I stare lazily out the window, daydreaming of things most kids think about—simple things, free from real-world burdens, like birds and butterflies. 

“So, Suzie, do you remember what we told you about grandma?” My dad says, breaking the lull.

“Uhmm…” I reply, trying to recall what they told me.

Before we left, they told me I would meet my dad’s mom, or my grandma, for the first time today. I had only known one person named Grandma my whole life, and I always called her Grammy. So, to learn that Grammy had a twin was awesome. The cookies Grammy always bakes when I come over are the best!

“Yeah, you told me we’re meeting Grammy’s twin today, right?” I said, confident in my answer.

In response, my dad chuckles and shakes his head slightly. “Well, she is your grandma, but she isn’t Grammy’s twin. She’s different…Ummm, when we get there, just don’t act the same way you do with Grammy.” He scratches at the back of his neck and looks at me. “I haven’t seen or talked to her in a while. When she called us to say she wanted to have a visit from her grandchild and wouldn’t take no for an answer, well…” He trails off, and he scrunches up his brow. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He relaxes his face, replacing it with an even tone, and returns to the oncoming road.

The rest of the car ride was relatively silent after that. And soon after, our conversation starts to fade like footprints in the sand. My window is cracked open, and the fresh air of the forest, mixed with the cool breeze on my skin, is relaxing. The heat from the car’s AC is blowing gently toward my face, and I feel my eyelids get heavy. Each blink lasted longer than the last.

#

I woke to my mom rubbing my shoulders and softly calling for me to wake up. I groggily glance around and realize we had stopped in front of an old, well-kept house. The house was painted white with a big oak door. Standing at the bottom of the steps that led up to the front porch is my dad, and he is talking with an elderly woman wearing a dark blue dress that went down to her ankles.

From inside the car, I take a moment to study her face. In my mind, I try to relate her to Grammy, even though my dad said not to. I look for any similarities and can’t see any. While Grammy’s face is soft and inviting, almost calling out to come and give her a great big hug, this woman’s face looks cold and distant. As if hugging her could be seen as an attack against her very spirit. I shake my head, trying to dispel the drowsiness. The least I can do is give her a chance; maybe she’s just shy.

I hop out of the car and follow my mom to introduce myself. My first impression of her remains as she greets me formally, shaking my hand without blinking. I don’t know how long we stayed that way, but thankfully, my dad interrupted the one-sided stare-down.

“Okay! I think that’s enough of the introduction.” Then he looked at his mom and said, “Why don’t you show us to the bedroom?”

Thankfully, she broke her gaze from me and met my dad’s eyes instead. “That sounds like a fine idea. Follow me.” She says, turning and walking into the house.

We follow behind her, up the small steps of the porch and into the house, then up the staircase to the second floor. The floors are all wooden and spotless. It is sparsely decorated inside and has a smell that is hard to place… almost like BBQ?

Once we are on the second floor, she leads us directly to a bedroom. Inside the room is a small bed, seemingly sized directly for me. In fact, the entire room looked weirdly similar to my room at home. Strange. Even down to the poster hung on the wall (Most of them being my favorite singers). 

After a few moments, my new grandma said it was time for my parents to leave. I look toward my parents, expecting to see surprise on their faces, but they only look downcast, a frown tugging at their lips. Before I have a chance to voice my concern—like maybe I didn’t want to be left at what is essentially a stranger's house in the middle of the woods—they both lean down and embrace me tightly. Hugs and kisses. Followed by a prompt exiting of the room and, eventually, the house. I go to follow them, but a sharp voice stops me.

“No.” That is all my new grandma says.

My world seems to be crashing down, and I want to drop to the floor. I want to disregard her words and chase after them, to plead with them to take me. Please don’t leave me here! But I don’t follow them, and I don’t scream or cry.

My new grandma interrupts my moment of crisis, saying, “You may refer to me as Miss Hollydaye. And do not pronounce it as holiday. It is pronounced as holly – daye. I will not tolerate mispronunciation. If your parents believe you to be old enough to be left here, then you are old enough to follow my rules.” Each word stung, but I was still reeling from the fact that my parents had just abandoned me.

“Now, I expect you in the kitchen in five minutes.” Then, she began to exit the room. “Oh, and everything you need is already in the drawers.” Without another sound or even waiting for my reply, she left.

I stood there for a moment, shook. My parents are gone, and I have no idea when they will be back or if they will even be back. And the vibes I get from my gran… Miss Hollydaye are strange, like somewhere deep inside—almost primal— is telling me to run, flee, and deal with the consequence later. Ultimately, I leave my room and head down the stairs. Something tells me if I show up late, it won’t end well.

#

Looking at the outside of the house, you would not expect the type of kitchen I’m currently standing in. While the front entry and even the entirety of the second floor seem to belong to a house in the middle of a forest, the kitchen is the epidemy of modern cooking. It reminded me of the shows my mom and dad watch, something kitchen, I think.

I can’t properly marvel at the beauty of it all because my… Miss Hollydaye watches me like a hawk while I stir a mixture inside a giant steel container. The more I mix, the harder it gets as the liquid becomes a thick sludge. I had no idea what was inside the bowl, as when I entered the kitchen, it was already full. Miss Hollydaye had simply pointed and said: “Stir.” And that was precisely what I did.

“Move!” Miss Hollydaye barks at me, seemingly able to notice my drop in stirring speed. “Just give it to me.” She takes the extra-heavy whisk from my hand and makes the thick liquid, which I had just been struggling to move a few rotations, begin to dance and whirl around the bowl.

With her offhand, she reaches into her pocket and produces a small piece of paper. She hands it to me, and I examine it. It looks like a shopping list, except the ingredients are foreign to me. I look back at her, and without breaking the rhythm of her mixing, she gestures with a flick of her head toward a small door beside the hallway. I must have passed right by it when I entered the kitchen, though it was like I was seeing it for the first time.

I creep toward the door, cautious not to disturb Miss Hollydaye in any way. My body seems to fight me when around her, and my mind can’t seem to decide if we should fight, flee, or give her a hug.

The metal handle of the door is cold, and it opens with a Crrrrrrkkkkkk! I don’t even dare look back. Instead, I pause momentarily, listening for her whisk to pause its assault on the bowl. It never does. After a couple seconds, I enter the pantry. 

The smells inside are intense, overwhelming, actually. Darkness looms and crawls in every nook and corner. I search for a source of light and see a string hanging listlessly a few feet away. With a few trepid steps, I reach it and give it a tug. Click. Light fills the space, and I’m left wishing the room was still dark; at least that way, I could remain in ignorant bliss. Staring me right in the face, less than a foot away, are two bulging eyes, clearly dead and lifeless.

I stumble back and hit the shelf behind me. The sound of glass containers hitting the ground echoes in my ear, but I barely hear it as I bolt out of the room. My wild eyes meet Miss Holydaye’s own glare. For one unending moment, fear grips me, and I’m sure she will grab the knife that rests blissfully on the table and turn it on me. So, I turn and run. 

Out of the kitchen. Down the hall as my feet hit the wooden floor, sounding hollow and far away. I slam into the front door hard. I see flashes of light briefly, but I shake my head and reach desperately for the handle.

WORK FINGERS, WORK!

But it was no use. The adrenaline working against me. 

Finally, I regain control of my hand and turn the handle, yanking on the door. It opens up, but only a few inches, and halts because of a chain attached at the top, beyond my reach. Without thinking, I turn around and run directly into Miss Hollydaye, putting me promptly on my behind.

As I look up at the imposing figure towering over me, I know this is the end for me. My mind fills with a thousand thoughts and ways I could have done things differently. The main thought that seems to repeat is: I’m Suzanne Brown; I’m nine years old; And I don’t like my new grandma.

I repeat the thought over and over in my head. Maybe an alien will pick it up on its radio and get a chuckle, and that idea makes me feel a bit better.

#

It’s been two months since that first day arriving at the house in the middle of the woods, but it feels like years have gone by. Miss Hollydaye never had malicious intentions, but sometimes the reality is even weirder. After my mild panic attack, she was quite reassuring, and I saw a different side of her. She insists I still call her Miss Hollydaye, and I’m fine with that.

What's more, I can safely say I have conquered my fear of the pantry, mostly. But I cannot get used to seeing dead animal heads like that. Even some of the plants look menacing!

At least I find myself actually enjoying the process, which is surprising for me. Before I came here, I never liked to cook or bake. Not for lack of trying, but I just had other things to do. Now, with nothing to do and no one else around besides Miss Hollydaye, cooking is surprisingly fun.

I don’t know where all the food—and I use the word food very liberally because not even Miss Hollydaye could get me to eat what we make—ends up. All I know is Miss Hollydaye takes everything we make at the end of the day and puts it all into a large red basket. Then, she heads out the back door and tells me to clean the kitchen.

One day, like any other day, she collected the basket and set off, like usual. This time, however, I decided to follow her. I just couldn’t help my curiosity. (isn’t there a saying about curiosity and cats?)

So, I waited a full fifteen seconds, making sure the count out loud. Then I followed after her, being extra careful to lift the back door as I opened it because it always makes such an awful squeak. After that, it was easy enough to find which way she was going. She didn’t try to be quiet or anything like that, probably because she had no reason to do so—being alone for so long, I don’t think she sees people as intelligent.

After a few minutes of following, staying just far enough to remain unseen. We came to a small clearing, and in the center was a red door surrounded by four walls and a simple roof. It's a rather unimpressive building, maybe a little bigger than my room. I watched as she took an ornate key, which I had no idea she had, from her pocket and used it to open the door. She disappeared inside and left me alone in a gang of trees. With only my curiosity to keep my company.

I waited as she did whatever she did in there. And it was quite a while. When she finally came out, it was evident that the food was all gone. I immediately ran back to the house and began the cleanup. Luckily, I finished only moments before she got inside. She gave me a questioning look but didn’t push it further.

To this day, I still don’t know what goes on behind that red door. I think tonight, though, I’m going to change that. I know where she keeps her key, and I will grab it once she goes to bed. One way or another, I need to know.