Grandma's Farm

When I agreed to care for my grandmother’s decrepit, well-seasoned farmhouse, I don’t think I was in my right mind. Because here I am, standing at the threshold, debating turning around and telling the moving van to take me back to my apartment in the city. I could beg for my lease back, even though I had to beg for the apartment manager to let me out of it. The old, white house is exactly what you would picture as a farmhouse. It’s a simple, two story home with wood-stained shutters on every window. The one’s on the back of the house swing back and forth with the wind. 

I made a mental note as soon as I noticed it to fix it immediately. That was two years ago. It’s taken me two years to actually grow the balls to leave my life in the city and move to the lonely plot of acreage that my grandmother willed to me before… well, before. 

“What have I gotten myself into,” I mumbled, pulling my hair up off of my neck. The moving company I’d hired was very attentive. They put every box exactly where I’d asked before leaving me to get settled into my new, old home. With all of my grandmother’s things packed up and moved into the attic, my boxes seemed so lonely. There were no more dusty picture frames lining the walls, no, those were first to go. 

In my many weekend stays on the property, the house has never seemed so abandoned as it does now. It has spent ten years sitting empty. The life was drained out of it the second I took my grandmother’s nick-nacks and boxed them up. They were the only thing that made it feel like she was still here. I wrapped them each in tissue paper before tucking them away safely. 

Should she ever be discovered on an island sipping something fruity, she should have them to come back to. 

My mother used to say that she overheard my grandmother making inquiries into private resorts in the months before. My mother always has had an active imagination and put it to good use when her own mother was nowhere to be found. If there was any truth to what she said, it was that my grandmother told her to mind her own business when she’d pried about the call. 

Five years after she’d disappeared into the night, she was declared dead by the state of Montana. Betty Jane Morrison, a grandmother, a mother, a friend. It makes my skin crawl to imagine the empty casket we buried.. Wherever she is, she would get a kick out of it. 

I was more than shocked when it was announced that she’d left me her farm at the will reading. My mother smiled warmly as if she was expecting it. My grandmother always hated that I’d moved to the city as soon as I graduated. She’d wanted me to move back from the second that I left. I guess she finally got her wish. 

I pulled a box labeled ‘kitchen’ into the open space that she used to bake biscuits in. There was an older, gas oven that stood in the corner. The kitchen window was directly above the sink and looked out over her land. The woman enjoyed a view.

I hummed to myself as I emptied the boxes. One by one, the house started to come together.

“Hello? Friendly neighbor here!” 

I followed the sound through the house to the front door. I’d left it open but the screen shut, just like she did. 

“Hi there!” I greeted, opening the screen for her to step inside. I recognized her from the services and searches for grandma. She was at every one, passing out flyers and waters when needed. 

“I’m Joanna. I have lived next to Betty’s farm for, oh, forever!” Her southern twang was heavy as she spoke. Holding a pan in her hands that seemed to smell like a casserole of some type. I can’t help the rumble from my belly as she rambles on about how close she was to Betty Jane. 

“I’m Beatrice. Betty’s eldest granddaughter. She left me the property,” I explained as I took the dish from her and walked toward the kitchen. I still had dishes spread all over the wooden counters. I can’t decide where everything should go. Part of me is thinking practicality, the other, well it’s siding with my grandmother and where she had her pots and pans.

Yes, I remember you from the service. It was beautiful. I know Betty Jane would have appreciated the kind words you spoke about her.” She offered me a soft smile, one that says, “bless your heart.” 

“Thank you, Miss Joanna. I hope you brought this over for lunch. I’m just starving and I could use some company.” She met my smile but it didn’t meet her eyes. She was already headed back toward the front door as I placed her casserole dish on the counter next to my plates. 

“I really have to go, dear. But, thank you for the offer. There aren’t many good seeds left in this world. I’m glad to see Betty’s granddaughter is one of them,” she gave me a pat on the shoulder before heading out the same way we just came. 

Without a second thought, I plopped a huge portion of whatever this concoction is onto my empty plate and popped it into the new microwave I’d brought from my old place. My mom maintained a lot of the property and cleaning needs over the years, but the place definitely needed an upgrade. 

With the money I’d made selling off dear, ole grandma’s cows and pigs, I installed a new washing machine and dryer, coffee pot, living room furniture, and a new bed for the master bedroom. I haven’t ventured that far into the house yet, today. It’s going to take time to get used to sleeping in the same room as my most-likely-dead grandmother.

I put her old kettle on the stove and lit the burner before sitting down to eat. She always made tea this way and it was always my favorite tea in the world. 

My mind finally quietened down as I took my first bite of casserole. It had beef, onions, tons of flavor, pretty much everything that I needed to taste right now. The taste of it alone reminded me why I hated eating ‘southern’ food in the city. It was never right. 

It didn’t take me long to finish eating and rinse my plate in the sink before I returned to my boxes. Just as I plopped one down at the foot of the steps, a distinct sound caught my attention. It almost sounded like footsteps. 

From upstairs. 

Where I was just headed. 

I froze. I didn’t move a single muscle as I peered up into the darkened hallway. The bulb has been blown out since I have been coming out here and I have yet to change it. It’s in the middle of the ceiling above the steps and I couldn’t reach it even with a ladder. 

“Hello?” I called, flipping the lid of the box open and praying there is something, anything heavy enough to use as a weapon. 

Nothing.

I brought my shaking hand up to the rail and held it firmly as I stepped onto the first step. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The steps come again. This time, they’re directly to the right of the hallway I’m aligned with. If I were to continue my ascent up the stairs, there would be no way for me to peek around to the right and see what’s stomping around in my grandmother’s house. No, it would see me first. 

It. 

I made myself take another step as I ridiculed myself. 

It. Do you hear yourself, Beatrice? It’s probably just the old house settling. It happens. 

I was waging a war in my head as I forced myself to climb another step, then another. If I take a few more, I’ll be at the top and then-

My knees give out as the high-pitched squeal of my kettle pierced through the silence. My heart rate tripled as I screamed, catching myself on the railing before I slid down the steps. Holding my hand over my chest, I sucked in air greedily. There is no one upstairs. No one. Nothing. I’m just on edge. 

I headed for the kitchen and pulled the kettle off of the stove top before fixing myself a glass of tea and sprinkling some sugar into my cup. The warm liquid helped soothe my nerves as I sipped. Each step that brought me closer to the stairway had my heart thundering again. My adrenaline is still rushing through my head as I face the stairs. Even when my grandmother was here, I was terrified of going upstairs. 

Something about the way the stairway seems to go on forever always put me on edge and sent my imagination running even more wild than my mother’s. I could feel the air around me as goosebumps arose on my skin. The feeling of something brushing against my back had me stilling, before I ran my hand down the back of my shirt and took a step. 

Once I’d made it to the top of the stairs, my unease grew. Even if the damned light bulb was working, it wouldn’t help much. The bedroom to my right was the one I’d be moving into, the one my grandmother used to sleep in every night. The very same room she’d say her nightly prayer in. Quite possibly the same bedroom she planned her disappearance in, if she did such a thing. 

I kicked the door open a bit more with the toe of my boot before stepping in and leaning against the frame. Bringing my cup to my lips, I enjoyed the feel of the warm tea as the chill of the room settled around me. Flicking on the light, I took in the empty space. My mother helped me scrub every nook and cranny in this house last week when I told her I’d be moving in this weekend. She practically cried happy tears at the idea of me being back home. 

Her cozy farm is only a ten-minute drive from here. If I were to bring home an ATV, I could cut a path through the woods and be there in probably five minutes. 

Her suggestion was to get matching, pink four-wheelers. 

Standing in the window, I looked out over the land that was now mine. The rows and rows of harvested plants that will die come winter. I sold most of the vegetables that were left years ago, then jarred some up, per grandma’s wishes. 

“Oh, grandma,” I whispered, turning around and pressing my back to the cool glass. I focused on the spot on the floor where her bed used to be. It was there for so long that the bedframe left indentions in the wooden planks. The pale blue paint on the walls had faded in every spot except where her bed was pressed against the wall, almost like it was being preserved. The more I stared at it, the more my eyes focused on the small cracks between the planks. The way they had separated over the years. 

Then, one stuck out. 

I pushed off of the window before pacing over to it and pressing my foot to the loose board. There was no give, but it was obvious that this tile was removed before. When I bent down to get a closer look, I was surprised to see that there was some kind of stain along the sides of the tile. Upon pulling it up, I realized that it wasn’t only on the sides of the wood. It was on the underside of it and appeared to have leaked down into the space beneath the flooring.

In the few inches of space, something had soaked through the floors and dripped down onto what looked like a piece of drip cloth. 

They must have re-stained the floor at some point. 

Reaching in, I immediately jerked back when I felt the soft tickle of spider webs brush against my skin. 

“Nope,” I said to myself, standing again and heading to the landline from downstairs. 

I dialed my mom’s number quickly, listening to the incessant ringing for a few moments before hanging up and dialing the only other number I know by heart. 

“Hey, Bee! I’m just getting in from work, mind if I call you back?” 

My father was never particularly chatty when I called, but he’d usually at least fake it. 

“No, Dad. That’s fine. I must have just missed mom. I’ll give her another try,” I mumbled before hanging up as he protested. Somehow, knowing that I was calling his estranged wife after receiving the brush off from him seemed to light a fire under his tail for some father-daughter bonding. 

I dialed my mom’s number again and sighed to myself when she didn’t pick up. Fine. I will just have to handle this myself. 

I grabbed a pair of tongs from the drawer and headed back up the stairs with a purpose. I returned to the spot in the floor and stuck the tongs down into it before I could psych myself out. Pulling the rolled up cloth out, the color of the stain became more clear and it was almost hard to look at. The brown was composed of a deep, deep red. In the middle of the rolled up cloth, there was a single ceramic doll. It had been my grandmother’s favorite nick-nack and I’d actually wondered where it was when I packed up the rest of them. 

Upon closer inspection, I realized that the doll had been glued back together. The cracks and fractures were well hidden beneath a fresh coat of paint. It fit into my palm as I used the tongs to clear out the spider webs and stuck my hand in to feel around. I startled as my fingers brushed against something cold and hard. I reached in deeper and curled my fingers around the rough edges, pulling out an old, rusty tire-iron. 

Not all of the rust seemed to actually be rust. 

I dropped it to the wooden floor and cringed at the loud echo of it reverberating in the room. Just as I scrambled back away from it, I froze. The undeniable sound of my front door slamming sent chills down my spine. I scrambled to put the plank back into the floor, as though I was a child being caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Slipping the doll into the window seal, I peeked out the bedroom door and over the railing. A shadow moved across the wall, then black hair came into view. 

Black hair and a face that I had never seen before. 

I moved as quickly and quietly as possible into the closet. My only piece of defense is locked in the safe downstairs because I’m too scared to actually get the thing out. 

As I pulled the door shut behind me, I heard the echo of footsteps pounding up the stairs. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. 

I slid down to my knees and hid behind one of the longer dresses hanging in the closet. I hadn’t cleaned out my grandmother’s clothes yet and the dusty smell of mildew was filling my nose as I tried to even my breathing. With shaking hands, I covered myself in the wrinkled fabric. 

I can hear the sound of boots on the wooden floor, the slow steps of a man walking through what was once my grandmother’s room. The very same room that I am supposed to lay my head at night. 

I watched in horror as the shadow of his boots leered at me underneath the door. Then, the low sound of whistling. 

He’s whistling. 

As he walks around and takes in the empty room, he whistled along to a tune that became more and more familiar as he inspected. 

It was the same thing that my grandmother would hum while we played in her yard as children. Me and the cousins would all be too deep into our own games to wonder what it was she was humming. Now, that thought is haunting me to my core. 

I can feel tears welling up in my eyes as I fight to control my shaking legs. If I slip even slightly, I know this floor will creak. I know he’ll hear it. I know… I know I’ll be dead. 

As if sensing the turmoil in my head, he stops moving. His steps cease as I fight for my breath. I can hear him tiptoe across the room in my direction. The ever-so-slight sound of the creaks getting closer as he maneuvers in for the kill. 

Just as I braced myself for impact, he was gone. As was the doll.

I didn’t hear his retreat until he was already on the stairs, barreling down them and then through the front door. I heard the sound of his boots until he was out in the driveway. Even then, the gravel was crunching beneath his feet in a teasing manner. A promise, almost. 

I slowly stood. My legs still shaking as my adrenaline spikes all the more. I pushed the door open in one quick motion, fully expecting him to somehow still be standing there. 

Even as I make my way down the stairs and to the front door, I expect him to be there. Then, as I click the deadbolt into place and curl into myself as the dial tone for the police station echoes in my mind. 

Suddenly, it occurs to me that maybe my grandmother didn’t make herself disappear. And I can’t help but wonder, what else did I inherit from my grandmother?