Grandfather was a spectral figure, always puttering around, mumbling incoherently to himself and shaking his head as if in a palsy of violent disagreement. He smelled old. His skin was wrinkled all over. The cold touch of his bony hand sent shivers up my spine.
Glitter came into his eyes when he talked of the hereafter. Grandmother told me to watch after him closely and to care for him after she passed. She made me promise—cross my heart and hope to die. Then Grandmother passed when she was eighty years old. Grandfather and I buried her in the family plot in the backyard.
Until Grandfather passed, I did watch over him. I could do that since my husband had been killed in the Islamic wars, and I had no children. I saw to it that Grandfather had his meals. I cleaned up after him. I helped him up and down the wooden basement stairs to his little cave of a room where I was never to follow him. He never said a word of thanks to me, but I had a promise to keep, and I keep my promises.
When at last Grandfather passed on his 100th birthday, he left quietly in his sleep with a faint smile. He squeezed my hand gently just before he took his last breath. After I laid Grandfather in the ground beside Grandmother in our family plot out back, I was finally alone in their old house, which was my house now, though everywhere I looked, were the relics and memories of my grandparents.
I got right to work tidying the place up. I was starting life anew after the slow decay and death, or so it seemed at the time. As I scrubbed, mopped, scoured, and polished, room by room, the old house came back to life. Then, I scraped, sanded, and painted everything upstairs. Having pulled out all the old, stained carpeting and sanded the floors, I had new machine carpet installed. The stench of age and mildew began to subside, and the fresh smells of turpentine, paint, Lysol and scents from sachets filled the house as they had not done for fifty-odd years.
As for the yard, the teenage boys down the street helped cart away the leafy debris and odd windfall. When the yard had been cleared and mowed, the graves freshened with new fall flowers, and the cords of wood stacked for the late autumn fires, it was time to do what I had dreaded.
Tomorrow I would clean the cellar, including Grandfather’s cold basement room. Thinking of that chore gave me the chills. I literally shook with fear of the prospect and had a nightmarish vision of Grandfather going down the rickety basement stairs and hesitating before he pushed open the door and closed it after him. I thought I heard him mumbling in the dark as if he were alive.
I took my cleaning materials and tools to the basement and began at the farthest point from my main objective. My sweeping filled the dank, dark basement with motes of dust. I hauled upstairs old curtain rods, two-by-four studs, old crockery and dishware, cardboard boxes of clothing and knickknacks of all kinds.
As the basement opened up, I thought I heard scratching and coughing from within the little room. I shuddered and took the last loads up the stairs to the first-floor utility room, where the boys would pick them up the next morning.
For some reason, I went out the back door to visit the family grave plot. The iron fence and gate, and the graves were just as I had left them. Grandfather and Grandmother were at rest where I had buried them, or so I thought. My own plot lay beside theirs, waiting for me patiently.
I could wait no longer, so I went right down the stairs to the cold basement room and pushed open the door. Dust rose. The smell of decay, mildew, rot and age was palpable. A small, worn table stood against the earthen wall opposite the door. At the table, were three old wooden chairs. On the table, was a service with three tea cups and saucers. On the floor, I found jars filled with tiny nails and screws. I found a small box labeled, “string too small to reuse.” It contained bits of string and tiny fluffs of yarn.
The years had been difficult. Frugality was ingrained by hardship. On the floor, were stacks of newspapers and boxes with mementos gathered by Grandfather over many years. Labeled was the little stocking hat that Grandfather had worn in the cradle.
There was also a thick holographic manuscript, written in Grandfather’s familiar hand. Its title was, “Ghosts I Have Regaled.” I resolved to clear the room the next morning with the help of the boys who were coming to take away the debris in the utility room.
Exhausted, I climbed up to dinner and to bed, but in bed, I could not sleep. The cold wind blew around the rafters with soughs and sighs. The shutters battered. Grandmother’s stuffed animal with the button eyes sat on my trousseau and glared at me until I turned on my bed light.
Then I heard the door slam in the basement. I had to investigate that sound, or I would never sleep. I pulled on my bathrobe and slippers and carried my flashlight down the basement stairs to the door behind which lay Grandfather’s cold basement room. I heard behind the door sounds of clattering china and animated, but whispered conversation.
My torch failed. A cold draft whipped around me, and the door simultaneously burst inward with a bang. In total darkness, I forced my eyes to use averted vision. I discerned three human shapes outlined in dim blue neon light in a montage: Grandfather and Grandmother at tea with a third figure who beckoned me as from a mirror darkly.