Grandma’s house stood on a dirt patch surrounded by fields which used to be filled with crops. Now they were just a menagerie of hay and weeds, growing wildly where the sun shined, and low and slow where the trees kept their shade. Her house was exactly as it had always been, its planks a calm shade of pink, its windows romantically vignetted by dust. I guess if something has always looked old, it doesn’t start looking older, even as the years pass by.
The sickly sweet smell of homemade apple jam stuck itself to the walls of my nostrils as grandma opened the front door to let me inside. I don’t think I even rang the doorbell; she just appeared. It had been years since I’d last visited her.
“Oh my sweet darling Jacob, look how tall you are! And that fancy suit of yours! Oh how it’s been so long…” she said, looking me up and down, obviously flustered, like she wanted to say and ask a million things at once. “Come in, come in,” she continued, waving her hand in small rotations like a swimmer, as if there was a silent hurry to lure me inside.
After I closed the door behind me and turned around, she had already recessed back into the kitchen to tend to her cooking. Grandma seemed to be tethered to the kitchen by an invisible bungee cord, which always pulled her back if she strayed too far. That’s how it had always been. She might’ve become a bit staggered regarding chores outside the house, but inside it was still her domain, and in the house she moved like someone forty years younger.
“Make yourself at home! I’m just bottling the last of the jam!” she yelled from the kitchen.
“You need any help?”
“No no no, sweetie, you just sit down and relax.”
I wasn’t about to defy her orders; I knew she’d wear me out with her insistence on kindness. I walked to the living room slowly, memories of childhood springing up in flashes of colors, smells, and vague feelings like warm punches to the stomach as I took in all that was grandma’s house.
I reminisced even as I sat down on the lazy chair in the corner of the living room. I could see grandma packing into neat storage boxes the last of the glass containers she’d filled with jam, each a different size and shape, reused from an assortment of jars she’d kept and cleaned since the beginning of time.
After the last of the jars vanished, she emerged from the kitchen and sat down on the couch opposite of me, letting out a long whew as she finally got to rest her feet.
“It’s so good to see you, Jakie. I’m very glad you came. Now tell me, how’s the big city life treating’ya?”
“It’s good, it’s good… Well - sort of. I got a bit tired of the job. So it’s like, okay, but also not. They call it burnout, you ever heard of it?”
“No… I don’t think I have.”
“It’s when you get so tired that you can no longer function. That’s what happened to me – I could barely get out of bed. Like I was sick, but without being sick, if that makes any sense.”
“I think I understand, atl least a little. Well, don’t you move a muscle, Jakie. I’ll take care of you.”
“Hey, of course I’ll help out. That’s more refreshing to me than just sitting here, rolling my thumbs around.”
“Well, if you insist. Coffee?”
Before she gave me a chance to answer, she’d jumped up and was heading back to the kitchen, done with her illegally short break. The conversation felt awkward, like a prequel to the actual conversation waiting beyond, birthed by these years away from each other.
“Black, please,” I said just as she disappeared into the kitchen.
With the coffee she brought a menacing entourage consisting of apple pie, cookies, and small, toasted rye breads with cream cheese and gravlax. It was just like her to feed me so full I could no longer move, so the lazy chair would swallow me further and keep me stuck there.
We talked for a few hours, slogging through all that had happened in the years since we’d last seen each other. For me, it was a metaphorical freight car that had soared through life collecting baggage, never stopping at any station for fuel. For her, it was that she’d started growing strawberries in a small corner of the field. I used to hate the slow life, but that hate had recently turned into a craving. I had doubts about coming here, but as the awkwardness wore off and our usual dynamic slowly returned, it felt just right - like I’d made the right decision for once.
The sun started to set, producing a rich glow on the topmost flowers near the fields, the light no longer penetrating deep within the bushes and grass below, cooling the ground beneath.
“Oh my, we should start getting ready for bed,” grandma said, awakening to the clanking tik-tok of the grandfather clock next to the couch.
“Already? Isn’t it a bit early for bed?”
She chuckled. “This is late for me, Jakie. Now come one, let’s get the house ready.”
I stood up, ready to help her, it immediately occurring to me that I didn’t know what it meant to get the house ready. Lock the doors? Pull the curtains shut? Check for… bugs?
Grandma must’ve noticed my perplexed face because she said “Come on, follow me,” in that familiar tone where you’re slightly disappointed, but eager to show how it’s done. I followed her to our first stop: the front door.
“Now, don’t worry about the lock. The nearest neighbors are half a mile away, and the road in here is marked as a dead-end, so no ones gonna be driving here anyway. No point in locking it up. Besides, locks wouldn’t keep it out anyway.”
“So, what should I do then?” I asked.
She grabbed something from under a bench on the porch. It was a symbol, or maybe a piece of headwear of some kind, made of sticks, held together by string. It had the same vibe as a dreamcatcher, although it looked more menacing, jagged, like it was holding something within it.
“This is the crown. Each night, I place it on the door like so,” she said as she hooked the stick-symbol on a nail on the door. “It will keep us safe. It’s a simple thing, but easy to forget, so I want you to remember this well. The crown is the most important part.”
Something coarse rolled through my mind. All this time I had only felt echoes of the past, the memories and senses cradling my soul in a warm hug. Now this, this was something new and different. I had to readjust my mood, the new thing scrambling my brain, and made a mental note to check the crown before bed, unsure of its reason.
After I’d given grandma a vague nod, she led me back inside and into the basement. In the middle of the dusty room was an exceptionally large, dark brown chair made of thick wood that held intricate carvings, like letters from a language I did not recognize. It looked old, yet well kept, like it had stood there forever. But I didn’t remember it ever being there.
As I stood in front of the chair, grandma walked to the corner of the basement to a small fridge. When she came back, she was holding a worn plastic bottle filled with a red liquid.
“I should be using blood, but I’m too old to be giving blood every night, wouldn’t you agree? So, one day, I decided to make strawberry juice and try that instead. Lo and behold, it worked like a charm! Either it can’t tell the difference, or it just really likes strawberry juice. I just slather it on the carvings every night. Just a thin coating is all it takes!”
At this point a voice of concern overtook my mind. It was obvious that she wasn’t… all there. Last time I’d seen her, she had been fine, but that was years ago. Dementia moves quickly, bleeds its victims out like cattle, that much I knew. I shifted my mood once again, gradually chipping away at the sense of ease I’d gathered, and asked her, in as soft of a tone I could muster “Grandma, who’s it?”
“Oh, Jakie,” she said, bursting into laughter. “I forgot I didn’t tell you, I’m so sorry,” she said as she slapped her knees through wheezing laughter. After a few failed attempts, she finally calmed down enough to properly answer my question.
“Oh, oooh, I’m sorry. I guess this must all feel like a fool’s errand, since I didn’t tell you. But I must confess, I don’t know what it is. All I know is that it comes at night, sometimes knocks on my door, sometimes taps on the windows, and waits to be let in. The crown keeps the knocking away for the most part - although if you do hear knocking, you shouldn’t answer it.”
“And what’s the chair and the strawberry juice for?”
“That’s the throne. That’s where it wants to sit, but I – we won’t let it. Coating the carvings keeps it happy and content. If you let it in, that’s where it will go. And if it gets to sit down, it’s a whole ‘nother job to get it out.”
“Grandma, I must say,” I started off easily, not wanting to put any blame or shame on her “this all seems a bit… silly. I don’t remember you ever doing these things before. How did this all happen?”
Using a thin piece of fabric, she’d started coating the chair with the strawberry juice, circling the chair to produce an even coat. “Jakie, I know this all seems a bit crazy, but I’m still sharp as a knife, okay?” she said sternly. I didn’t answer her, instead waiting for the silence to egg her on to continue, hoping that she was right, and she could prove so right now. I could feel a familiar bubble of stress starting to form in my chest.
For a few moments, she didn’t say anything, instead focusing intently on the chair as she rubbed the wet fabric in its nooks and crannies, giving the wood a supple, ripe look. Once she was finished and had returned the liquid strawberries (or was it a cover for blood?) to the fridge, she began to speak again, her words clearly thought out.
“After your grandfather died, I wanted to clean the whole house, top to bottom. A fresh start, or just something to do, who knows. Anyway, that’s when I found the chair and the crown in the basement. I’d never seen them before, and I don’t know how long they’d been there. Your grandfather spent a lot of time down here. Of course, I was perplexed at these gaudy things, much like you must be now, Jakie. But he’d left me a note. Here, let me find it for you, maybe it will explain this all better than I can…”
She walked to a wobbling shelf and opened a small box that stood under it, taking out a yellow piece of paper. “Grandma, I’m just worried is all,” I said, but she shoved the paper into my hands and said “Just read it, Jakie,” and so I did.
Dearest Edith
These frightening objects must hold a sense of oddity to you, and that’s to be expected. This is the only thing I hid from you throughout our marriage, and I wish that you can understand that it was for good reason.
I don’t know if you remember, but when we’d just moved into the house, there were an extraordinary amount of awful crimes being committed all around the area. Children would go missing, sheep would be found slaughtered, people would be found ripped to shreds. That’s half the reason we got the house for such a cheap price. It is not with comfort that I remind you of this, but of necessity.
It was a local hunter who’d seen it first. Word quickly spread, and we formed a small group to hunt it together. And we all saw it. Oh god, how my knees would shake as it stumbled through the woods. Bullets would only aggravate it, and it could walk over fences and rip through walls. Nothing was safe from it. It devoured… consumed all things in its path.
We had to do something. One of us knew a witch doctor, who told us that it can’t be fully contained, but it - she called it a forest king, something ancient - can be held content, so it wouldn’t rampage through all that comes its way. She made the crown - that thing made of sticks and string - and we carved the throne in accordance to her specifications. Below I’ve written instructions on, what we call the responsibility – or how to use these objects to keep it content, and to keep you and the area safe.
The crown
Each night, before the sun sets, hang the crown on your front door, facing outwards. This will entice the forest king to your house. It will knock and look through your windows, but as long as you don’t open the door and the crown is in place, it cannot come inside. It’s best to just ignore the knocks altogether, and keep the curtains drawn, so you won’t have to look into its eyes. If the crown is not placed, it is free to roam wherever it pleases. It’s like bait, but it can’t do anything about it.
The throne
The throne is to be kept inside the house - I’ve preferred the basement. Each night, the carvings should be coated in human blood. Just a thin coating is all it takes, as long as all the symbols are fully covered. This keeps it satisfied. I know it’s brute… but that’s how we’ve always done it. The forest king wants nothing more than to sit on its throne. If you ever accidentally open the door for it, or something happens to the crown and it gets inside, it will go and sit there. That’s your last chance to escape, when it’s preoccupied by the throne.
… and that’s all, really. I’m sorry I don’t have more information to give, but there’s no one left to ask, so I hope this will suffice.
We’d rotate the responsibility in our group, one year at a time. Some wanted it more than others. I’d even had it a few times, although I made sure to hide it well from you and the kids. As the years went by, our group got smaller and smaller. We desperately needed new recruits to join our effort, but there’s no one left around here. Nobody wants to stay here, between these dark woods, in this godforsaken land.
For the past half a year I’ve kept the responsibility. Jefferson, our dentist, had it before me, but he died, as you might recall. I’m the last one, and if it is so that I’ve not found anyone else to take the responsibility, it falls upon you. I am so sorry.
I wish I could hold the responsibility for you.
Forever yours,
Calvin
I looked up from the paper, instantly meeting grandma’s waiting eyes.
“Suppose that it’s all true…” I said, “Suppose that it is. Why wouldn’t you move out? Find some other place to stay?”
“Jakie, you know I’m too old. Besides, where would I go? This place is all I have,” she replied, sadness which reflected truth glazing her soothing voice. “Now come on, let’s go and pull the curtains shut. The sun’s almost set.”
She walked up the steps hurriedly, and I followed her, my mind still combing through this newfound situation that had presented itself to me; a vortex, slowly gripping me into its currents, pushing me further inside until I’d inevitably meet the doom at its core. Whatever this was, I couldn’t deal with it right now. Grandma was insistent, and me making a scene would only worsen the situation. I had to wait, at least until tomorrow, and trudge along for now.
Coming up the stairs, only a slight glimmer of sunlight could be seen emanating from the horizon, a bare glimmer reflected in glasses, pots, and spoons in the open kitchen. We walked through the house together, methodically pulling each curtain shut, grandma double checking that the curtains overlapped each other - making sure that the outside world was sealed shut.
Once we’d closed the last of the curtains upstairs, she exhaled, letting her shoulders finally drop and her spine stretch out. “Thank you for your help, Jakie. I know… I know it’s all a bit crazy. Your old grandma doing these silly things. But thank you anyway.”
“Of course. I’m here for anything you need, Edith.” Something had dislocated itself in my brain for me not to call her grandma – a vague need to treat the matter seriously.
“Well, I guess it’s time for bed. At least for me - you can stay up as long as you like, I’m a deep sleeper so no need to worry about me. Make yourself some food, if you feel like it. There’s things in the fridge.” The awkwardness of before returned, holding a thin, invisible barrier between us.
She started to walk towards her room, but suddenly she turned, her shoulders winding in tension once again “Oh! And one more thing. Don’t go outside until morning, when the sun’s up. Not that there’s much to do out there at night anyway. Good night, Jakie.”
“Okay, grandma. Good night.” This time I made sure to call her grandma; Edith was too cold.
I retreated to the guest room to ponder. It was still early, and the day had become unexpectedly overwhelming, so sleep was out of the question, at least for now. Jutting thoughts kept up their insistent patter, creeping into my mind in regular intervals, making new strings of ideas and thoughts and hypotheticals. I decided to go down into the kitchen and grab myself something to eat and attempt to find something to tire myself out with.
After I’d munched on a sandwich, I went against grandma’s wishes, and took a peek outside through one of the windows next to the front door. It was completely dark outside, with just a slight silver glow on the earth, a natural blessing of the moon. Nothing in view, dead silence, just as I thought. I shut the curtain and made my way to the living room’s lazy chair to think. That’s when I heard it.
knock knock
It was coming from the front door. But there wasn’t anyone there. I’d just seen it. It was pitch black and quiet –
knock knock knock
This time it was louder, more insistent. I got up from the chair, when suddenly the glass window behind me creaked and chirped.
tap tap
Like a nail was tapping the glass, vibrating it in its wooden encasement. I approached the window slowly. Must be a bird or a raccoon or a fucking deer, yes? How’s it moving so fast…
I pulled the curtain back. The night was silent. The view still. Whew. But weird. But whew. I decided to make my way back into the guest room and force myself to lay on the bed until I got to sleep. My brain felt scrambled - a pure indication of overindulgence in all things that needed thinking and feeling. The house was silent, and I brushed off the knocks and taps to the imagination of an overtired mind.
Once I’d burrowed myself between the blankets and the sheets, the tapping returned, this time it was on the window behind my bed.
tap tap tap
So it wasn’t a deer or a raccoon so it must be a bird to get up this high, right? It must be.
Granddad’s note and grandma’s warnings had encased themselves somewhere inside me, and suddenly I feared if all that they’d said was true. The only thing I could think to help clear my mind was to look outside again, and see once again that the world was empty and asleep.
I drew the curtain back in a quick motion, the rusted curtain bar screeching in pain, ready to let out a long sigh of relief. That’s when our eyes met.
Its eyes were huge and round, colored in a deep yellow that seemed to sink deep into its flesh way past its eye sockets, garish in the moonlit air. Tendrils of ragged, thick flesh jutted from underneath its eyes, their shape similar to a beard. I could feel their crusty yet limp sides rubbing against each other, the thought sending a spoonful of vomit into my mouth, burning my throat. The creature consumed the window, and I could not say where it began and where it ended. It felt as if all windows of the house were broadcasting this same view, this being having completely encased us into our homely tomb, blotting out the moon and stars in its darkness.
It stared at me through frothing, atavistic lust, and I stared back in frozen fright, neither one of us moving. For a moment, I thought I’d reached somewhere far beyond, and the next blink of my eyes would simply return me back to the world I knew. Such was not the case. From the corner of the window I saw something reaching up. It was a human arm, hairy like a man’s, wet from blood and dark mud.
It didn’t move like a human arm would. It seemed like the work of a puppeteer, its movement simultaneously janky and entirely too smooth. In a painstakingly slow action, it formed an awkward fist of its fingers and glided through the air up to the window.
KNOCK KNOCK
The knocks echoed from each window and door in the house, encompassing the soundscape from all sides, their accumulated volume so loud I jumped. That’s when grandma burst into the room, her face red not of fright, but fury; a familiar disappointment. She ran past me and pulled the curtain swiftly shut, immediately turning to me. Although she was a foot shorter than me, at that point it felt like I was a kid again, and she was the cindering tower of authority known as an adult.
“JA-COB!” she screamed, baptizing my first name in wrongdoing. “What the hell did I tell you? I know you must think me and your granddad are crazy, but have some decency.”
I was still staring at the window. Although I could only see the curtain, I could feel its eyes burrowing into me. Like it’d seen me; produced a file of me into its abyssal mind; made a note of my presence; counted my weaknesses. Grandma hit the floor with her foot, the ensuing bang reviving me of my trance.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked. I just, well it was down there, and I heard the knock and then the tap and it couldn’t be –”
She sighed and looked away. I felt like I could breathe again, now that no one was intently staring at me.
“Well, now you know. That’s how I learned as well.”
“You’ve seen it?” I said, the relief in tension bringing my attention to the faint scratches on the palms of my hands. I must’ve kept my hands in taut fists, a common symptom of stress for me, my form of nail biting.
“Oh, yes. Unfortunately. Right after the funeral. Believe me - looking at it won’t help you understand it or help you fight it. It’s best to ignore it, and best for you to get your mind someplace else now.”
I was still spinning, coming down from the encounter, still processing the event for its barebones attributes. All I could muster for a response was “Okay, sorry.”
Grandma started to leave the room, and at the door she asked “Do you need anything, Jakie?” Her trademark kindness had returned to her voice, and the world seemed more real again.
“I think I’ll manage.”
“Get some sleep,” she whispered as she pulled the door shut.
Although her advice was sound, its execution didn’t quite work out. Although the whole thing had left me tired and groggy, something buzzed in my brain constantly, like a circuit that wouldn’t let the system go offline. This led to me tossing and turning until the sun came up. Thankfully grandma (as old people often are) is a morning person, so we emerged from our rooms almost at the exact same time, both ready for a soothing cup of coffee in the fresh sun.