My parents and I were relaxing in the living room after a long day of unpacking boxes and moving furniture. It was our first day in the new house. We were sitting around in the living room, chatting. At around 9:00, I decided I was gonna turn in for the night.
“Night, I love you,” I said to my parents.
“Goodnight. Sleep well. I love you too.”
I made my way up the stairs to my room, my eyes gazing off in random directions, taking in the house. It made me sad.
This was the house my grandfather built with his bare hands for my grandmother after he came home from Vietnam. It was quite large for houses of the 70s. 5 bedrooms and 3 baths, with a finished basement.
Being back in the house brought back so many memories. Memories of playing with my cousins in the basement. Family gatherings, Christmases and Thanksgivings, Easter egg hunts in the backyard, and and much more.
The house had been left to us in my grandmother’s will, who had passed about a year ago. We were just now finding the strength as a family to move in.
I made my way up the steps and to the bathroom, where I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and washed my face. I walked to my room and was met by one of our three dogs, who stood up on my bed and wagged her tail.
I took a quick look around my new room. My PC, mouse, monitor and keyboard sat on my desk in a nest of wires, waiting to be set up. I decided I would tackle that in the morning. I got into bed and my dog snuggled up against me.
I put some music on and let my mind wander. My eyes were heavy. My body was tired and sore. I was exhausted. I felt my eyes slowly close and my body relax. Then I heard it. A whisper.
“Jordyn. It’s me, Grandpa.”
I jolted up in my bed. My eyes flickered around the room, scanning for the source of the noise. Nothing. I took a deep breath and convinced myself that it was just the wind or the house settling. “It can’t be him. He’s been dead for 12 years,” I thought.
I layed back down, rolled over, and tried to froget about it.
It happened again.
“Jordyn. It’s me, Grandpa.”
I sat up in bed again. I was sure I was hearing someone talk. I wasn’t crazy. It sounded exactly like him. His deep, scratchy voice that had gotten its signature sound from decades of smoking.
“Grandpa?” I asked the darkness.
No response. I felt silly. It couldn’t actually be him. He’s dead. I’m just exhausted from the long day and anxious about the move. I got back under the covers, snuggled closer to my dog, and quickly fell asleep.
I had strange dreams. I can’t remember what about, but I remember jerking awake, sweating, and breathing heavy. I checked my phone. 3:00 AM. I got up to go the bathroom
As I walked across the hall back to my room, I heard my dog growling. I hurried my way back to my room to find her standing on my bed, looking in the direction of my desk. My blood froze. I heard the sound of keyboard keys clicking. Then a couple mouse clicks. Then silence.
I was paralyzed by fear. My eyes locked on to the desk and wouldn’t look away. Then my monitor lit up. It displayed a message.
“Stay out of the workshop.”
As soon as I finished reading, my monitor turned off. The dog stopped growling, and I was left standing there. I felt a lump of fear in my throat. I swallowed, grabbed my phone, turned its flashlight on, and walked down to the basement. “There’s gotta be something he’s trying to tell me.” Thoughts raced through my head. My grandad was always a mysterious man, always puzzling. He never was straightforward about anything, so I figured this was his way (if it really was him) of trying to tell me something.
I made my way down the basement steps. I approached the door and put my hand on the doorknob. It was ice cold. “Well, there’s no turning back now,” I thought. I turned the handle and opened the door.
I never have liked my grandfather’s workshop. It was off of the basement, and had a staircase leading up into the garage. I can remember going in there when I was little. It always freaked me out. It was always cold, dark, and smelled funny.
As I entered the room, I was hit with a blast of freezing air. It was colder than I ever remember it being. Goosebumps quickly covered my flesh and I felt the hair on my arms stand up. I shined my flashlight through the room. It was littered with all my grandfather’s old tools. It was the one area in the house no one had the heart to clean out after my grandma passed. Cobwebs littered the ceiling. I could see dust particles floating in the air.
I slowly made my way through the room, looking for something, anything that might catch my eye. I found nothing. I turned and saw it. The door. Not the door that connects the garage to the workshop, but another door. I remembered this door. It was always locked for some reason. Every time I’d ask my grandfather what was behind it, he’d chuckle and say “It’s a secret.”
I cautiously approached the door. I put my hand on the handle and it was cold. Colder than the other doorknob. I turned the handle, expecting it to be locked like usual. To my surprise, it rotated and the door opened with a loud, eerie croak.
I shined my phone into the room, taking a quick glance around. I froze, dropping my phone. I turned around and ran out of the workshop, slamming the door and tripping up the steps. My heart hammered in my ears.
I ran into the kitchen, grabbed the house phone, and dialed 911.