I moved in with my grandma about a year ago. Some people think it’s dorky for a 21-year-old to live with her grandma, but I love it. She’s the best roommate—never complains, even when I have people over or stink up the kitchen with a cooking experiment. The rent’s cheap, and in return I cook for her, drive her around, etc. We’re really close too—she’s kind, has a sharp sense of humor, and can entertain me for hours with tales from her childhood in Italy.
But then things started to change.
On Wednesday evening, I needed some scissors. They weren’t in the usual place, so I went upstairs to Grandma’s room, where she sews sometimes.
But just as my hand touched the doorknob, she came flying up the stairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Are the scissors in your room?”
“Don’t go in my room!”
She glared at me as I made my way back downstairs. That was… weird. She’d never told me to stay out of her room before.
And the trend only continued. She started to become more reclusive, more private. Closing herself off to me. When she didn’t eat dinner with me two days in a row, I made her favorite—chicken and wild rice. But all she said was “Sorry, dear, I’m full,” before disappearing up the stairs.
“How could she be full?” I grumbled to myself, as I spooned the leftovers into a Tupperware. “I haven’t seen her eat anything tonight.”
I told my mom I was starting to worry. But she didn’t seem concerned. “Older people sometimes change. Grandma’s almost 90, and well… she knows it’s going to be her time soon. Sometimes people get depressed, or bitter, or just different. Your grandpa definitely did.”
But I couldn’t stop the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, that there was just something… wrong.
***
As the days went on, the feeling continued to grow.
On Saturday morning, our neighbor stopped by to ask if we could get his mail while he was away. As he stood there on the porch with his big German Shepherd, my Grandma started down the stairs.
The dog began to growl.
Not just a little growl. Hackles up, teeth bared, the whole nine yards. “Woah, easy, Teton,” our neighbor said, backing away.
Rrrrrooof!
“I’d better go,” he said sheepishly. But as he ran down the driveway, the dog kept glancing back at us, barking.
“What did he want?” Grandma asked behind me.
I jumped. She was right behind me—and somehow I hadn’t heard her creep up. “Uh, we have to get his mail for a few days,” I replied, closing the door. “That’s okay. Right?”
She just shrugged and walked away.
Things continued to get worse. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and hear her footsteps out in the hallway. Back and forth, back and forth. I had half a mind to think the place was haunted—until I opened my door a crack and saw her figure, clothed in her floral nightgown, walking back and forth.
Once, when class was canceled and she didn’t know I was home, I heard her crying upstairs. I peeked around the corner to see her standing in front of my bedroom door, her face hiding in her hands. “Grandma?” I called. But she simply shook her head and ran into her bedroom.
And then there was the smell.
Now when I went upstairs, this horrible stench hit me. A rotting, decaying smell. Like someone had left a plate of raw meat out for days.
And as I sniffed around, I realized it was coming from Grandma’s room. But when I turned the knob—the door was locked.
“Grandma… have you noticed it, uh, kinda smells up there? Did you leave some food out, maybe?”
Her eyes went wide when I asked her. Then—suddenly—without a word she bolted up the stairs and slammed the door to her room shut.
And that was when I decided to take action.
Something terrible was going on here—and I was going to find out what.
***
Three days later, the package came. I greedily ripped it open and shook out the contents.
A long, thin key. Designed to fit into the holes in home doorknobs and unlock them from the outside.
I crept up the stairs, even though I knew Grandma was watching TV with the volume full blast. Then I crouched in front of her door and slid the key into the hole.
After a few minutes of fumbling, I heard the click.
I pushed the door open.
The stench hit me like a truck. Fetid, sour decay that made me want to vomit. I frantically waved it away—and then I saw what was on the bed.
No.
A body. Blue-skinned, stiff, lifeless. One arm hanging over the side of the bed, white fingers dangling towards the ground.
Not just any body.
My Grandma’s.
A soft sound came from behind me. “I’m so sorry, dear,” my Grandma’s voice whispered in my ear.
But when I turned around, the hallway was empty.