First thing’s first, my family is complicated. My great grandparents were basically Hollywood royalty in its hay day. My Great Grandma starred in over 85 movies over the span of her career, and my Great Grandad was a famous Jazz musician. I never got the chance to meet either of them, but I’ve seen pictures and they look like they stumbled right out of one of those classic 1950s movies. That being said, from the sounds of it they weren’t exactly golden parents. They were busy, and preoccupied with their own lives revolving around pretty much no one but themselves, so I guess it’s not surprising my Grandpa ended out resenting them entirely.
From then on my family has suffered a strange obsession with the spotlight, each generation never straying too far from it, but usually ending out paying for it in the end. I’m sensible, that’s what my Grandpa always said, because I chose law over celebrity, finally seeming to break the family curse. That was until I met my partner at least. You see, I practice entertainment law and one day in 2013 I just happened to be representing an indie movie actor who had been screwed over by his agent big time. He had this thing, almost like a glow surrounding him, that I could never quite ignore, and it made him both the most fascinating and beautiful person I’d ever encountered in my entire life. Long story short, we ended out together and my life edged that little bit closer to the limelight than I’d ever intended.
Grandpa never liked him all that much, but as the only Grandchild he had, he was determined not to let that force a wedge between us. So he smiled at the wedding, even gifting us the most insane collection of crystal glasses either of us had ever seen. And last year, when we finally adopted our daughter, he was overjoyed and any qualms he had over Matty’s line of work seemed to fly out of the window entirely. For a little bit, last year, everything seemed so great I was almost beginning to question when the shit was going to hit the fan, because it just felt inevitable.
Four weeks ago I received the call that my Grandpa had passed away suddenly overnight. That was it, that was the shit hitting the fan again. My parents live overseas, so while they would return for the funeral it was pretty much down to me to arrange the entire thing, which of course I did with no complaints. My Grandpa had given me so much joy and love throughout his life, so giving him the final send off he deserved just felt right.
After the funeral came the will reading, and that was when we found out he’d left his house to me. It was a shock at first. Matty and I weren’t doing badly for ourselves by any means, but this was a house built on old Hollywood money. It was the same house my Great Grandparents had built and lived in themselves, and it was mammoth. I made sure my parents were happy with this, and once I knew they were, Matty and I put our own house up for rent and we moved three towns over with our own little girl, who is crazily enough already two years old, in tow. “Imagine the life she’ll have.” Matty had said to me when I still wasn’t totally convinced. “Imagine her in that yard. Or running down the twisting corridors. Maybe with a little brother or sister in a couple years too.” I smiled at that. Foolishly believing that happy endings are just that easy.
We’ve been here for only a week now, but already it’s clear that something isn’t right. Annie, our daughter, will cry the second she is left in any room alone even when it’s only for a second. She’ll stare up the stairs, pointing at something moving down them slowly, when it’s clear as day there is nothing there. Yesterday, when she was crying in the kitchen the old radio set up in the living room came on full blast, playing jazz and nothing else. When I tried to turn it off I realised that not only was it not plugged in, but the plug had been cut clean off. It stopped on its own the second I realised that. Matty and I have talked about it, about all of it, trying to convince ourselves we are just freaking ourselves out over a bunch of coincidences, old house noises and faulty wiring. But I don’t think either of us believe that anymore.
This morning, at just gone 3am we were both awoken by a sound coming across Annie’s baby monitor. We were used to static, or her breathing or tiny baby farts, but this was none of that. This was a conversation between two adults. It sounded like they were arguing back and forth, saying something about a baby, and I was about to fly out of bed and launch myself down the hall when Matty stopped me. “We’re picking up someone else’s monitor.” He said calmly, obviously aware of exactly where my mind was heading. I sat back on the edge of the bed, his fingers tracking up and down across my spine as my mind slowly stopped spinning. And then we heard it, clear as could be, a low grumbling growl followed by one single word, Annie.
We’ve been up since then. Neither of us will admit it, but we’re both too frightened to sleep tonight, and there is no way we are letting Annie out of our sight. The only positive, if you can call it that, since then, is the fact that Annie has muttered the word Popo at least half a dozen times today. She smiles when she says it, sometimes even waving as if someone is right in front of her. Matty and I will look at each other each time, wondering if we heard her right, wondering if we dare admit we believe it. Popo, after all, was what she called my Grandpa.
The night is rolling in now, and we’re not sure what to do. We’ve moved her crib into our room and she’s already down for the night. But I’m too scared to put my phone down and turn off the light.
If you have made it this far thank you. Please offer any advice if you have any, especially if you’ve ever experienced anything similar.
I’ll try to update soon on anything else that happens. Who knows, if I don’t then maybe it’s because it was all in our heads and nothing else will happen at all. God, I can hope.