I hope this doesn’t come across as bragging, but I grew up in one of the biggest, most beautiful homes in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Southern California. My father worked as a very successful heart surgeon, my mother owned her own bustling business, and my grandmother was retired from a long career on television.
Then there was Grandpa.
Grandpa Ozzy was…well, I don’t really know what he did. I just know that he seemed to know a lot of people. He seemed to have owed favors from any and everyone; If I went out to eat with grandpa, he never paid a tab. If we went to Disneyland, we would skip lines without having any kind of official passes that I knew of. He even bought me my first car, a brand new Mercedes-Benz, without spending a single cent. You might think this was the good life, and it was to an extent, but there was always something…off about grandpa.
Grandpa liked to spend long hours of the day cooped up in what he called “the dungeon.” No one was permitted inside the dungeon except for him or dad. Sometimes Grandpa would take a “friend” or two into the dungeon with him; Oftentimes, Grandpa would emerge, sweating and smiling serenely, but I never once saw any of his “friends” leave. When I asked him about it once, he simply patted my head, kissed my cheek and whispered, “You’ll be in the family business one day, my dear. Then you will own the world.”
I was 13 when Grandma Isis got very sick. I couldn’t stand the sight of her anymore; It hurt me so much to watch her as she slowly and painfully began to wither away. I distinctly remember being awakened from my sleep one night due to a loud and intense argument between my father and Grandpa Ozzy. I snuck over to my bedroom door and was able to poke my head out just in time to hear the end of it.
“…how it’s gonna be, whether you like it or not. And I’ll do the same to you, long before your time, if you say another god damn word.” Grandpa’s threat seethed with venom. Dad was silent; Next thing I knew there were heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. I closed my door and dashed back to my bed, jumping in. I closed my eyes but sleep did not come to me that night. I had never heard the two of them argue before; Did this have something to do with grandma?
Grandma Isis was dead the next day. I remember my mother crying, but dad had a visage of what I can only describe as complete and unmistakable horror. I wanted to ask him what was wrong, but I never summoned the courage to. I wanted to let he and mom grieve in peace. Grandpa Ozzy, however, went on about the day as though it were any other. He ate his peanut butter and banana-laden cereal and drank his glass of cranberry juice without shedding a single tear. When he caught me looking at him he only grinned and shot me a wink.
Death was not yet done with our family. Several years later, when I was in college, I got a phone call that would change my life forever. Mom was dead; Dad could barely croak out the words over the line. It seemed like his very soul was shattered and in mourning. I cried too, and left school early to go and be with him. We buried her a few days later and my father shut himself away in his room. That left me alone with Grandpa Ozzy.
I did not like the sinister twinkle in his yellowed eyes. When he wasn’t in the dungeon he would sit in his favorite chair, sometimes reading, other times watching me openly as I stared at my phone or pretended to be asleep on the couch.
“It pains me that it had to happen,” he said one day, as the two of us sat eating breakfast. “I had nothing but admiration for your mother, but she had overstepped her boundaries. I warned your father about this long ago.”
I was squeezing my spoon so tight that I was almost certain it would be bent when I finally let go. “What are you implying? Are you saying that you had something to do with my mother’s death?”
Grandpa’s eyes never left mine. “Oh, she’s not dead. She’s still here with us.”
When grandpa finally left the house to go and do whatever he did, my father emerged from his room, pale and clearly having lost weight. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his hair a mess. He merely stared at me for a few seconds as he stood across the room.
“Come with me, Dana. I have to show you.”
I was obviously hesitant. “Show me what, Dad?”
“You need to know the truth. You need to know why I’m going to kill your grandfather.”
The tone of his voice was enough to tell me that this was not a joke. I stood up slowly and followed my father to the dungeon. He reached out for the doorknob and turned it slowly. The door was never locked; My mother and I had just always known better than to ever step inside.
The room was completely dark, but there were at least a dozen tables, all arranged in strange formations. There were numerous jars on nearly every single table; Some of them were empty, but most had what seemed to be glowing light emanating within. Some of the jars glowed blue, while most were yellow, and others red. There was a raised altar in the center of the room, covered in what could only have been decades’ worth of dried blood. I felt my stomach drop as I gazed around the room. I was not meant to be here. This was not a good place.
“They’ve all been taken, held prisoner for as long as your grandfather sees fit. Sometimes he…sells them. They have such value you couldn’t even comprehend.”
I picked up one of the red jars and almost dropped it; It was much heavier than it looked. I looked within, but my father shook his head. “Hold it to your ear.”
I cannot describe to you the utter anguish and rage in the screams that were erupting within that jar. I nearly dropped it in terror, instead placing it back on the table hurriedly and backing up.
“Dad…” I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t believe my own eyes or ears. This couldn’t be…
“They’re souls, Dana. Souls of whoever he wanted to take. Your…grandmother’s is over there, the one sitting alone. Dad just couldn’t let her go, so he keeps her here.”
I threw up. Hands on my knees I heaved and heaved, until I felt my father’s hand patting my back.
“He’s hidden your mother from me…he won’t release her until I agree to carry on after he’s gone. He’ll pursue you to continue the tradition soon as well. That’s why I’ll do what I have to do. I just want you to stay in your room and try to ignore whatever you hear.”
I lay in bed shivering, no amount of blankets enough to console me. The moonlight shone in through the window, and I imagined my mother, trapped in a jar and unable to ever find peace in the afterlife…
I could hear voices. Were they the voices of the restless, tortured souls? No…this was grandpa, and dad…
Yelling. Then, finally, a gunshot. Another. Tears rolled down my face as I turned over in bed and stared at my bedroom door. Someone was coming up the stairs. They trodded past my bedroom and out of earshot. Then there was silence.
I’ve been in my room ever since. I’m terrified to get up and see whose corpse lies in the kitchen downstairs. And if their soul is free.