Me and my grandmother both live on our own 20-acre piece of land. It’s a pretty godforsaken place, deep in the woods of Africa. This place was once owned by my great grandmother, who in turn inherited it from her father. He was an English colonialist, and a proud one at that - not the proudest moment in our family history, but we try to keep to our own and live our lives in peace nowadays.
Over the years, this land had accumulated a plethora of building. The first houses were the villa, the greenhouse, and the gardener’s house. These were built by my great great grandfather, in hopes of starting a new life in this odd, foreign land for him, his wife, and his back-then year-old daughter. He built a majestic house for them all. five magnificent bedrooms, so any future child or grandchild could have a place of their own to stay at. a huge swimming pool, a state-of-the-art kitchen made of black marble, and a grand dining room, fit for 20 guests. He even built the new fireplace with his own two hands, as a way of making the house truly his own. His wife, my ancestor, loved growing flowers, a legacy which later passed to her daughter, and her daughter as well, all the way up to my mother. I am only one which this talent seemed to skip - anything I try to grow tends to die, and feeling bad for these poor plants, I ended up growing a single cactus in my room, since these don’t need much attention to thrive. Anyway, my ancestor built the greenhouse so that his wife could enjoy her hobby to the fullest, with tall, pristine glass, and rows of beautiful clay pots. He built a hut for a gardener so one could stay on the plot and listen to my great great grandma’s every whim regarding her garden and greenhouse.
It must have been beautiful back in the day - the greenhouse gleaming in sun with a small rock garden just outside it, the gardener’s stone hut, like some gnome’s house out of a legend. whole plots of flowers in all shapes and colors, the pool as blue as the sky, and above it all, the great Victorian villa, all cream walls, polished wood, and clean marble. I can only imagine, however, as nnowadays it lies abandoned for over three decades. All the plants in the greenhouse grew wild or died; a section of its roof gave way and fell over last year. The pool lies barren, mucky leftovers of water covering its floor. The gardener’s house lay abandoned for even longer, as no gardener has been employed ever since the original owner’s wife died. And the house itself stands shut, vines growing over its walls, the windows ever dark. Ever since my great grandmother died, my grandmother has abandoned that house. Too many ghosts of the past, she said. Too many childhood memories of her and her brothers, her mother, her father, and my own mother.
The second house on the land was one that my great uncle built. Some six decades ago, when he was a young man not five years since he left home, his father had an accident on the property. I am not sure of the exact details, but I do know that a month later, he died in a coma. His mother was so heartbroken that my great uncle decided to move to the land with her, so that she won’t be alone. He built a wooden hut there, not too far away from the main Villa. My great uncle was a hunter, and he built it on his own, decorating it with the game he hunted. That place, too, lies abandoned. He died from a hunting accident a few years after finishing to build it, and no one took a claim to it. I rarely pass by it, as it is a way off my house, but the few times I have seen it, it seemed rotten and almost sad.
The last two houses are my grandmother’s, and my own. As I said, my grandmother did not want to live in the main house anymore, as it held too many memories for her, of people she would never again see. She built her own wooden hut – this one very modern, unlike her brother’s. Two stories high, it holds every comfort a person needs to live in that kind of environment. A spacey food cellar, a long balcony with a rocking chair, a metal fireplace inside a comfy living room, complete with a floor to ceiling glass window and even a raised corner dedicated to her cat. Then, her second husband left her. That was around a decade ago, and not much after that I decided to move in as well. To explain my logic in moving to such a remote place, I was not in any kind of relationship, and I was exactly in this in-between time in my life, looking for myself. I have always been close to my grandma, and I decided I might as well keep her company while trying to find some peace for myself.
As a year passed, I realized I quite liked that style of living. Before that, I had been living in London with my mom, and the calmness of the woods allowed me to truly relax for the first time in my life. My grandmother offered to use her savings and make me a small house of my own – “the land is big, and still empty in most parts, practically wild woods-“she said, “and while I need my own space, my dear, I won’t allow you to live in a rundown shack or in a house full of ghosts.” I accepted gladly, and a year later my own house was built. Smaller than my grandmother’s house or the main Villa, but bigger than my great uncle’s hut, it was sweet, cozy, and just what I needed to feel at home. And so, I happily moved all my stuff over.
From my new house’s plot of land, I could just make out the vague light of my grandma’s porch from between the trees. It was just far enough to feel privacy, yet close enough to not feel lonely in the vast woods. We had an agreement, grandma and me, that as long as we are both home, we will leave our porch lights on until we go to sleep, just so we are both calm knowing that the other is ok. I know it sounds silly – I mean, even if anything happens, the light will remain on, and I would have no way of knowing until late night came, and I was sure my grandma should already be asleep. But it was comforting, in those quiet woods, in the evenings when we were not sitting to share a cup of tea, seeing the light on the other side, and knowing that my grandma is ok, and there is another living soul just a shout away. Not to mention, with all those abandoned houses lying around, I always had this creepy feeling that a squatter could be in any of them, and I would never know. Better safe than sorry, she would always tell me.
I did start noticing a few odd things over those years. During the year I lived with my grandma, she would lock the door at 10pm, and said that for her peace of mind I must promise her to not open it until daylight. I dismissed it as an old lady’s fearful habit and respected it. When I moved in my own house, I would mostly keep that habit going, but not quite as religiously as she did. Some night I would only lock the door when I went to sleep, others I would forget about it all together. The first odd thing I recall is that one night, around a year after moving in, I woke up to what sounded like a long scratching sound. I startled awake, straining my ears to try and figure out what it was that woke me. I could still hear it – a faint sound, like metal dragging very slowly over wood. It seemed to come from downstairs, so I got up and went to the bottom floor to check it out. However, a few stairs before the landing, the noise stopped at once. When I checked, I was creeped out to find the front door open. I shut it close, locked it up, and searched every nook and cranny to no avail. No sign of an intruder, or anything that could cause that sound, really. I went back to sleep, albeit a little shaky. I told grandma about it the next day and tried to ask if she knew what it was, but she just nodded her head, saying, “dear, we are in the middle of the bush here. There are many things that can walk in your house, just lock your door and be a good girl, okay?”. Needless to say, I started locking my door from that night onwards.
Over the seven years since, I have seen a few other odd things. I could swear I saw lights in the woods coming from the Villa’s direction, low murmurs just in earshot that disappeared as I turned to look. I once found a dead deer, looking completely torn apart, but dismissed it as some kind of predator. The one night, as I was sitting outside, the woods fell completely silent – which stood out, as in the middle of a forest you would usually hear the wind over branches, birds, a cacophony of insects. I looked up, looked around. In seeming harmony with the complete silence, I could see no branch moving, no bird flying. It freaked me out, so I went inside the house and locked the door. I did take a look towards grandma’s porch, and sure enough, the light was on. So I took a deep breath, and waited. I can’t remember exactly when, but at some point, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, the world seemed to gain its noise again, and I dismissed it as my imagination. Of course, I told my grandma the few first times I noticed those weird occurrences. But she dismissed them all, just as she dismissed the first one, and at some point, I just stopped sharing all with her.
Last night however, as I was cooking dinner around 8pm, I glanced towards her porch to search for the normal, comforting light. This time, the light was off. Of course, I left what I was doing, and went to her house to make sure she was ok. It was raining earlier that evening, and so the smell of fresh mud and wet trees was hanging in the air. For the nine years of living in this house, not once has my grandma forgotten to leave her light on, and this was much too early for her to sleep. I was worried, and so I ran, not watching my steps in the mud. As I got closer to the house, I could see none of the lights were on. I knocked on the front door to no avail, I got no answer, so I tried to open it. It wasn’t locked. My grandma would never leave the house unlocked. I found her cat, Charlie, shaking and frozen in his little corner, hiding under his blanket, looking as if something truly terrified him, but no grandma anywhere around the house. I went out again, calling out for her as I walked. Of course, I got no response. I wasn’t really expecting it, but one can only hope for the best. I looked all over the garden and could not find her.
I did, however, after stumbling in the dark and mud for a few minutes, find a set of footsteps leading towards the main house. I was hesitant. You see, as I said, my grandma had a strong aversion to that house and never, ever, went there. So what would she want of that old house at this time of evening? Yet, as I had no other lead, I decided to go there anyway. It was a few minutes’ walk, and as I started getting closer to the villa, I could already notice something very odd – the lights in this house were on. As I got close to the front yard, I could see my grandma sitting in the front yard, in her mother’s old swing chair, holding her mother’s sheers in her hands, looking at them intently, as if to examine something on them. She was wearing her night dress, and slippers. I was sick worried by that point. As I walked up to her, she lifted her head, smiling. “Hello my dear!” she said, cheerfully; “how has this night been treating you?” Now, this will sound crazy to you, but that second, I just FELT something was off. Something about her intonation was just not right. She was too cheerful, too nonchalant about sitting outside this creepy old house, on this cold night, wearing only her night clothes. Her smile was too empty. Suddenly I felt the loneliness of this place, miles and miles of empty lots, not a living soul around. Unless you counted monkeys, birds, and Charlie of course.
“Grandmama.” I said, carefully. “What are you doing out here? You must be freezing cold!”’
My grandma’s smile grew wider, but she didn’t answer for a long minute.
“Grandma, please.” I pleaded with her. “Come back with me. We will warm you up. No need to explain tonight, but I am worried.”
She did not answer. I don’t remember exactly what I said next, but nothing I said could get a response out of her. She just sat there, smiling at me, not moving. Eventually, I decided enough’s enough, and told her I was leaving, and calling help from the close town, as something was clearly not right with her. This finally got a response out of her.
“No!” she said, almost in a shout. “No-“ she said, softer this time; “Why don’t you come inside with me instead?”
“Inside?” I said, confused.
“Why yes dear. There is a fireplace inside. We can light it and sit next to it to warn up if you are so very worried about me. I can then tell you all about your grandpa, and uncle.”
Now this was truly odd. She never talked about my grandpa. It was like a code of silence between her and my mother – I would ask about him – who he was, how he died. they would change the subject. Any other day, I would have taken this opportunity without thinking. But that night, the light from the villa glaring behind me, the cold sinking into me, my grandma’s strange tone sounded not inviting, but scary.
That’s when I remembered – the house should not be connected to electricity. my grandma had officially declared it abandoned and thus refused to pay the bill for so long, they had cut it off. Every fiber of my being told me I should not be there right now, and I decided to obey, but not before giving her one last chance. “Grandma, please. Please, I will ask one last time. Come back with me.” I tried to plead with her with a shaky voice.
Very slowly, my grandmother nodded her head, her smile growing almost unnaturally wide. Call me a terrible granddaughter, but at this I turned, and ran the hell out of there, hoping beyond hope that this is a bad dream, and I will wake up the next morning to find all is normal.
I somehow fell asleep and woke up not long ago to that same scratching sounds I heard years ago from downstairs. It was much louder this time. I stayed in bed, eyes wide open, listening for anything else. The sound seems to have been drawing closer. Suddenly, I heard a loud knock on the door. A voice came with it. “Dearest?”; it was my grandmother’s voice. I didn’t dare to answer. Something doesn’t feel right about this. The knocking has been going on for a few minutes now, louder and louder, with my grandma’s voice adding to it things like “I am worried dear, please open!”, more and more frantically.
I don’t know what to do, dear readers. As I am typing this, the knocking is getting louder. I am sure something more sinister is going on in this plot of land, but this is my grandma we are talking about. How can I just leave her out there? I think I may just open – I will update you all if things go well.