As a young boy, I had always been fascinated by my grandparents’ old house in the woods. The towering trees that surrounded the property seemed to whisper secrets, and the creaks and groans of the house itself told stories of generations past. It was a magical place, full of wonder and mystery.
But as my grandmother’s health began to deteriorate, that sense of magic was replaced by something far more sinister. It started with the tremors, a subtle shaking of her hands that I initially shrugged off as just a sign of aging. But soon those tremors spread, taking over her entire body and making her movements more and more erratic.
At first, I tried to help her manage her symptoms, seeking out the best medical care I could find. But despite all of my efforts, her condition only continued to worsen. She started to lose control of her body, stumbling and falling more often than not. And then, one day, things took a truly terrifying turn.
My grandmother’s hands would shake uncontrollably, her movements becoming more and more erratic. But it wasn’t until she started running around the house naked that things really got scary.
I was just a little boy at the time, living with my grandma in this old, creaky house in the woods. My grandfather had passed away a few years earlier, leaving my grandmother alone and vulnerable. It wasn’t long after his death that her Parkinson’s really started to take hold.
At first, I thought it was just a harmless quirk. Grandma had always been a bit eccentric, after all. But then she started to get violent, lashing out at anyone who came near her. And then there were the nightmares. Terrible, blood-curdling nightmares that left her screaming in the night.
One night, I woke up to find my grandmother standing at the foot of my bed, her naked body writhing with Parkinson’s tremors. I was frozen with fear as she leaned in close to my face, her breath hot and rancid.
“Isn’t it soft?” she whispered, her voice like a child’s.
I tried to scream, but no sound would come out. And then she was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the house.
The next morning, I found her lying motionless in her bed, her eyes open and staring blankly at the ceiling. I was never quite sure what happened to her that night, or why she was running around the house naked. But one thing was certain: something had taken hold of my grandmother, and it was something far more sinister than just a disease.
To this day, I can’t help but wonder what really happened that night in that old, creaky house.
After my grandmother’s passing, the old house lost its magic. It became a place of sadness and dread, haunting me with memories of her final days. I couldn’t bear to go back there, and it wasn’t until years later that I found the courage to return.
As I walked up the overgrown path to the house, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. The trees loomed overhead, casting deep shadows on the ground. The house itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for me to make the first move.
When I stepped inside, the air was thick with the smell of decay. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if the house had been abandoned for years. I made my way to my grandmother’s old room, the place where she had spent her final days.
As I stood in the doorway, a chill ran down my spine. The room was just as I remembered it, with the same old furniture and faded wallpaper. But there was something else there too, something that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.