There’s Something Sinister In My Grandma’s Old House And Nobody Knows About It But Me

It seemed for those dark weeks, the answer would be no, but then I received a message from a number I had never seen before.

The call came early in the morning (I was sleeping again, a lot actually) from a number I didn’t recognize. Being it before seven in the morning and a number I didn’t recall, I figured it was phone spam and went right back to sleep.
When I awoke a few hours later, I discovered a new voicemail connected to the missed call. When I hit play, I heard a voice I instantly recognized, but couldn’t place where I had heard it at the same time.

Hi, James. Last night was great. I hope we can do it again. Bye. Bye.

I played the message again and again and again, trying to figure out where the hell I knew the voice from, but still couldn’t place it.

I thought a shower might help clear my mind but I shocked myself when I got off the bed and onto my feet. Lying on the floor, next to the bed was an empty condom wrapper, a rose petal and another note in the same penmanship of the one I had read weeks before.

See you tonight. ♥♥

beetlejuice

The shower did nothing to help. The hot water cooked my troubled mind until I got out and slowly started to work my way to a resolution: I was going to embrace this thing.

My life was a hideous shamble. So why not have company? Even if it is dead company. I shaved (everywhere), combed my hair, put on a proper outfit for the first time in months and popped open a bottle of red wine I found in the cupboard that had probably been in there for years.

I took a seat on the uncomfortable couch in the living room, sipped on my vintage 2014 merlot and waited for my mystery guest to arrive – my eyes glued to the front yard outside the living window, my ears tuned to every little sound in the house. I had no idea from where she would come.

I would sit in that stale room with the stuck-together ribbon candy and Yankee candles, sipping my merlot until the bottle was almost finished and the sun began to set. No one arrived throughout the day, except for a postman who walked up to the door and avoided eye contact with the entire time.

beetlejuice

I awoke on the couch to the sounds of a rumbling engine, which like that voice on my phone, was familiar, but still alien at the same time.

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About the author

Jack Follman

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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