If You Ever Hear Your Child Talk About ‘The Bloody Monsters’ Be Very, Very Afraid

My father’s mother was a very complicated topic and figure in our lives. I vaguely remember her as a steady presence in our lives in my very first memories. A rail thin woman with long red hair and pale skin, I seem to remember her always giving me really good salty, sweet cookies that she made, so I thought she was pretty cool.

Then, suddenly, she was completely out of our lives. No Thanksgiving, no Christmas, no birthdays, no weddings, funerals, just gone. Without any explanation from either of my parents. It was like she had never even existed.

I didn’t think about my grandma after she disappeared until high school, when Mandy told me she found out our grandma was the person who ran the psychic business along the highway a few towns over in Branchford. I thought about dropping in there for years, but I never actually did it.

However, I figured it was high time to finally pay that palm reader by the highway a visit.

The red and purple neon sign I remember from high school still buzzed in the window of the little house on the edge of the little village of Branchford. It was nearly 9, but the sign still burned the word OPEN into the night.

“You think she’s still alive?” Mandy asked as we sat in the truck, looking at the house. “Mom and dad are already dead.”

“Well they died super young. I think she’s only like in her late-seventies, or something. We’ll just have to find out, I guess,” I answered.

We walked up to the door and pressed an electronic doorbell. Classical chimes rang out from inside of the home.

The door opened before the chimes stopped and we came face-to-face with the grandma we hadn’t seen in more than 20 years. Her long red hair was shorter and had turned gray and her face was a lot less sharp, but it was definitely our grandma.

“I knew you were coming,” grandma said before ushering us in.

Grandma sat us down in her fortune telling/palm reading room and poured us cups of hot tea without asking if we wanted them.

“You watched the tapes?” My grandma said once we all sat down on deep purple furniture.

“Yeah, look, I don’t know what happened between you and mom and dad, but I don’t care. I just want to know what this is and what the hell we can do about it,” I explained. “I don’t want to end up like her,” I finished and pointed to Mandy.

My grandma took a deep breath and started in.

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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