The Family Heirloom

My husband and I have lived in this house for a few weeks now. John and I still have boxes littering each room with “Liz”, “John” and “Amy” scribbled haphazardly across them in varying degrees or dried sharpie. Extra boxes linger in corners labelled “Grandma: to keep” and “Grandma: for Mum” etcetera. The box before me is filled with her old books; she has everything from Reading Tealeaves to The Famous Five. I sort through them; The Woman in Black; a nondescript cracked spine; Wuthering Heights; a cookbook on artichoke (of all things)… As I flick through the seemingly random array of novels, cookbooks and strange leather-bound oddities, I can’t help but wonder whether she read them all. In a house in the middle of nowhere; I suppose she did like to read.

Grandma always told us she would die in the house. And, of course, when she did, she insisted that it stay in the family followed with “let the house stand” before offering me the cup of tea I was halfway through and repeating the crossword question we had already answered.

Grandma was a stubborn old woman, asserting stubbornness as a treatment for dementia.

One cousin laughed down the phone; “You can have it, Little Cous’.”

Following a similar reaction from the others, John and I decided to keep the house, the land and the few chickens Grandma had left behind. We carpeted, repainted and repaired parts of the house that she had been too old to maintain. My daughter, Amy, moved into the small bedroom. The bedroom I would stay in as a child. Across the corridor is the third bedroom and further still, the master bedroom. Although surprised that Amy would choose the smallest bedroom, we decorated, ensuring her room was the first to be completed.

When it was my grandmother’s house, there was no squishy carpet to sit and play on. Although, we didn’t often play indoors, so when we were confined to the indoors we would create our own amusement. Often, I would look for shapes in the knots of the floorboards. I suppose I was trying to read them like my grandmother read tea leaves. Round swirls of a knot being called circles and predicting a lottery win in a way that I had seen in films. Grandma would roll her eyes and say something like; “not like that Elizabeth, divination is a divine skill”. When not assaulting Grandma’s “gift”, I would always imagine that the shapes were people living in the floor, like The Borrowers. I would talk to them at night, sitting down on the creaky floorboards feeling them shift below me, lightly, so lightly, as if a shadow without a person was moving within the floor.

One night was I decided to investigate the shifting shadows between the floorboards. The rain was pouring outside and, honestly, I hoped that it would mask the creaks as I was leaving my bed, nervous of a scolding from Grandma. I didn’t know what possessed me to do it, but I pressed an eye to a crack and tried to discover anything in the space between the floor and the living room ceiling. At first, all I could see were the joists and insulation. Then I saw movement. I froze. A little voice in my head told me it was a mouse. That’s why she had five cats because “farmland is always riddled with rodents” she would say. I whispered and squeaked like a mouse but the shape didn’t come any closer. There was stillness.

Eventually, I crawled back into bed. Perhaps the mouse had gone to bed too.

The next night I woke up at around 2 am. I wasn’t sure of the exact time and didn’t think to check the clock, but I was sure that I had heard the faint ding of the grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. I felt a shift below my bed, wobbling the metal frame, causing it to clatter like a heavy wind chime. I jumped out, pressed my face to the floorboards and whispered for it not to be scared of me. Too big for a mouse, I thought, maybe its a rat or a squirrel or a… I hear a creek in the corridor and then a flush of a toilet. I flashed a look at my bedroom door and stared at the handle until I heard the high pitched naw of Grandma climbing back into bed. Only then, did I continue to whisper.

After some time, I thought I heard a whisper in reply. A very small “shh” that could have been a pipe. I leapt up and wrapped myself up in the armour of blankets and soft toys, tucking in every toe and finger. The way that you do when a monster is under your bed.

The next morning, I awoke, groggy, peering about the room, almost blinded by the dust dancing in the light from my misty window. The door was open and nothing was disturbed. Grandma always left the door open which appeared to irritate me, being 6-going-on-16.

On the third night, I awoke at 3 am. I know it was 3 am because I heard the grandfather clock chime three times before squinting at the strange glow in the dark hands of the alarm clock. Honestly, I don’t know what woke me or what made me want to look under my bed, but I did. I now realise what a strange action this would be for a child. I leant down, hanging my upper body over the bed with my hair brushing the floorboards, catching on the splits and knots of the wood.

Under the bed, I saw a face. A small face. A plump face. Then I saw a shadow. I screamed, salty water starting to leak from my eyes. I clasped a hand over my mouth. Footsteps rattled towards the bedroom door followed by the door opening. I ran to hug Grandma but, as I leaned out to her, I fell hard onto the floor.

My real Grandma strolled towards my room, sleepy, and scolded:

“What on earth is wrong, Elizabeth?”

I continued to cry.

“Grandma there was a little boy under my bed,” I whimpered.

“Right,” her breath catches and she coughs, “well, it’s too late for all this silliness. Come and rest in my bed for a while,” she replied. She calmly took my hand and lifted me off the floor, leading me through to her room.

I awoke in my Grandma’s bed, sheets neatly tucked tightly over me, and suddenly remembered the events of the night before. Over breakfast, I told Grandma what had happened. She called it a dream but burnt some white sage just for incase and to help me sleep better.

Whilst flicking through a dilapidated paperback, I hear Amy cry. I continue to sort through Grandmas’ books whilst John volunteers to check on her. As I search for a tittle, I hear Amy’s bedroom floorboards creak right above me and I imagine John shushing her back to sleep, running his fingers through her thick hair and tucking Mr Bunny tightly into her chest. My Grandmas’ house shivers under the weight of my furniture leaning against her walls. I hear John’s heavy footsteps squeaking back down the stairs.

“She said there was a little boy under her bed. I told her it was just a dream.”