Whenever our parents needed the house to themselves, they sent us to Grandma’s.
It wasn’t a punishment. Not really.
She lived a few streets away, and we were the only grandkids, so it made sense. Pack a small bag, walk over before dusk, pretend we weren’t being exiled so they could breathe without us.
That Friday was no different.
My younger brother and I made the walk together, dragging our feet just enough to show we weren’t thrilled, but not enough to actually get scolded for it.
The gate was open when we got there. The house, too.
Which wasn’t strange.
Not yet.
There was food in the pot, rice and stew, slightly warm, like she’d just made it.
Grandma was in her room, lying in bed with her wrapper pulled high.
We greeted her, and when she didn’t respond, we figured she was asleep.
“She must be tired,” my brother said, nodding toward the kitchen. “All that cooking.”
Then he smiled and pointed at a photo on her bedside locker, the three of us grinning, sweaty, mid-laughter.
“I remember that day. She chased us around the compound for stealing meat from the pot.”
He chuckled. “Back then, she didn’t need this much sleep. Now look at her, knocked out before sunset.”
I laughed quietly.
We didn’t want to disturb her, so we went around the house.
Her old radio was still plugged in, tuned to static. A lantern stood on the centre table, unlit. It was musty, but not abandoned.
She had moved some of her things, cartons, clothes and boxes, into the guest room. Packed. Sealed. Stacked near the window like someone preparing for a long journey.
We assumed someone must be helping her organise her things.
That’s when we started going through the boxes.
They were filled with wrappers, party souvenirs, old photographs, books with brittle covers, beads, and even the small mirror she used to keep by her bedside back when we were little.
There were pictures of her younger self in black and white. Stern-faced. Confident. Hands at her side. Her hair was fuller then. Her eyes didn’t smile.
We didn’t hear the movement at first. The room was quiet, suffocating almost, as if the air had gone still.
Then a hanger creaked.
My brother turned first. One of Grandma’s old gowns swayed gently on the rack in the corner, back and forth, though no wind was blowing.
We froze.
Then footsteps.
Not loud. Just soft, barefoot taps. Crossing the corridor slowly. Almost lazily.
We didn’t speak. We just ran.
Out of the guest room, down the hallway, straight back to Grandma’s room.
She hadn’t moved. She was still in bed, her face turned toward the wall, the wrapper high up to her shoulders.
“Grandma?” my brother whispered, breathless. “Grandma, someone is in the house.”
No answer. Not a flinch.
There was a hunting gun in the corner, our late grandfather’s. He used to keep it propped up by the wardrobe. In case of thieves, he’d say.
We looked at it but didn’t touch it.
Not yet.
We turned back toward the door.
And there she was.
A woman. Young. Beautiful in a strange, out-of-time way.
Her skin had that glow old photographs carry, like sepia made flesh.
She was standing with her back to us, angled just enough for us to catch her side profile. Her hands were gently stroking the wall like she was remembering it.
Then she turned.
It was her.
Grandma.
But not the frail woman in bed. This was her, years younger, exactly as she looked in those photos we’d just seen.
Except now, she was real. Breathing. Smiling, almost.
“No,” my brother said. “No, that can’t—”
She stepped toward him.
“Fola,” she said, her voice low, almost tender.
He flinched.
“Stay behind me,” I told him, already reaching for the gun.
She didn’t say anything else. Didn’t blink. Just came forward like she belonged there.
“Get away from us,” I warned, lifting the gun, trying to get a proper grip. “I swear I’ll shoot you.”
My brother tried to dodge, but she moved too quickly, grabbing his arm before I could react.
He struggled, trying to pull away, but she held on tight. Like she was claiming him. Like he belonged to her.
“Fola, move!” I shouted.
He twisted, broke free. Just barely.
I lifted the gun higher, my hands shaking, trying to get a clear shot.
She stopped. Tilted her head at me. Then Smiled.
The room felt too small, the air too heavy. My fingers tightened on the trigger—
I fired.
It all happened in an instant.
The sound cracked through the room. Loud, sharp and final.
She vanished. Not crumbled. Not bled. Just disappeared like smoke folding into itself.
And behind her…
My brother staggered.
No.
That… that doesn’t make sense.
He moved. I saw him move.
I had a clear shot.
I know I did.
He coughed. Hard. Red spilling from his mouth.
Then he collapsed.
Blood bloomed beneath him. Thick and spreading.
His mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out. Just a soft wheeze and the faintest sound that could’ve been my name.
I dropped the gun.
Dropped to my knees beside him.
“No. No, no, no, no.”
He wasn’t moving.
Grandma didn’t move either. Still wrapped in her wrapper, face to the wall, unmoved by the shot.
I held him. Screamed for help. No one answered.
No neighbours. No family. Just that damn static from the radio.
The room felt older suddenly. The light outside had shifted.
The photo on the bedside locker caught my eye.
The same frame. The same moment.
Only now, my brother wasn’t in it.
Just me and Grandma, smiling like nothing had ever been missing.
Like he had never been there at all.
Grandma was still in bed.
And my brother was in my arms, bleeding out.