Love From Grandpa - horror

I was glad of the bells that rang out for Grandpa, hours before they rang in midnight mass. The heavy metal tones drowned out memories of his shrill police whistle and his clinking, jailor’s keys. Now set firmly in his coffin, their sounds still woke me in a cold sweat, night after chilling night, since he died. What if I became like him?

I trudged through slushy streets towards the empty, unheated church. My father had over-tipped the pall bearers. Right to the last, people had to be bribed to be nice to the remorseless old man.

My black-clad mother gave a brief eulogy. Then a priest led us in a short prayer of forgiveness, before the coffin was lowered into frozen ground. We left, tearless, to walk home.

The seasons have turned full circle. The leaves are gone, the slushy snow is back. This year, with a heart full of hope and a stomach full of chocolate, I wrap gifts in coloured paper for the very first time. Banned under his patriarchal reign, my family never had any kind of presents – until now. We even have a tree with coloured lights to put them under. I place my offerings beneath the branches and step back, admiring several fancy packages with my name on them. Red and green, blue and gold, they spread a grin across my face. But I must wait until tomorrow.

Curled up in bed still smiling, I drift into dreams of cake, mulled wine and nutcracker soldiers. Every festive cliché I know dutifully presents itself. But as the bells ring out for midnight mass, everything changes.

Stiffening in my bed, I hear a whistle blow - screeching in the night. The jangle of keys follows and the metal on metal only means one thing – Grandpa opening the cellar door. It creaks and groans in the kitchen, in my mind. Only darkness and damp sit behind it, as I well know from the hours I have spent, crying under the house.

I awake with a shudder and flick on the lamp, breathing hard, eyes adjusting. Just a dream, just a dream. Clink, clink, clink. And then another shrill blast, summoning me to the cellar.

It’s been a year since his whistle and keys were buried with him, never to torment us again. He couldn’t possibly be calling to me from the grave. I pull back the bed clothes and set my bare feet on the carpet, ready to prove to myself that this is just a dream. Clink, clink, clink. The sound does not stop.

I retreat beneath my covers again, pulling the duvet round me, burrowing into the bed until I sleep.

That night’s fears are forgotten when I awake to snow falling and my mother calling me downstairs.

The lights on the decorated tree glint and glisten off the gifts below. With festive hugs, I am invited to choose my first ever yule-tide present.

Two small, black parcels hidden amongst the glitter of the others, catch my eye. I am drawn to them and reach down, lifting the nearest one to my ear, shaking it and running my fingers over the paper. There’s a black tag. Written in silver in a shaky hand is my name. Nothing else. My parents exchange puzzled glances.

I rip the paper, there’s a black box inside. Holding my breath, I tear off the lid revealing pitch-dark earth.

I gingerly poke a finger into the dirt. Something cold and hard meets my touch. I lift the silver instrument to my lips and blow. The shrill of the whistle makes my parents shudder. The box falls to the floor, spilling soil across the boards.

I snatch up the second black box and tear the wrapping to uncover more earth, shiny edges poking through it. Pulling the keys from their rest, I toy with them in one hand. Clink, clink, clink. My parents cower away from me. I smile. What if I became like him?