Flash Fiction - Grandma's Home

I'm sure she'd love to hear from you

We are heading into the final days before Halloween, but I still have plenty of spooky tales to share. Today, I am working from the prompt — You dial your deceased grandmother’s number for comfort. Someone answers.

GRANDMA’S HOME

“What are you telling me?” Scott asked, glaring at his father.

The older man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “It’s complicated, son.”

“It doesn’t sound that complicated to me. You just told me that my grandma, YOUR FUCKING MOTHER, killed grandpa years ago and you all let it slide. That’s what you are telling me.”

Ben looked at his son, eyes brimming with tears. “You didn’t know your grandfather.” He took a shaky breath and exhaled slowly. “He was not a nice man. He did things that…he hurt a lot of people.”

The room fell silent for a moment as both men took a moment to think about what had been said. “Did he hurt you?” Scott asked.

“No.” Ben shook his head slowly, eyes drifting off into the middle distance. “I heard things, though. I saw bruises on your grandma.” He paused for a moment, sucking on his bottom lip. “Come to think of it, the old man had cuts and bruises, too, so she must have fought back.”

“Why are you telling me this now? I mean, we only just laid her to rest. Why now, Dad.?”

“There’s never a good time for any of this, but I wanted you to hear it from me, and not some random member of the family.”

Scott stood, loosening his black tie before running his hands through his hair. “I need time to take this all in.”

“I understand, son.”

Turning on his heel, Scott rushed out the front door and ran to his car, locking himself inside before letting the tears begin to fall. He knew that his grandma was a tough old woman, but she had always been kind to him. He couldn’t imagine her as a killer, but why would his father lie about such a thing.

In times of stress, grandma was always the one he turned to. “One last time,” he mumbled, as he dialed her number, waiting for the machine to answer so he could dump out his feelings.

The phone rang twice and then picked up, a soft hiss and crackle, like an old phonograph, sounding off in the background.

Brow furrowed, Scott said, “Hello?”

The static sound was replaced by what sounded like a chorus of screams and wails.

“Hello?” Scott said again.

The voice of his grandma broke through the din, straining to speak as though the air was being sucked out of her body.

“Grandma? Is that you?” Scott pulled the phone away from his ear as screams blasted out of the speaker.

“I AM IN HELL,” grandma howled before the line went dead.