A touch of horror, happenstance and humour

 

GRANNY HAD A SECRET

     Granny didn’t believe in mere coincidence or dumb luck. She had an unwavering conviction that God had an unbreakable plan, and everything that happened — good or bad — was simply part of that divine design. She never questioned her steadfast faith, she simply said with her slow southern drawl, “God ain’t gonna give me nuttin’ I can’t handle.”

     My memories of her, naturally, are those of an old woman. She stood just five feet tall in her clunky orthopaedic shoes, and not to be unkind, I have to say she was about as wide as she was tall. Alongside her fierce, unshakable religious devotion, she possessed a shocking physical strength that could silence a barroom and humble any man who dared underestimate her.

     Her life had been steeped in sorrow. Her first husband was tragically shot by a careless hunter who mistook him for a bear in the dark dense forest behind their house. Her second husband drowned in a nearby lake when their fragile boat capsized  while out for a Sunday picnic. Though Granny struggled, she reached the shore. His body was cruelly lost to the depths and never recovered. Her third husband—my mother’s father—had mysteriously vanished without a trace shortly after my mother’s birth, leaving behind unanswered questions and an insurance policy that wouldn’t be paid out. Fortunately, Granny was taken care of by the policies of the first two husbands. Money was never an issue, and that, she believed, was all in God’s plan.

     Granny accepted each heartrending loss with unbreakable, rock-solid faith. Friends and family admired her indestructible stoicism, her remarkable ability to carry on despite the relentless tragedies. No one questioned the eerie pattern of death and disappearance that seemed to follow her.

     When age and time finally caught up with her, she moved in with my mother and me. Her home, where she had spent her entire life, had to be cleared out. And that is how I found myself, one hot July afternoon, tucked away in her dim, dusty attic, sifting through ancient, musty boxes, completely unaware that what I was about to discover would forever rewrite everything I thought I knew about her.

     One weathered box contained a treasure trove of brittle newspaper clippings and yellowed letters, dog-eared diaries and faded photographs. The letters were carefully wrapped in old, threadbare, blue gingham fabric and tied with a frayed yellow ribbon. The newspaper clippings and photographs were filed inside manila envelopes neatly labelled with the year they were created. Each of the diaries was bound shut with a rough piece of twine, as if to keep their secrets tightly locked away from the world.

     I opened the oldest envelope marked #1 1940. It included photos of the first husband and newspaper stories of his horrific death. The bear hunter was never found. The second envelope marked #2 1946, contained articles about the second husband, the desperate search for his body, the good fortune that Granny had survived and photos of the happy couple on their wedding day. In the third envelope marked #3 July 1950—Tennessee, I discovered clippings about an unidentified homeless man found battered and bruised lying dead by the railroad tracks.  In the absence of evidence, local police determined he was a hobo who lost his grip while riding the midnight train.

     The letters, so neatly wrapped in gingham, answered any questions I had. They were all written by the same hand, my own grandfather, who was living in Tennessee.  The first letter demanded a large sum of money, payment to keep quiet about what he knew. Each successive letter became more threatening, but it appeared old Granny never gave in.  His final letters turned desperate. He was living on the street and was willing to accept just a fraction of his original demand. In the last letter he instructed her to meet him near the tracks at Depot Park in Bell Buckle Tennessee. If she brought the money, he promised he would leave her alone. Her secrets would be safe. He was there the night before the homeless man’s body was found.

     I trembled as I opened the diaries. One for each year from 1940 to 1950. The truth, revealed by Granny’s admission, that she was the murderer of each man. And somehow she believed it was all God’s plan.

     With the contents returned to the box I carried it down the attic stairs, unsure exactly what I would do. At the bottom of the stairs, sitting in her rocking chair, Granny was waiting. “Don’t interfere with God’s plan,” she warned as she pointed a rifle directly at me. But her fingers, bent with arthritis, couldn’t pull the trigger. I calmly walked towards her, balancing the box carefully as I reached into my pocket for a cigarette lighter.

     The box began to smoulder and by the time I dropped it in her lap it was flaming. She was screaming as I walked out of the house, confident God's will was done.