Every summer, I spend the season at my grandmother’s house. She makes me ham sandwiches and coconut cake. There’s a TV, though she hardly gets any good stations. Mostly I play with my father’s old toys. Trucks and blocks and little, plastic army men.
Even though it’s summer and it’s warm outside, there are all these strange cold spots in the house. They feel like little drafts where the cold stretches from the ceiling to the floor. I’ve asked my grandmother about the cold spots and she just laughs.
“Ghosts,” she says. “The ones who tried to get out. Don’t mind them.”
I don’t mind them, but then sometimes at night, when the sun’s down and the temperature’s dropped, I’ll stand by the screen door or out on the porch and feel these strange blasts of heat that don’t seem to come from anywhere. When I ask my grandmother, she just shakes her head.
“More ghosts. The ones that tried to get in.”
That makes sense, but only when I don’t think about it. When I think about things, weird little questions pop into my head, like, “When did Grampie die?”
My grandmother gets a little serious and says, “A while back.” That seems right. Why don’t I remember?
“What’d he do?”
“Sold things.”
“What things?”
“Things people wanted.”
I remember that. He was proud, my grandfather. And he had a lot of friends. They all looked up to him.
“How come his friends don’t come by anymore?”
My grandmother makes an unhappy face. “They’re gone, too.”
That makes me sad. My grandmother sees it. “You didn’t like his friends,” she says, and I remember that I didn’t. They scared me. They were too big, and they never said a nice word to me. They were always coming fast and going down to the basement…
“Where’s the basement?” Grampie never let me in the basement. But Grampie’s not here, so I could go, but...I don’t think there’s a basement now.
“There’s no basement,” says my grandmother. “We couldn’t bring it with us. And besides, there’s nothing down there you’d like.”
That sounds right. But then it makes me think another weird, little question. “When’s today?”
My grandmother shakes her head. “No day. We don’t count ‘em anymore. You remember?”
She’s right. No days.
“Since when?”
My grandmother smiles a little, but she’s not happy. “Not since they came for your grandfather.”
Right. I remember.
They tried to come in.
Police. Or something like that.
And Grampie and all his friends came pouring out of the basement.
Trying to get out.
And everything got real loud and real hot.
“I’m sorry you were here,” says my grandmother. “He liked having you around.”
“I like being around.” I really do.
My grandmother brings me a slice of coconut cake. “You understand where we are?”
“In between,” I say. She nods. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but the cake is delicious and I love spending summers with my grandmother.
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