In the past, Grandmother’s house always appeared warm and friendly. Today, the place projected a distant, cold feeling. I sat in the car for a few moments overwhelmed by my emotions. I missed her so much. She was my refuge when life became too tough.

With a sigh, I slid out and picked up my bag of groceries on the back seat. It was strange unlocking the door. Grandmother always met me on the steps with an apron tied around her waist. Walking in, I did not know what to expect, but nothing had changed. The house was in perfect order. Cushions on the chairs and sofa sat layered with precision. No dust settled anywhere. Her magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table. The tidiness carried over into the kitchen. Cups, bowls, and plates sat lined up in the cabinet. Putting away the cold food in the refrigerator I smiled. Everything in there was neatly organized.

A letter addressed to me in her handwriting lay on the table. She realized her death was coming and prepared for it.

The letter started with:

My dearest Beth,

I have heard the call, faint at first, for a couple of days. My time is near. There are so many things I wanted to tell you in person but lacked the courage.

I stopped reading and thought about her statement, lacked the courage? Grandmother was the bravest person I ever knew. Returning to the letter, what she wrote was even stranger.

I dreaded writing it down, but you must be made aware of what happened. It is all recorded in the diaries I put on the shelf in your parents’ room.

Please do not think too harshly of me.

Love forever,

Grandmother

My room was still the same from when I was a child. Grandmother told me it was up to me to redecorate, but somehow doing that, would erase what was left of my parents. We all lived together in my grandmother’s house. Their room was on the second floor. I thought that after closing their bedroom door when they died, Grandmother never went upstairs again.

Hmm.

Following a quick walk through the house, I entered my room and stared at the neatly made bed. My mind and body were so tired. The mysteries could wait for tomorrow. I dropped my bag on a chair and sagged backward on the bed.

My dreams were filled with Grandmother, her scent, gentle touch, and the distinctive way she said, “Beth.”

I smiled and opened my eyes. Grandmother stood next to my bed; her fingers caressed my forehead. I started to get up, but she gently pushed me back.

“Sleep, child. Later, read the diaries, then we will talk.”

In the morning, I leaned against the kitchen counter and sipped my coffee. Bread popped up from the toaster. As I spread jam across it, I thought about my dream. Or was it something else? Grandmother’s presence felt so real, her voice clear.

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The logical part of my brain questioned, not ready to let go of her yet?

I stood in the doorway of her room and took in the scene. Bed neatly made. Someone smoothed out the cover from where she lay. Her knitting basket was beside the rocking chair. I sat in the chair yearning to feel something of her presence.

Nothing.

Searching for answers, I pulled out her clothes and dug through the pockets while laying them on the bed. I then emptied her neatly folded belongings from the drawers. A cedar chest held treasures but not what I hoped for. It was full of hand-knitted blankets, baby clothes, and sweaters. My hand searched along the bottom for some papers or a note and came up empty. The only paper she left was the letter and a will filed with her lawyer.

I examined my room. Could she have left something there? Afterward, standing with hands on my hips and surveying the room, I realized all this rummaging was to put off going upstairs.

Grandmother, what secrets are you hiding up there?

Trailing my hand along the banister, I climbed the stairs. At my parents’ door, I turned the knob. It swung open on well-oiled hinges. I stepped into the dark room and fumbled for a light switch. The room was immaculate, dust free and with no spiders or webs. She kept it in perfect condition. A stack of books, Grandmother’s diaries, sat on the table next to a rocking chair. The chair moved as if inviting me to sit.

Resting in the chair, memories flooded my mind. As a child, I climbed up in my mother’s lap, and she sang me to sleep. Father too would sit in it and read while smoking his pipe. Tears flowed down my cheeks. Grandmother never let me come up here and give them a final goodbye.

Searching for a Kleenex, my hand knocked off the top diary. It landed on the floor and flipped open. Bending to pick up the book, words written in Grandmother’s strong handwriting caught my attention.

*****

Beth, I wrote these to explain your past. Going over everything was painful, but it had to be told.

My brother was one of the Lost Souls. I never understood what that meant until receiving the knife. Mother of course knew, but she could not kill her son, she left it up to me. But that is the end of the story. I must start at the beginning.

When my mother, Sadie, married Jacob, she was unaware his family line was tainted. Both his father and brother preyed on young girls. After their accidental death, shocked neighbors discovered twenty victims buried in the fields.

Jacob left town to escape his family’s bloodied past. Working as a farm hand, that is when he met Sadie. Since he never told her about his family’s history, she did not know about them until it was too late. Unknown to either one, her father sent those Lost Souls to the Gatekeeper.

The first years of their marriage were normal, Sadie explained who she was, and Jacob though curious accepted it. Everything changed when she killed the traveling repairman. Father became restless. He would clutch Sadie and take deep breaths, drawing in her scent, and then disappear for days. She was left with me and my two brothers to work the farm. He returned each time whistling and in a pleased mood.

I woke one night to hear my mother screaming, “Jacob, don’t do it!”

Standing in the doorway of my brother’s room, I watched my diminutive mother fight my huge strong father.

He held my brother upside down with a huge knife ready to slice him in two. He growled, “I couldn’t fill the hunger. Just as I was about to satisfy it, police came with dogs and ran me off.”

“Not the baby, put him down, please.”

“Your scent is so strong. It drives me crazy. I must kill to soothe my burning soul.”

“Not Edgar, he is an innocent.”

Mother was frantically pulling at something under her skirt. Light glimmered on a silver knife as she raised her hand. Pointing her finger, the blade flew across the room. It struck Father on his forehead. He fell backward. I remember the hollow sound his head made as it landed against the cabinet. Mother rushed forward and caught my screaming brother before he hit the floor.

For the longest, I could still hear his screams in my dreams.

It was hectic, what with the funeral, neighbors visiting, and bringing food. Through it all, Mother remained stiff and pale.

People commented, “It must be the shock. Him tripping over a rug and falling like that. So sudden.”

After everything settled, Mother gave me the knife.

*****

I closed the diary and leaned back in the rocking chair. This was something the Gatekeeper failed to mention.