Emma May isn’t scared of anything, but she’s scared of Grandmother Orwell. It isn’t just because Emma is only twelve years old. Grandmother’s neighbor is scared of her too. So is the postman — Emma watched him tiptoe up to the door and gently rest a package once, slinking beneath the window pane back to his truck on the street, like a spy behind enemy lines. It’s very likely the Mayor, and even the President, would be scared of Grandmother too, if only they were alone together for a moment.

It was the way she looked at you. Not at your clothes, or your face, or your skin and bones; Grandmother looked at you. There was nothing all the world could keep secret from her. On the rare occasions the parched land of her old face cracked into smile, Emma thought Grandmother looked like a fox watching a chicken getting dressed in the morning.

The only person in the world who didn’t seem afraid was Emma’s mother, Bella. She and grandmother would get into famous shouting matches, yelling about everything except exactly what they were fighting about. They were at it again now — Emma could hear them from the living room where she watched TV. Some cartoon was playing which must either involve time travel or bad writing, Emma couldn’t tell, as she was trying to listen to the argument. They’d only been visiting for about fifteen minutes before it broke out this time, but loud and clear rang the voices from the kitchen.

“… and If I could go back and do it again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Except for not telling you about it.”

That was mother. Her voice had a strained tone of exasperation, as though she were about to either break into laughter or tears, but hadn’t committed to one or the other.

“You don’t need to tell me your mistakes, dear. A mother knows.”

That was Grandmother. Her voice was far too sweet for the old prune, another dangerous sign. Emma turned down the volume on the TV, swinging her legs below grandmother’s padded rocking chair where she sat. It was rather nice not being the one in trouble for once.

“And you must be the perfect parent, right? Except for raising me, what went wrong there?” mother trilled.

“I can only show the way, not walk it for you,” Grandmother replied curtly.

“All talk and no walk, what a great example.”

“Emma will stay with me for the weekend. It sounds like you’re working too hard and need a break.”

“Need a break— ooooh.” Mother was fuming now. The voices were getting closer — they were coming back from the kitchen. Emma turned up the volume on the TV again, looking straight ahead at the old fashioned monstrous box which loomed in the corner of the cramped room. Emma asked once why her TV had such a big container, and Grandmother told her it needed room for the demon who lived inside and drew the pictures. Emma wouldn’t have believed anyone else who said that, but with Grandmother Orwell, she wasn’t so sure. The idea of being trapped here for a weekend was abominable.

“Do we have to leave already?” Emma asked innocently as her mother stormed into the room.

Emma’s mother looked like nervous bird. Thin and anxious, with constant small fluttering movements and hand symbols like she was about to take flight. Her long beak poked out from disorderly black bangs which concealed most of her face. Mother smiled tensely as she noticed Emma. Without a word, she pivoted on her heel to face Grandmother once more.

“You know what? A break would be lovely, actually. Emma will be happy to help you with your chores, I’ll have time to catch up on mine, and we will be a normal, functioning, happy family. That’s what we are, right? Normal and happy.”

“Did you say I’ll be happy to?” Emma asked meekly, hoping she put enough inflection at the end of the sentence to not be mistaken for consent.

“You’ll be happy, whether you like it or not.” Grandmother Orwell turned the corner from the kitchen and entered the living room. She was dressed all in black, pressed skirt and blouse with another shade of black for the floral patterns, and big round buttons that looked like bone. Emma thought she was a witch, without their sense of humor.

Before Emma could obtain her constitutionally protected right to legal defense, the front door had slammed shut, her mother gone. Emma smiled defiantly into the black hole of Grandmother’s scowl, hesitantly swinging her legs once more. Surely she could survive anything for a weekend. No doubt the proud last words of many a heroine.

“What are you watching TV for?” Grandmother snapped.

It wasn’t the kind of question looking for an answer.

“Nobody else was doing it, and I felt qualified,” Emma replied anyway. “What were you and mother fighting about this time?”

“Some day when you’re older and have a child of your own, I hope they treat you exactly the way you treat your mother.” Grandmother said it like a curse.

“Thank you,” Emma said.

Grandmother the fox grinned craftily, her eyes glittering diamonds, searching, probing, turning over the rocks to look underneath what lay hidden in Emma’s mind.

“What does your mother say about me?”

“She means much better than she says.”

Grandmother nearly cackled, but caught herself in time to turn it into a hacking cough, her scowl quickly returning. “I didn’t really think she’d leave you here,” Grandmother admitted. “What am I to do with you?”

“You don’t have to do anything with me,” Emma assured her. “I like doing things with myself.”

“Do you like chickens?” Grandmother asked sternly, peering close to Emma’s face as though looking down a dark well.

“I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“I have six chickens out back,” Grandmother said in delighted animation. “Little girls love chickens, don’t they?”

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“It has been a long time since you were a little girl, hasn’t it Grandmother?”

But Grandmother Orwell was insistent. Taking Emma by the hand, the old women led her granddaughter through her house. Dark narrow hallways, with faded wallpaper covered in strange abstract designs, like ancient runes. There was a clock mounted on a wall, and another there above a door, and another on the side of the stair. Each of the clocks displayed a different time. Emma checked her phone to confirm it was almost 4 o’ clock, and that every one of the clocks was incorrect in their own unique way.

Most of Grandmother’s cramped house was occupied by fearsome black and white portraits of dignified men and women, most of whom were surely dead, or at least appeared to wish they were. Some paintings, others old photographs, others still surreal and strange with facial features all jumbled and mixed up, or running down their face like liquid.

“You’ll be helping me with chores for as long as you’re here.”

Being here is a chore already, Emma thought silently.

“I’m happy to help, Grandma.”

“Make your bed in the morning. Wash the dishes after I cook. Collect the eggs, and feed the chickens.”

Grandmother opened the back door of her house, leading Emma under duress into her large fenced yard. A magnificent old oak tree was growing in the corner, and a once lavish garden now ran wild and strange. A faded red barn leaned heavily against the wall, threatening collapse and a feathery explosion at any moment. Shifting aside the wooden bar which locked the door, Grandmother unleashes a wave of musty straw and soft rustling.

Emma stared frozen, unable to quite understand what she was seeing. The afternoon light faltered abruptly at the entrance to the chicken coop. The little barn wasn’t nearly big enough to house such deep shadows. Just like the clocks, it went from afternoon to midnight in only a few steps. Something stirred within the darkness, taking a long time for the immense form to pass across the doorway. Emma thought she saw light glinting off black scales like a giant serpent, but shook the impossible thought away. Grandmother leaned against the side of the red barn, grinning as she waited for Emma to enter.

“I made my share of mistakes raising your mother, truth be told,” she said. “I was too easy on the girl. I thought she was anxious, and weak, and silly, and so I spared showing her everything she needed to learn until it was too late for her to accept it. I don’t want her to make the same mistake with you. Is that cruel?”

“Cruel for school, but not cruel for family,” Emma said encouragingly.

“There were so many things about the world I wanted her to understand, but every time I started to show her, she would have a fit and run away. But you aren’t running away, are you Emma?”

“I didn’t know that was an option,” the girl replied, truthfully considering it now.

“There are some things which must be experienced to be understood. But you’ll be a child forever like your mother if you never look at things which seem ugly to you. Some people never stop hiding from their own ugly thoughts, and what remains of them is of no use to anyone. If you want to help me, like I want to help you, then go on. Step inside the chicken coop. They don’t bite.”

Six chickens. And an overactive imagination. Emma hated how dark it was, but hated even more the thought of Grandmother thinking she was weak and silly. Emma liked the idea of being braver than her mother, who she had her own fair share of disagreements with. Brushing off the imaginary dust from her jeans and t-shirt, she stepped inside.

Six pairs of eyes, staring back at her. Yellow eyes, almost gold, a baleful glow like they were electric. Living her whole life in the city, Emma did not have any experience with chickens before, but she was quite sure something else was staring back at her, tracking her every movement.

“This is some kind of test,” Emma said uncertainly. “Will there be a prize?”

“Yes of course, my dear. I’ll let you take an egg home with you.”

“What kind of prize is a chicken egg? At least make it a chocolate one.”

“A clever girl like you must know by now that they aren’t chickens.” With that Grandmother Orwell closes the door behind Emma, pitching her into utter darkness except a small outline of light which used to be the door. Darkness except for the glowing eyes, leering at her from all around. The air became much thicker and heavier. The soft rustle of movement, and there light glimmered off black scales again. Thick rough black scales, with serrated spines bristling along the arched back, like the warning of a cat.

“There are three steps to taking care of my pets,” Grandmother Orwell called through the door. “First you must fill both troughs. You’ll find a bucket of feed hanging by the door, and a large metal scooper.”

Trying not to scream was occupying the entirety of Emma’s attention. She pressed her back against the door, but it must be barred again; it didn’t budge.

“Second you must check their water trough. Make sure it’s clean, and fill it up from the hose.”

“Please let the light in, and I will do it,” Emma says as bravely as she can.

“They hate the light, and I promise you, your job much harder with it,” Grandmother chided. “And third you must lift them and take their eggs. When you have collected an egg from each of them, I will open this door.”

“What do you mean they hate the light? What are they?” Emma asked desperately.

“You’re starting to sound shrill like your mother. Why must everything have a name, which you wouldn’t recognize or understand anyway?”

The eyes were getting closer. A sharp inhale — something was sniffing her. Emma held out the back of her hand gingerly as if to a dog, but recoiled at once as something damp rubbed against her skin.

“Food. Water. Eggs. Go on, girl.”

Emma was trembling as she felt her way along the wall. She scraped her hand painfully against a rough wooden bucket. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, but the shapes around her seemed to be made of the darkness itself, the darkness was the fabric of their skin as well as their cloaks. She decided it was best to get this over with as quickly as possible, and not even look at the eyes which looked at her.

Bucket. Scoop, fill, scoop, fill, scoop, full.

It wasn’t corn seed. The food wriggled as Emma scooped it, like a bucket of worms.

Water. Emma tripped over the hose, and soon traced it back to the outlet to turn it on. The cold water splashed over her as her fingers shook. She wouldn’t turn, but knew all six of the creatures had left their beds and were sniffing around her feet and ankles. They must not be much larger than chickens after all. Either that, or they were only pressed against the ground, sneaking toward her as they prepared to spring.

“It’s quiet in there. How are you doing?” Grandmother asked impatiently.

Emma closed her eyes tightly and reached her hand into the darkness. “Excuse me, but I know you’re not chickens. I’m not going to take your eggs from you, because I think that would be wrong. But I know you’re not evil things, because Grandmother wouldn’t love an evil thing, and she takes care of you. So please give me your eggs because she asked for them.”

A rustle, a scrape, a stolen breath, frozen in time not to melt with the years. Emma felt a sharp prick in her hands as though a pinecone dropped into them. She didn’t open her eyes, but felt the gentle weight of one egg at a time roll into her outstretched hands. She could barely hold all six, but felt each individually and knew they were there. Then rustling again, she could feel their presence slide away to melt into the deeper shadows of their straw beds against the wall.

“You can open the door now, Grandmother,” she said breathlessly.

The door opened, and Emma was free. Being back in the afternoon sun, Emma felt her skin drink in the light and warmth as though gasping in air after drowning.

“You’re already older than your mother.” Grandmother Orwell smiled as she carefully plucked the eggs one by one from Emma’s hands. Now in the light, the eggs were like black polished opal stones, except for their gracefully curved spines which covered the things like an undersea urchin. When only a single egg remained in Emma’s still trembling fingers, Grandmother took Emma’s hand and closed it around the prize.

“The two of us will have great fun this weekend while your mother is away. I sense in you someone who is not afraid to explore the dark wonders I have gathered in this house over the years. I want you to take that egg home with you to remember the night you were more than afraid, and still didn’t turn back.”

Emma didn’t think she would need anything to remember this night.