Getting the blood stain out of my jeans would be a task. My palms were stained green from the chlorophyll of hundreds of weeds. A stream of crimson bubbled up from the green where an unnoticed thorn had taken revenge on behalf of the weeds I had destroyed in the garden that morning. The blood wouldn't stop oozing, and before I'd had a chance to straighten up from a back breaking crouch, the path of saturated droplets had made its way along my arm and onto my clothes.

Shooting, spiny weeds had unnaturally overrun the soil in Grandma's formerly verdant garden. I'd been at the wrenching task since early morning, hoping to get it done before the heat of late afternoon settled in. I looked up at the blazing sun, which had just peeked out from behind a large black storm cloud that seemed to have parked just above Grandma's house. All morning I had been grateful for the shade of the cloud, but now it seemed that the cloud had tired of shading me and it began to do what it was designed to do. As the first few large rain drops pounded my head, I turned to regard the considerable pile of weeds that signified my day's work. I'd accomplished a lot, and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. The throbbing in my hand joined forces with the heat and rain to convince me that now would be a good time to quit.

As I entered the house through the kitchen door, Grandma smiled up at me from the table where she was browsing a Reader's Digest. The words were so large I could practically read them from across the room. I smiled back as I attempted to obscure my wound from Grandma's view. I didn't want to trouble her with it knowing that she would insist on tending it herself. She no longer had the strength to be taking care of grandchildren, but that wouldn't stop her from trying. I had come on this trip to take care of her, not the other way around.

"Oh, dear," she said as she strained to lift herself from her chair, "You've injured your hand." My cover-up attempt had failed. "Didn't I tell you to be careful with that pigweed? It hides some terribly nasty thorns."

"Aw, Grandma, it's nothing. Please don't get up," I pleaded,"I can take care of it. You just tell me where I can find some Band-Aids."

"Nonsense...," she trailed off as she strained to stand. I rushed to her side and steadied her as she rested back into her chair.

With an exasperated sigh she said, "Well, I suppose you could probably get to the first-aid a little faster than I." That was a first. Grandma didn't usually give up so easily. "It's in the hall closet on the third shelf from the top."

"Just go back to your reading," I said, "I'll take care of it." I retrieved the Band-Aids from the closet and washed my hand in the sink. As soon as I removed my hand from the running stream of water, the blood started to seep again. I put my hand back under the water and watched the blood disappear in a pink stream. I did this a few times just for fun. I dried the wound with a paper towel and applied one of the adhesive strips. The blood soaked through the gauze creating a dark stain on the brown side of the bandage and threatened to start leaking out the sides. I applied two more just to ensure that I would not further stain my clothing.

"How did I do?" I asked, holding out my hand.

"Three Band-Aids!" exclaimed Grandma, "I should have thought one would suffice." She smiled at me as I opened the fridge and found a clear glass pitcher of pink lemonade. I brought the pitcher and a pair of drinking glasses over to the kitchen table and poured a glass for Grandma and one for myself. We sat quietly sipping our lemonade and staring out the large window toward the garden which seemed to be visibly wilting under the hot afternoon sun. I sympathized with the flowers as a trickle of sweat made its way down my face. I allowed it to run its course rather than expend the energy to wipe my brow. For several minutes we sat sipping in silence, I trying to cool off and Grandma reading.

As she simultaneously finished her lemonade and story, Grandma asked me to help her up and indicated that she was feeling particularly tired. I helped her to the reading room where she usually went to rest. I helped her over to the old brown sofa and she sat. Looking up at me she said softly, "I'm very happy that you've come to visit. I don't know how I would ever have been able to manage. This has been a hard week. Sometimes I just can't believe how fast time passes us by. I remember when you were born. You were so helpless and small... it seems like just yesterday, and now look at you... all grown-up and independent. I think I'll miss you."

"Don't worry Grandma," I said with a smile, "I'll be here as long as you need me." I covered Grandma with a colorful old afghan and closed the door softly as I left the room. Returning to the kitchen, I poured myself another glass of lemonade and wandered into the living room.

To me, the living room was the essence of Grandma's house. It was a formal room used mainly if ever to impress company. As children we were forbidden to come into this room. When I asked her why, my Grandmother told me it was a haunted room, best left undisturbed. Of course as children, being forbidden to enter a haunted room just made it all the more interesting. We made a game of sneaking into the living room without getting caught. It was also a great place to hide during games of hide-and-go-seek.

I plunked down in the soft flowered chair at the far end of the room. I admit that it felt strange to be sitting in the living room. A gentle breeze settled on me from above. I looked up and saw that there was an air vent in the ceiling above which blew swamp cooled air down directly onto the chair. This chair had been in the same position for as long as I could remember, maybe the exceptional ventilation was the reason. Come to think of it, Grandma never re-arranged the furniture in this room. The layout had always been the same: Along the wall to my left was a large window that opened to a view of the distant mountains. It was now shaded by a thin, white, translucent fabric which softened the light entering the room and cast eerie shadows on the carpet. Beyond the window was the formal front entrance to the house. This entrance was never used. Along the far wall an assortment of nick-knacks lined an array of shelves. A large full-length mirror hung on the wall directly across from me in which I was visible. At the far end of the wall to my right was an archway led to the rest of the house. To my immediate right was a flowered sofa that matched the chair I was sitting in. The furniture in this room was upholstered with a type of tweed fabric from some long forgotten era. Above the sofa was a dark painting of a cold mountain scene. The coffee table in front of the sofa was made of dark wood and had curiously shaped legs.

I sat musing over the various artifacts on display. The most striking was displayed on the shelves in front of me - a beautiful brass urn containing the ashen remains of my Grandfather. It always seemed strange to me that Grandma had chosen to keep my Grandfather's remains. Whereas Grandma was an amiable, benevolent woman Grandpa was an ominous man. Or so I was told. I did not have any personal memory of my Grandfather. I only knew him by the small black and white army photograph which was displayed unceremoniously at the base of the urn. The image of the valiant young soldier betrayed the abusive father and husband that my Grandfather became. Seldom-repeated stories of his abusiveness toward Grandma were vivid in my mind.

The details of his premature death, now twenty years since, were never made clear to me. I knew that he was brutally murdered. His body was discovered in a field near where he worked. It was so disfigured that the family decided it would be best to cremate him. In particular I remember my mother saying that his eyeballs had been popped out. It was gruesome.

A murder investigation was launched, but didn't really go anywhere. There was never as much as a plausible suspect. The investigation might have gone on if the family had pressed harder to find the killer. Instead, they regarded it more as a blessing from God and figured that my Grandfather got what he deserved. I think he must have been a horrible person because children are prone to grieve for even the worst of parents. Given her unfortunate experience with marriage it's not difficult to understand why Grandma never re-married.

There were other smaller urns on the shelves, the contents of which were a mystery to me. Various painted figurines ranging from cute little gnomes to drunken old coal miners kept watch about the room. I had always regarded the facial features of the figurines to be particularly disturbing and I wondered why Grandma kept them around. Old-fashioned lamps resting on small tables to either side of the sofa provided the only light in the room other than the main window and the small reading lamp on the end table to my right.

I set my lemonade on the end table and relaxed as my body turned to lead. I had not realized how exhausted I was from the work I had done that morning. It felt good to just sit and stare into space which I did for several minutes. Growing bored, I looked for something to read. There was a copy of Newsweek on the coffee table across the room. That looked interesting, but since there was a Bible on the end table next to my chair I decided to read a few verses instead. That way I wouldn't have to get up. I opened the book and it flopped open easily to a well worn and spine-creased page. Exodus chapter 20, the Ten Commandments. I started to read:

I am the Lord thy God which have brought thee out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Thou shalt have no other gods before me...

Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

Thou shalt not kill.

That last verse was underlined in red pencil. I always considered that to be the most obvious of the Ten Commandments hardly requiring emphasis. I continued to read and as I read, my mind began to focus on the monotonous rhythm of the muted rainfall outside. After only a few verses fatigue took over and I realized that I was simply watching the words go by rather than reading them. I had no idea what I was reading and slowly, my eyes closed. I wasn't sleeping, just resting my eyes. As I became aware of this fact I opened my eyes. I sat up a little straighter, took a sip of my lemonade and with renewed resolve I started again. I managed about 4 words before my eyelids dropped shut...

I was awakened suddenly by the sound of breaking glass. I had knocked over my glass of lemonade in my sleep. I thought about cleaning it up, but somehow that just didn't seem important at the moment. My body was so tired! I couldn't move. My whole body was dead weight. On the other hand, my mind was not groggy, I felt more awake than ever. In this strange state of being, I sat and watched the setting sun cast long shadows from under a black blanket which covered most of the sky. I realized that the room was different now. I scanned the furniture and my eyes passed over all the little figurines. Nothing out of the ordinary. Scanning the shelves in front of me, I suddenly realized, the brass urn was missing! Thinking that Grandma must have removed it while I was sleeping, I listened for any sounds of Grandma in the house.

I heard infrequent creaks and "house noises" as my little sister referred to them. A particularly loud grinding sound startled me as I strained to hear. I attributed the grinding to the aged plumbing. The more I strained to hear the more I became aware that something was not right. With this thought came the sudden feeling that I was being watched. Impossible, I reasoned. Just to be sure, I slowly turned my head and took a look to the right. Nothing. Quickly I turned to the left in hopes of catching the something unawares. Nothing. Air from the vent above me coursed along my skin causing a peculiar sensation up and down my spine. An unexpected terror welled up in me from my core.

I knew that it was irrational to think that anything out of the ordinary was happening. The more I tried to convince myself that nothing was wrong, the stronger the terror within became. Then I noticed the movement along the edge of the window sill. Just I cat, I thought. They would often perch on the window sill to nap. I stared at the window for any further sign of movement. Then I saw it. Not a cat, it couldn't be. It was too small. It looked about the size of a bird or a mouse, but it didn't move like a bird or mouse. It moved like a human.

I strained my senses for any indication of movement. I squinted into the shadowy corners of the room and scanned every shelf. All was still. I thought maybe it would be better if I went and watched T.V, so I started to stand, but to my shock I could not move. I wasn't just tired, I was physically bound. I discovered that I was bound by several hundred small silver threads. They were impossibly strong and I was unable to break them.

With my eyes, I followed the threads to their source and down to the floor. Terrified, I saw four of the small figurines on the floor. They stared up at me, motionless. How did they get there? A moment ago they were on the shelves across the room. I looked at the shelves. Empty. I looked back to the floor and the figurines were gone. More threads had appeared and I felt the threads tightening, constricting... suffocating.

I felt as though my destruction was eminent. I could not move. I was being crushed. Terror had replaced my blood and was coursing ferociously through my veins. As my doom approached, I looked in the mirror. Instead of my reflection, I saw a man, head down, sitting in my chair. He was about forty years old and wore a crisp army uniform. He slowly raised his head. His eyes were closed, but opened suddenly. I was staring into two coal black recesses where his eyes should have been. He recognized me as his gaze penetrated my soul.

I was awakened by breaking glass and looked over to see the glass of lemonade. This time, I really had knocked it over and it was almost full. Lemonade ran all over the table and down to the floor. Although I was still terrified, I started to laugh out loud with relief as I realized that it had all been just a dream. There were no silver threads holding me down. I saw my own reflection in the mirror. Everything was right. I thought the man I saw must have been my Grandfather. It's funny how you tend to dream about what you think about.

Just as I was about to get up to clean the lemonade mess I saw Grandma coming through the living room archway. I felt a twinge of guilt about the lemonade and I knew she would be irritated that I had spilled it in this room. That I had been in this room at all.

She hung her head as she walked and her long grey hair concealed her face from my view. I realized almost immediately that there was something strange about Grandma's movements as she came through the doorway. She seemed to be floating rather than walking. As she inched closer I realized that that she seemed to be floating because she was floating. Her feet were some two or three inches off of the ground.

As if in response to my realization her head swiveled upward and I saw her face. Her eyes were closed and she wore an expression of grim determination. Immediately I realized that this was not my Grandmother's face. It looked like her, but I had the distinct impression that this was an imposter. No sooner did the thought cross my mind, but her eyes flashed open and I knew that I was looking at my Grandfather. All of the facial features of the young soldier in the photo were accounted for but they had been withered and warped by the twin forces of time and decay. His stringy grey hair seemed to have grown unfettered over the last twenty years. His fingernails were similarly long and unkempt. His eyes were impossibly large and pure black. Even the whites of his eyes were as black as grim death. His face writhed in anger and hatred as if he was feeding on my own fear.

He moved closer. He came faster. Impossibly floating, his body leaning forward at a grotesque angle, arms outstretched with gnarled hands and fingers which more closely resembled a demon's claws. I was paralyzed. I was held by some unseen force that smothered me. Suffocated me. A wave of overpowering dread washed over me again. I felt that death was imminent as the menacing old man moved closer.

Time seemed to speed up while being held back at the same time. The faster he came for me the further away he seemed to move. Faster and faster he came. He was upon me, yet he was far away on at the other end of an impossibly stretched room.

"She did this to me..." he howled in an unearthly whisper, "But my day has come... she can't escape me now..." With that, his mouth curled upward in a grotesque half-grin and without warning whatever was holding time back gave way and he came at me with tremendous speed. As he passed through my soul I awoke with a shiver to see that my glass of lemonade wasn't broken after all.

Trickles of condensation ran down the side of my glass as I felt a trickle of sweat run down the side of my face. I was sweating all over my body. With the full realization that I was fully awake and conscious, I stood up. I looked around the room. Everything appeared as it was when I had fallen asleep reading the Bible over an hour ago. Filled with the remnants of terror bestowed by my dreams I both feared for and sought the company of my Grandmother.

I felt like I child, allowing myself to be so affected by dreams, but the physical reaction was overwhelming and I could not ignore it. I went to the reading room and found my grandmother lying on the sofa. When I saw her I was overcome with the strange feeling that although she looked like my grandmother, my grandmother was not here.

Seeing her wrinkled face reminded me of the terrible vision in my dream. I convinced myself that any fears were completely unfounded and that my fears were all in my head. Still, I was reluctant to wake her remembering the hideous way the old man's eyes had opened in my dream. Summoning courage I sat down next to her on the couch and reached out to touch her forehead. I felt her unexpectedly cold forehead like ice on my fingertips that spread dread through my soul to the ends of my toes. I turned from the room and ran from the house exiting through the kitchen door.

I had driven several miles before it occurred to me that I should call 911. To this day, I try to convince myself that Grandma has passed on to a place where my Grandfather cannot go. That's what Grandma deserves. She's no killer. My terrifying visions were nothing more than immaterial dreams with no relation to reality. That's what I want to believe, but the words keep coming back to my mind, "She did this to me..." and I cannot be sure.