There was once a figure I saw in a cemetery blurred by fog. A ghost, I believe. I even approached the figure. As I cleaved through the thick fog, I came to recognize her as my deceased grandmother.
I slowed in my step and I felt nothing but my heart beating my chest like a fist and my intuition which begged me to turn and run. I don’t know why I didn’t at the moment. But I continued to walk closer until her face cane into focus. Her skin in life had seemed like paper. But then, her skin was deathly pale. The whites of her eyes were yellow and her lips were purple. And she her expression appeared vicious.
“Grandma?” I stuttered.
“Oh! You have grown!” she spoke with a raspy voice.
Not much more was said until she motioned me to come to her. She outstretched her arms and I felt compelled to embrace her. It was repulsive. Once she had wrapped her arms around me, the smell of death was overpowering. And her hands were as cold as ice.
“I’ve missed you!” she said as she let me go.
“I’ve missed you too grandma.”
Then a twitch in her eye as she spoke again with a deep rasp, “Take my hand. You’re coming with me to the other side.”
“Heaven?” I asked.
She smiled such a crooked smile and she shook her head and said, “Better to reign… than to serve.”
I didn’t know at the time what she was talking about, but I knew then that I had to get away.
“Mom’s cooking dinner. I gotta get back home, grandma!” I said excitedly.
And as I turned, she growled, “Give me your fucking hand!”
I bolted to the cemetery gate and onto home. I will never forget the experience.
