MY AUNT SCREAMED WHEN I SAW WHAT GRANDPA LEFT ON THE KITCHEN TABLE
The bitter smell of stale coffee hung in the air as I stepped into Grandpa’s empty kitchen. I saw the note immediately, tucked under a chipped ceramic mug on the sticky counter, right beside the half-eaten slice of toast he’d left days ago. The whole house felt cold, like the life had been sucked right out of it the moment he stopped breathing. It felt wrong to be there, sorting through silence.
Aunt Carol rushed in from the backyard, her face pale and streaked with dirt, looking like she’d been digging. She slammed the back door shut with a loud crack that made me jump. “What are you doing in here? You’re not supposed to touch *anything*!” she hissed, her voice tight and high-pitched, almost a shriek.
The single fluorescent light above hummed, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cluttered table. I ignored her, my pulse quickening, my eyes fixed on the folded paper. It was handwritten in Grandpa’s shaky script. Not a will, not a financial document, but a list of names. So many names. And next to each one, a number, a date, precise and chilling. Names I knew, names I absolutely didn’t.
She snatched it, crumpling it into her fist so hard her knuckles turned white, her gaze darting frantically to the slightly ajar window by the sink. “You didn’t see anything. You *understand*?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum, her eyes now fixed intently on the dark, overgrown backyard gate, waiting for something. Or someone.
Then a woman’s shadow moved just beyond the fence, holding a familiar gardening tool.
👇 Full story continued in the comments…My aunt screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the silence. The list, still clutched in her hand, fluttered open as she dropped it, revealing a single entry that was blanked out by a dark smudge of what looked like blood. “No, no, no,” she moaned, backing away until her shoulders hit the refrigerator.
I lunged for the list, desperate to understand. I ignored her frantic denials and grabbed the fallen paper, smoothing it out as best I could. The names continued, a grim registry of the departed. And then I saw it, a name at the bottom I recognized – my own. Next to it was a date, one I knew well. My birthday. But the number beside it was different. A three.
The shadow outside the window moved again, closer this time. The gardener stepped into view, her face obscured by the brim of a wide straw hat. She held a spade, its metal gleaming dully in the late afternoon light. And then I understood. The numbers weren’t just random tallies, they were positions. Grandpa hadn’t just been keeping a list; he had been tracking something, or *someone*.
“She’s here,” Aunt Carol whimpered, as the gardener started towards the back door, the spade held loosely at her side. “She’s been here the whole time.”
A wave of nausea washed over me. I glanced down at the list. My name and date were chilling, but the number…three? Third on the list?
“Get out of here!” Aunt Carol yelled, finding her voice. She scrambled toward the phone on the wall, her hands shaking so violently she could barely dial. “Call the police! Tell them someone is coming!”
But it was too late. The gardener was at the door. She knocked twice, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
I looked back at the list. I looked at my birthday. I looked at the number next to my name.
I remembered then the things Grandpa used to say, whispered late at night as he lay on the couch, staring at the shadows in the corner of the room. He’d muttered about a debt he couldn’t pay, a price for living. He’d rambled about the “keepers,” the ones who collected. I thought he was losing his mind.
The gardener pushed the door open. Her face remained hidden by the hat, but her eyes, I realized, were fixed on me.
My aunt fell to the floor as she screamed, the phone dropping from her hand.
The gardener smiled. And my heart, it seemed, was now racing to join the list.