H A U N T E D

t w o

t w o

A knock on the bedroom door wakes me up from my nap. I didn't even realize I had drifted to sleep.

I pull myself up, yawning a bit and reaching my hands over my head to stretch, just to feel everything pop back into place. I look back at the bed, seeing my shape formed into the sheets. That just have been the best nap I have had in ages.

Another persistent knock draws my attention to the door and I stumble up to the door, pulling it open to see Finn standing in front of my room, his fist raised to knock once again. He glares down at me, annoyed with the amount of time it took for me to answer the door, no guess about it.

"Dinner is ready, kid", he informs me with a raspy tone to his voice. I wonder if he really talks to anyone in this town? He doesn't seem like the type to socialize with anyone, which seems strange to me, as my mother was the most extroverted person I know - knew. A familiar sharp pain in my chest leaves me breathless for a few seconds, as I wait for the wave of grief to roll over me and leave me to the currents.

It is the times that I have to remind myself that my mother has gone on to another realm than this world,  where the agony of my situation strikes me down. It waits patiently, as the Boogeyman waits for a child in the shadows, to break through the fake sense of protection you've created.

I follow my grandfather without a word, numbing myself to every emotion, sound, smell and memory. I have learned over time that it is much better to numb yourself to the world than to experience everything at once. I turn the corner to the dining room, where two plates of Italian meatballs and spaghetti waits to be enjoyed. My grandfather takes the one head of the table, and I join him on the opposite side.

"Thank you for the food, grandfather. It looks delicious", I say with an earnest smile. The feeling dissipates away from the edges of my memory, back to the shadows where I am certain it will show itself once again.

"It was your grandmother's recipe", Finn informs me with a near-hesitant smile as his eyes drift back to the past. The atmosphere in the room becomes more relaxed as we say grace and start to eat. My grandfather had poured me some orange juice - which is my favourite beverage - and for himself, he poured some root beer float. The food tastes amazing, and I try not to eat too fast, too much, or I'll be sick from all the rich food. So I decided to look around the room, to take in the paintings and photos against the walls.

I notice some paintings come from the same artist, as the signatures match. It is more in an abstract style, so I don't grow an immediate affinity to it, but I'm sure with time, that I will. My style is more Post-Impressionism, inspired by my all-time favorite artist, Vincent van Gogh. I can spend hours on the internet, staring at his work. I've tried to replicate it in the past, but it never comes out exactly as I want it. Which reminds me...

"Grandfather", I call his attention. Finn drinks from his beer, looking at me from over the rim of his glass, raising an eyebrow in question. I take it as my cue to ask my question.

"Did my boxes come? I sent it two weeks before I arrived."

He puts down his glass, squinting slightly in thought, before nodding.

"Yeah", he says before belching. He tries to hide it with his mouth, but a soft giggle escapes me. He ignores it.

"It's underneath the stairs, in the storage space. It came about three days ago", he points in the general direction of the stairs. I thank him, and we continue to eat in silence. I don't mind the silence as much, as it depends on what mood I'm in. I am really shy around new people, and Finn is definitely new to me. I haven't met the man in all 17 years that I have been walking around. The only reason I could recognize him, was because my mother used to show me pictures of her mother and father. My mom really loved my grandmother. I remember the day she received the news that my grandmother passed on. I never met the woman myself while she was alive, but I knew she was kind and loving, and she could paint. I glance at the paintings on the walls.

It is most probably hers.

"That was your grandmother's", I catch my grandfather's eye. He must've noticed my gaze on the painting.

"She used to paint all the time. She even painted the furniture", Finn shakes his head in some fond memory, but his eyes grow cold once again when he sees me looking.

"That's all gone now. Excuse me", he stands up from the table, pushing his chair in and taking his plate to the kitchen. After he puts his dishes into the sink, he leaves the house through the backdoor. Probably on his way to his shed.

I look back at the art of my deceased grandmother, and a chill runs down my spine.