Page 7 of Grim

Stone-Cold

Thirteen Minutes Before the Present

I inhale sharply as I come to. Looking at my phone, I notice I’ve been asleep on the couch for over an hour. I wish I could say it helped, but it didn’t. The silence settles in around me, heavy but familiar.

I pass through the kitchen, my socks whispering over the tiles—and pause.

All the cabinets are open.

Plates are stacked in strange little towers, teacups balanced like they’re part of some abstract sculpture. It’s not my handiwork, and while Mom is known for her theatrics, she’s more “crushed velvet and socio-commercial criticism” than “poltergeist performing art.”

I sigh. “I’m not in the mood for you today, asshole.”

Something whooshes by my left ear, and a ceramic plate shatters against the wall with theatrical flair.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, flipping the ghost my most expressive middle finger. “We get it. You’re very scary!”

I’ve grown up with this ghost. As a child, it was my imaginary friend.

Never could see it or hear it, but they would make themself known.

As I grew, I heard from them less and less.

Then my parents split up, and Mom and I moved to Chicago.

I would come down here during my dad’s offseason, and it was rare that the ghost would pop up.

But since Dad passed two years ago and I moved down here permanently, the jerk has become a daily nuisance.

I make my way toward my bedroom, which is on the main floor now because the stairs and my body no longer negotiate terms. So, now, I try to limit the times I have to exert myself on those stairs. The last thing I need is to get dizzy and fall. It has happened before.

I enter my newly appointed first-floor bedroom, hopeful I’ll return to a normal baseline after some rest. My body aches, and I feel the tightness in my chest. I press my hand just below my collarbone, rubbing in slow circles, as if I can ease the pressure lodged there.

It doesn’t help much. It never does. But the motion is muscle memory now, an old habit at this point.

Inside my room, I close the door with a soft click and lean against it. The wood is cool against my spine. I close my eyes. Just breathe.

The exhaustion isn’t just physical; it’s cellular. Fatigue that hits marrow deep. It never leaves.

Something soft brushes against my ankle. I open my eyes to see Esther—the true queen of this house—twining around my legs. She headbutts me once, then plops dramatically onto her side, tail flicking.

“Well, hello, Miss Sass,” I murmur, bending down slowly to stroke her soft fur. “Can I tell you a secret?” I pick her up and nuzzle her nose as I whisper, “You’re the only creature I like haunting this place.”

Her presence brings a sense of comfort, a reassurance that I’m not alone in this struggle.

She purrs—a declaration of her loyalty, her unwavering support.

I lie on top of my bed, and I stare at the ceiling. My soul hurts today. I miss my dad.

My gaze drifts to the wall across from me, where books line the shelves like old friends. These books have always been my refuge, a secret society that my dad gave me the password to many years ago. But the escape of fantasy feels fraught right now in the face of my bleak reality.

My journal rests solidly on the nightstand.

I derive comfort simply from seeing it sitting there, existing.

I reach for it, the cracked leather cover soft and worn from years of use.

The weight of it in my hands is not just physical, but a reminder of the significance of writing in my life.

The pages are dog-eared and ink-stained, filled with poems and stories I have not dared to speak aloud.

The act of writing, of pouring my thoughts and feelings onto the page, is a form of therapy for me, a way to make sense of the chaos within. Words matter, and they outlive our physical form. Someone, someday, might read my thoughts and think, I get her.

And if they don’t?

Well, Poe only made nine bucks off “The Raven,” and look how that turned out.

I flip through the pages, scanning some of my own words.

I scribble a few notes in the margins of one of my works in progress, then close the notebook reverently.

Esther curls beside me, and I press the journal across my traitorous heart like leather-bound armor. The weight of it settles my breathing. Another sharp ache pulses behind my sternum, and I rub at it again, slow and firm.

My heart will fail me sooner rather than later. An unfortunate genetic curse handed down to me by my dad.

I think about what will happen to this house when I die.

A thought occurs to me, and I can’t help but chuckle.

Mom will absolutely turn this place into a haunted artist retreat the second I’m gone.

She’ll swan about in chiffon, sighing dramatically as she tells guests about the tragic daughter who haunts her own home.

And you know what? She’ll make it beautiful.

I close my eyes and focus instead on the thunder as it booms and rolls across the roof like a haunted orchestra with no conductor.

Each lightning strike is a dramatic crescendo, each raindrop a melancholic note.

It rattles through the bones of the house, deep and rhythmic, and I let it settle into mine.

Some people flinch at storms, but not me. I’ve always loved them. There’s something romantic about the way the sky unravels and demands attention. Storms don’t pretend to be anything but what they are. They come undone in a furiously loud sight. I admire that frankness .

There’s a strange kind of peace in it too—the way the air stills before the crack, the hush that makes even the ghosts pause. Thunder reminds me that the world’s still turning. That a force that has seen generations come and go still thrashes and breathes and sings.

I inherited this old Victorian home after my father passed away, just like I inherited his heart condition.

Heart and home—both faulty, stubborn, and prone to giving out when you need it most. The house is an elegant, crooked thing—paint peeling in places, windows warped with time, shutters that groan when the wind kisses them just right.

It leans a little to the left, like it’s tired of standing, but hasn’t quite given up.

But in its imperfections, it holds a unique charm that I’ve come to appreciate.

It suits me.

The gables are sharp and spired, slicing into the sky like ink strokes on parchment.

The porch wraps around like a warm embrace that never lets go, and inside, every creak of the floorboards sounds like a story being retold.

My dad always said the house was a living thing—breathing through its vents, sighing through its rafters.

I didn’t understand what he meant until the first night I slept here alone and realized I could hear it in my dreams. This sense of connection with the house makes me feel like I truly belong here, bringing me comfort in times of solitude.

I love this place, even if it’s falling apart. Actually, I love it because it’s falling apart in places. It reminds me of Dad and me.

That’s why I don’t mind the storms. They make the house feel less empty.

They fill it with something electric and alive.

And on nights like this, when the thunder hums in the walls and the wind sings through the chimney, it feels like the house remembers us both.

Like it’s keeping the rhythm of two hearts—one gone too soon, one not far behind.

Our house, with its unique character and the memories it holds, becomes a place for me to reflect and feel connected to my past.

Esther stretches beside me, her little body curled tight against my hip. She’s the only other creature who knows how to be still with me through all this noise. I run my fingers through her fur as lightning flashes against the window and casts spidery shadows across the ceiling.

“I think I need some fresh air.” I smile softly, giving her one last scratch as I stand. “A little family reunion at the cemetery.”

Esther gives me a small, chattery meow as I make my way from my room, through the kitchen, and toward the back door.

The sky splits open with a crack of lightning just as I push open the door. Rain spits gently against the porch, not yet a downpour, but steady. That kind of quiet, persistent rain that seeps into your bones before you even realize it.

Esther follows me to the edge, her tail flicking with unease. She might be okay with storms, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be outside during one.

“I’ll come back if it gets bad,” I promise her, which is most likely untrue. Honestly, I want to go to the cemetery and stay there until dawn.

I step barefoot into the yard, the grass cool and overgrown beneath my feet and completely drenched. The smell of wet earth rises around me—moss and old stone, iron-rich soil and something faintly sweet, like honeysuckle clinging to decay, a funeral bouquet left too long in the sun.

The family plot is small. Maybe a dozen headstones, all of them crooked. Some are so old that the letters have worn away entirely, names swallowed by time.

I’ve walked this path so many times that it’s etched into my muscle memory.

The mindlessness of my meandering brings comfort now.

I keep walking.

The fog is low, snaking through the trees. Rain needles my skin. My dress clings to my legs as the wind tugs at the hem. I feel a bit like a ghost wandering through the dead.

My fingers dance over the top of each concrete slab, names so old that not even the stone remembers them anymore. Several of the family headstones have faded to the point that they can no longer be read. Grey stone swallowed by erosion and moss, stories lost to time.

Then I arrive at my destination—the plot I always land on whenever I make my way to the Chamberlain family resting place.

“Hey, Dad,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to the cold marble. “Miss me?”

The vines have grown thicker, with green tendrils curling around the base, as if they’re holding it steady. Like they won’t let it fall, even if everything else around it does.

I brush away the wet leaves. “I know you never cared much for appearances, but I like your plot to look good. And you can’t do anything to stop me.”

I let out a laugh that sounds like a wet sob. I wait for Dad to respond. I know he won’t, that he can’t, but I always like to leave a little room for magic.

Once the silence has stretched like taffy, I confide in the best listener I have ever known, in life and the afterlife.

“I don’t know what brought me out here tonight, Dad.

I can’t put my finger on it, but I can’t shake this feeling.

It’s a bit like foreboding or melancholy maybe.

Anyway, you always told me to trust my instincts, and something told me to come out here and let you know just how much I miss you.

“I do, Dad. I miss you so much that it’s like I can feel it.”

Naming the sensation brings it into being, and a sharp pang hits my heart, followed by a tingling sensation running down my right arm. I flex my fingers.

“I wrote you something a while ago, and it plays in my head all the time. It’s one of the only sonnets I’ve written that I have memorized. Can I read it to you, Dad?”

A crack of lightning floods the world in an instant of light, which feels like an answer to me. As the rain continues to fall, I share my words with my dad.

“I wrote this one while wrestling with the whole uncertainty of the ARVD thing. This is called ‘Present.’”

P resent

How could I not want a gift that you gave

Me, even if it arrived in pieces?

Glue them together in gold so I sav e

The story of those imperfect creases.

Wonder with glee what is wrapped up inside.

It’s the thought though that’s truly the treasure.

A present speaks loudly what you never hide.

That your feelings for me are past measure.

Why is it then that you look rather sad?

You gave me your heart. I know it’s broken.

Enough for me that it came from you, Dad.

In my chest beats a love that’s unspoken.

Carry your memory in this cage of bone.

The heart we share means that I’m always home.

I finish the memorized passage and take a moment to try to unscramble my warring emotions.

My gently falling tears mingle with the gently falling rain.

Missing this man hurts so much. What has always been emotional pain takes physical form in this moment and stuns me out of my reverie.

There is nothing metaphorical about the sharp stab that spikes in my heart.

The erratic beating of my chest sends me into a panic attack.

The immediate sensation hits hard, like a punch behind my breastbone. I fall forward with a gasp, hand flying to my chest.

“Oh fuck. Fuck.”

It’s not a pinch anymore. It’s a vise. It’s a warning bell.

It’s my body telling me, This is happening.

I press my palm flat to my chest and then drag it across to my shoulder, trying to ease the pressure. It only spreads. Fire under my skin. My breathing quickens, but nothing fills my lungs.

Panic continues to rise.

“What’s—” My voice shakes. “What is this? Owww.”

I curl sideways into the wet grass, rain slicking down my neck, cold mixing with heat, the thunder overhead so loud that I feel it in my teeth.

My vision blurs.

“I—I don’t—”

I want to go back. I want to go home. However, I no longer know where that is. My body feels foreign. Like it’s closing in on itself. Like every cell is packing up and leaving without me .

“Not yet,” I whisper. “I still have—I haven’t finished—”

Another sharp pulse in my chest. My arm goes numb.

I turn my head, straining to see my father’s stone through the curtain of rain. It’s the only one still upright. Still whole.

I think of his voice on the boat, of the calm way he’d teach me how to steer when the waves got rough.

“Now remember”—I recall the advice he gave me as a girl with the nickname only he ever used—“OO-bee, if you ever need help and you’re too far out, use the radio and call out one word—Mayday.”

“Mayday,” I croak now, rain filling my mouth. “Mayday. May—” The word dies on my tongue. A stillness sweeps in behind it.

And then nothing.