Grandpa's Tale

We all have that one grandpa in our family that loves to tell us stories. "I did this here..." and "Back in my day...." is constantly heard from them. I myself had such a grandpa. He was funny, somewhat wise, and always very patient around me. The only thing that bothered me was that whenever he began to tell me one of his stories, he would always joke around. I never really did know too much about his past, only that his face was carpeted with holes and marks on his worn out face. He told me he was just getting too old. My relatives said otherwise.

"As a teen he always grabbed his face with dirty hands and puberty made him that way," was the usual response I got.

Other than this, much of his past was an enigma to me. That is until my mother began to tell me about him. Turns out he was a total party go-er! He used to drink, party, and do certain things to women when he was young. She said that some of his children were remnants of his dark past but we never met them.

Before I could begin admiring my grandfather any more, my mother told me the story of why he turned out so meek and so iresponsible as the years went by.

Turns out that my grandpa had had another one of his adventures in a small village when he came home about 50 years ago. (Not really sure.) He had just gotten home,drunk, from partying until the late hours of the morning (like 3 am). Now let me clarify something; this story happened in Mexico. The house he and his family lived in was pretty much crap. it was moderately big but had a big hall at the front door.

Also, this wasn't the first time my grandfather had come late as hell to his house after partying, drinking, and other...related activities. Him like me was a catholic, and we both believe in things like demons and devils which haunt the night. Wandering spirits that haunt the living.

So as my young and drunk grandfather finally managed to open his door, he saw everything was pitch black. Only the moonlight guided him in his walk, through the pitch-dark hallway. Now why didn't he just turn on the lights? Because it was the fing 1950's and electricity was a commodity back then. They used candles back then. As he left the door open, he inched an swirled his way through the hallway. As he passed by, he saw a man, dressed fancy, in all black with a black hat. His face was barely seeable, but my grandfather tried not to look. The man began to approach him. He walked without hessitation towards my grandfather without a clear purpose but whatever it was, it didn't seem to be friendly.

Now at this point you may be saying "Stupid Pram! This is so predictable, this is the part that he dies. Maybe you will even throw some gore in to make this pasta ¨scary¨." Well I got bad news for you guys: my grandfather didn't die, or else I would not be here. (Yes, I shit you not, this is a real story.)

As the black figure passed my grandfather he said "Good Night." out of courtesy to the stranger.

The man in black only stared at him. His face was contorted and deformed from what my grandfather could make out. He laughed nefariously.

My grandfather couldn't care less. He just continued to inch his way to his room when somehow he thought to his drunk self :

"Why the hell is there a stranger in my house?"

He quickly turned around only to see the man had dissapeared but had left a smell like sulfur around the house, and the front door had been locked shut.

He then calmly proceeded to his room and went to sleep.

This is how that story ends. My grandpa, his wife, my mother, and all my relatives and I know perfectly well who it was that night that decided to pay a small visit to my grandpa. Even then after that night, he didn't change or at least not immediantely. I think this is why he looks so worn out. Although I try to not think about it, that is at least what I think about whenever I look at my grandpa. I am just afraid this may run down in my family

I myself live in an average house. We have a big doorway and a great living room with bulky couches about 3 feet away from it. Now I am not a bad person by any extent of the imagination; but every time I find myself, alone in the late hours of the morning, in the pitch dark in my house, close to that doorway, I become paranoid that if I look into that living room, I will see a dark figure with a black suit and hat waiting to walk out of my doorway only to laugh at me the same way he did my grandfather 50 or so years ago.