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 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 worn out face was carpeted with holes and marks. He told me that was because he was just getting too old; my relatives said otherwise.
"As a teen he always grabbed his face with his dirty hands and puberty did the rest," 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 kid. 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.
Just as my admiration for the grandfather reached its zenith, my mother told me the story of why he turned out so meek and so irresponsible as the years had passed.
Turns out that my grandpa had taken part in another one of his adventures in a small village when he came home about fifty years ago. He had just gotten home, and he was drunk from partying until the late hours of the morning
. The modest Mexican home, or so it was described, was actually pretty much crap. It was decently sized, but it had a large 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. He and I were both Catholic, and we both believe in things like demons and devils which haunt the night along with wandering spirits that haunt the living.
So as my young and intoxicated grandfather finally managed to open his door, he saw that everything was pitch black. Only the moonlight guided his course through the pitch-dark hallway. Why didn't he just turn on the lights? Because it was the 1950's and electricity wasn't nearly as common as it is today; however, candles were commonplace. He forgot to close the door before he began inching and swirling his way through the hallway.
As he passed by, he saw a man dressed nicely in a black suit. His face was barely visible, but my grandfather tried not to look. The man began to approach him. He walked without hesitation towards my grandfather without a clear purpose. Whatever the goal was, it seemed to be coated in malevolence.
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've 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 then stared at him. His face was contorted and deformed from what my grandfather could make out. The figure 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 disappeared, 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 after that night, he didn't change or at least he did not do so immediately. 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 affliction may continue to haunt the family.
I live in an average house. We have a big doorway and a great living room with bulky couches about three 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. A figure with a black suit and hat waiting to walk out of my doorway, only to laugh at me the same way he did to my grandfather fifty or so years ago.