You are at your Grandmothers house. She is a
quaint little old woman and is much more pleasant than
the typical Grandmother. Every time you arrive on
her doorstep, she has a fresh tray of homemade cookies
ready for you to gobble down like you always did when you
were a child.
You take a seat on your Grandmothers
floral-patterned sofa and reach into her candy dish,
which is filled to the brim with tightly-wrapped
peppermint candies. You snatch one from the dish,
carefully unwrap it from the tightly-twisted cellophane
wrapping, and pop it in your mouth. The peppermint
flavor rushes through your sinuses and down your throat.
It comforts you.
How have you been eating? she asks you.
Youre as skinny as a rail! You need to
eat in order to be healthy! I dont want my
favorite grandchild being all stringy like those people
on the television set! Eat up, hon! She
hands you a tray of just-out-of-the-oven peanut butter
cookies.
Thats fine, you tell her. Ill
just have a peppermint instead; I just had lunch.
Okey dokey, she says with a smile. Im
going to take a short little nap.
You nod an
acknowledgement to her and continue to suck on the
peppermint candy. Okay, Ill just wait
around for you.
When
I get up, we can cook dinner together. How does
that sound, hon? Your Grandmother turns
around and departs the room.
That sounds good, you tell her.
See you soon, then, she replies as she
steadily ascends a staircase and enters her bedroom.
As you suck on the peppermint candy, you remember when
you were four and how your Grandmother moved from Louisiana
so that she could be closer to you. Along with the
move came an entire collection of traditional Cajun
recipes that you could never get enough of. The
only reason you even remember your high school graduation
was because your Grandmother cooked a giant batch of your
favorite shrimp gumbo for the party that your family held
afterwards.
You always loved your Grandmothers cooking
the only logical reasoning for this was that she cooked
it and you loved anything that she made, whether it was a
cake or a silly drawing that she quickly doodled on a
thin piece of butcher paper for you when you were a
child. As you grew older, you admired your
Grandmothers ambition to collect her favorite
recipes into your so-called official family
cookbook, Cookin Cajun. Yet, for
some reason, the book seemed incomplete there
seemed to be several more recipes that you could recall
from your childhood that she left out, such as a
delicious beef jerky that she made when you were seven,
around the time that your uncle Jimmy drowned when he was
on a fishing trip.
Even though the peppermint reminds you of the old days,
it quickly becomes a nuisance and you spit the remainder
of the peppermint into its original cellophane wrapper.
You stand up and look around for a trash can, but before
you can do so, you notice a tarnished brass key lying
underneath a mahogany antique table. You place the
cellophane on an old stained crocheted coaster and take
the key.
Upon examination, you discover that the key has an
engraving of a lions head. This brings back
memories of a huge old trunk with a carving of a lion
eating a gazelle on the front that your Grandmother used
to keep in her living room. It always piqued your
curiosity. When you were nine, you were scolded
left and right by your Grandmother when you attempted to
pick the lock with a paper clip. She told you that
it was a valuable antique from when she was a little girl
and that you were not allowed to ever touch it again
under any circumstance. You touched it again
several times, but it never opened. When you were
thirteen, you concluded that the lock was jammed and the
trunk would never be opened again.
You continue to stare at the key. You look up from
the key and check that your Grandmothers bedroom
door is closed; you see that it is. For a minute,
you stay on the floor next to where you found the key.
You think to yourself: this key has to be the key
that opens that old trunk.
The trunk beckons, so you creep towards the basement,
passing row after row of faded baby pictures of people in
your family on the way, all bearing the mark of dozens of
years of sun exposure. You creep down a small set
of stairs, making sure that they dont creak and
wake up your Grandmother.
The basement is musty and it reminds you of the time that
you visited Martha McGee, an elderly woman that you
volunteered to help with everyday chores back in middle
school. Her house wasnt morbidly creepy, but
you never felt quite normal there because Martha rarely
moved anything around, so, over the years, the thick
curtain fabric deteriorated and gave off a pungent,
vinegar-like stench. Her eight cats didnt add
anything positive to the experience, either. You
were glad when your volunteering program was over.
You remember that the basement is not much different than
Marthas house. Your Grandmother, despite her
cheerful disposition, has never liked people snooping
around in what she calls the non-guest rooms
on her house: rooms such as the basement, laundry room,
attic, or utility room. All of these rooms scared
you as a child to begin with, so your Grandmother never
made a big deal out it with you, but she did always keep
them locked just to curb your curiosity.
You havent
been in your Grandmothers basement in years. The
first time you were there was when you snuck down to see
what she had down there after your cousin jested that she
was keeping a hunchback boy chained to a pipe and that
she was feeding him table scraps. Even though you
knew that this claim was too outlandish to contain a
single thread of truth, you had to take a peek. One
evening, you and your cousin snuck down to the basement
after everyone had gone to sleep but all you ended up
finding that wasnt locked-up or covered with
protective cloth was a case containing your Grandfathers
war medals.
As you grab
a set of keys from your Grandmothers mail-sorting
wall unit, you recall the time that she moved the lion
and gazelle trunk to the basement after another of your
younger cousins, Carol, spilled a glass of grape juice
all over it. Even though the carpet was the only
thing that bore a stain after this incident, your
Grandmother was so frustrated that she moved the trunk to
the basement, despite that it was her favorite
decoration. The last time that you even saw the
trunk was the time you snuck down to the basement several
years later during Carols wake luncheon. You
can remember looking at the engraving as your Mother
caught you and demanded that you return to the wake.
Come
back up here and remember Carol, she told you.
But
Carol would have wanted me to remember her in my own way,
you replied. And this trunk reminds me of
that time she spilled the grape juice. Thats
my only real memory of her.
Fine,
your Mother told you. I understand, but you
are to come up here immediately. You know how your
Grandmother doesnt like it when people bother her
trunk.
As you
insert a small, silver key into the doorknob of the
basement door, you remember walking back upstairs and
flipping off the light switch to the basement on that
day. You also remember how the rest of the party
went and how you felt as you take your first few steps
down the wooden staircase into the basement. When
you flip on the lights, you remember how you vowed to
find out what was in that trunk.
The trunk
is sitting in a corner of the room next to a broken
grandfather clock. Out of the corner of your eye,
you notice a small burlap rug and you decide that if you
are going to look through the contents of the trunk, you
will need something to protect you from the chilling
sense that emanates from the concrete basement floor.
With a deep
breath, you blow the dust from the keyhole of the trunk.
You take a deep breath as you insert the key into the
keyhole. You turn the key until you hear a click
and then you slowly open the trunk as a poof dust of
spills upwards.
You look
down into the trunk and find several old black and white
photographs in golden frames along with a few
unidentifiable beaded rock necklaces. You extract
each of these items one by one and find several tattered
books underneath several sheets of old newspaper. You
grasp a gray book at the top of the stack and raise it
towards your face.
The book
reads Recipes for Family + Friends. At
last, you have found what appears to be your Grandmothers
allegedly long-lost recipe collection! Even
better, they might be new recipes that you have never
tried. You flip through the tattered, tanned
manuscript pages and stop on a page titled Swedish
Meatballs.
You ask
yourself: What is my Grandmother doing with a
recipe like this? This isnt Cajun food.
You read
down the list of ingredients:
one egg
one onion
salt
milk
mustard
tomatoes
fresh
black pepper
oregano
It appears to be a regular meatball recipe, but you
continue to cruise through the ingredient list:
parmesan
cheese
2 pounds special meat
Special meat. Not beef, not chicken,
not even opossum. Just simply 2 pounds
special meat. You flip to another page titled
Lobster Theodore.
one lobster
onion
flour
1 lb meat, preferably bicep, but calf works equally
well
Bicep? Calf? What the hell is this?
you utter as you flip through more recipes:
New
Yorker-Style Pizza
Rocky
Mountain Climber Oysters
Trailer
Park Surprise
Chile
Con Carol
Stewin
Stu
Trucker
Flank Steaks
Baked
Alaskan
Beef
Jimmy
Babies
Back Ribs
Beef Jimmy? Your uncle Jimmy? Chile
Con Carol? Your cousin Carol? Stewin
Stu? Your grandfather Stu? You toss the
book aside and flip through another, only to find more
disturbing human recipes:
Macaroni
& Cheeks
Lady
Fingers (Alternate Recipe)
Eyeball
Cake Supreme
Little
Boiled Brat
Broiled
Arm Bone Soup
Fried
Fred Legs
Fran
Flan
Slut
Slaw
Peking
Dan
Kung
Pao Charles
Blood
& Pepper Jack Pasta Sauce
You toss this book aside as well. Underneath the
two books is another small case. Already shaking,
you remove this case and inside you find two human skulls
and numerous finger bones. The larger skull has
the cheating husband written on it across the
forehead with permanent marker. The small skull
reads the little spilling brat.
You place this box back in the trunk as you turn pale.
You run away from the case and open the utility room.
As you fiddle with the keys, the only thing you can think
of is when your grandpa Stu died of a sudden,
unexplainable illness. Memories of other bizarre
family deaths rush through your head.
Inside of the utility room, you see a rusty old shotgun,
a blood-stained shovel, and a wall-mounted metal shelf
with various little bottles with peeling labels. Some
of them are empty but others still contain liquids.
You examine the bottles closely:
Cyanide
Potassium chloride
Mercury
Malonate
Benzene
On the back
of the door of the utility room is a cross, crudely
painted in red. Upon closer inspection, you
discover that it is blood: not paint.
You throw
open the door and dash out of the utility room. To
your left is a large cedar chest. You glare at it,
eyes watering, and you throw aside the protective cloths
from it. Inside, you discover more human bones and
some large unidentifiable human remains. One skull
in this trunk is defaced with the deadbeat brother.
Another states Fran, the town slut! in red
permanent marker. You shift about left and right
opening up drawers as you discover other strange
elements, including blood-stained knives, at least a
dozen more skulls, and countless femur bones. Some
of these femur bones even have carvings of biblical
scenes on them, but you cannot exactly tell what the
scenes are.
You stop
and pant heavily as you panic. The room spins and
becomes a blur of carnage and doilies. Upstairs,
you hear footsteps: step
creeeeak
step
.
creeeeeeak
Admiring my artwork, hon? you hear your
Grandmother call out from the top of the basement stairs.
Nana wants to cook with you now...
You stumble
backwards and collide with a broken china cabinet. A
shotgun loads near the entrance to the basement. Chhh
chhhk!
Step
creeeeak
step
. creeeeeeak
step
creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak