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George's mother went to the door, stopped there, came

back, and touched George's hair.
"I don't want you to worry," she said. "You'll be all right.
And Gramma, too."
"Sure, I'll be okay," George smiled.
"George, are you sure..?"
Are you sure about what? Are you sure that you're not
scared to be alone with Gramma? Was that what she was going
to ask? If it was, the answer is no.
After all, he wasn't six anymore, when they had first
come here to take care of Gramma, and he had cried with terror
whenever Gramma had wanted to hold him. She held his
brother Buddy, and Buddy was alive... but Buddy was two
years older. Now Buddy had broken his leg and was at the
hospital in Lewiston.
"I'll be fine. Tell Buddy to stay cool."
"You've got the doctor's number if something goes wrong.
Right?"
"Right," he said.
He smiled. Did the smile look okay? Sure. Sure it did. He
wasn't scared of Gramma anymore. Mom was going to the
hospital to see Buddy, and he was just going to stay here and be
cool. No problem.
Mom went to the door again, "If she wakes up and asks
for her tea..."
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"I know," George said. He saw how scared and worried

she was. She was worried about Buddy. "I know all that, Mom.
Go."
"You're a good boy, George. Don't be scared. You're not
scared of Gramma anymore, are you?"
"No," George said. He smiled. "Tell Buddy that I'm sorry
that he broke his leg."
"I will," she said. She smiled, too, but her smile was sad -
a woman of about fifty with two sons, one thirteen, one eleven,
and no man. "And remember, Dr. Arlinder..."
"Sure," he said. "You'd better go now."
"She'll probably sleep the whole time," Mom said. "I love
you, George. You're a good son."
She closed the door behind her.
George went to the window and watched her get into their
old car. Now she looked so sick, so worried. George felt bad
for her. If Mom wasn't so worried and scared, George would've
been almost happy. He didn't feel bad for Buddy who liked to
tease him. Broken legs weren't a big problem. On the contrary,
George was looking forward to some temporary peace and
quiet around the house.
But now he was alone in the house. With Gramma.
George walked across the small kitchen. There was a
phone on the wall, and next to it was a board with Dr.
Arlinder's phone number, 681-4330. Mom hadn't written the
number there just today because she had to go to Buddy; it had
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been there almost three weeks now because Gramma was

having her "bad spells" again.
George picked up the phone and listened. He just wanted
to check if the phone was working. It was.
Gramma was noisy when she had her "bad spells," but
mostly she just lay in the bed she had been in for three years - a
fat old woman in diapers under her nightgown. Her face was
wrinkled, and her eyes were empty and blind.
At first Gramma hadn't been blind. But now she had gone
totally blind, and she needed two people to help her go to the
bathroom. In those days, five years ago, Gramma had weighed
over two hundred pounds. Once she wanted a hug, and Buddy,
then eight, had hugged her. George hadn't.
But I'm not scared now, he told himself, walking across
the kitchen back to the table. Not a bit. She's just an old lady
who has "bad spells" sometimes.
He filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He
got a teacup and put one of Gramma's special herbal tea bags
into it - in case she woke up and wanted a cup. He hoped that
she wouldn't because then he would have to sit next to her and
give her the tea, looking at her toothless mouth and listening to
the sounds she would make. And her blind eyes would look at
you...
He ought to go in and check on her. But he didn't want to.
"I'm not afraid of Gramma," he thought. "If she wanted a
hug now, I'd go right to her and let her hug me because she's
just an old lady. She's senile and that's why she has "bad
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spells." That's all. I'll let her hug me and not cry. Just like
Buddy."
He walked to the door of Gramma's room and looked in:
there lay Gramma, sleeping, her toothless mouth open, chest
rising so slowly that you had to look hard to make sure she
wasn't dead.
Oh God, what if she dies while Mom's at the hospital?
She won't. She won't. Yeah, but what if she does?
One of Gramma's hands moved slightly.
George went back into the kitchen to check the time.
Maybe Mom would be back soon. He looked at the clock and
was shocked to see that only twenty minutes had passed. Mom
wouldn't even get to the city yet!
He stood still, listening to the silence. He could hear the
refrigerator noise and the clock. He sat down and ate a cookie.
He thought of turning on the TV and watching something, but
he was afraid the sound would wake up Gramma, and she
would begin calling "ROOOOTH! RUTH! BRING ME SOME
TEA! TEA! ROOOOOOOOTH!"
Once again George told himself not to be so scared. She
was an old lady, lying in bed. She couldn't get up and hurt him,
and she was eighty-three years old, and she wasn't going to die
this afternoon.
George walked over and picked up the phone again, then
put it back. After that he walked to the sideboard, took out his
history book, sat down at the kitchen table, and began to read,
but he couldn't concentrate on it.
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He got up again and went to the door of Gramma's room

again. Her hand was still. Gramma slept, and her face was gray.
To George she didn't look like a person who was old and ready
to die. She didn't look peaceful. She looked crazy and... and
dangerous.
George remembered very well how they had come here to
take care of Gramma when Granpa died. Granpa was some
years younger than Gramma, a carpenter, and he had worked
right until the day of his death. It had been a heart attack.
Even then Gramma had been getting senile, having her
"bad spells." She had always been a problem for her family.
She was a stern woman who had taught at school for fifteen
years between having babies and getting in fights with the
church she and Granpa and their nine children went to. Mom
said that Granpa and Gramma quit the church at the same time
Gramma decided to quit teaching. But once, about a year ago,
when Aunt Flo came for a visit, George and Buddy heard quite
a different story. Granpa and Gramma had been kicked out of
the church, and Gramma had been fired from her job because
she did something wrong. It was something about books. Why
or how someone could be fired from their job and kicked out of
the church just because of books, George didn't understand, so
he asked Buddy about it.
"There're different kinds of books," Buddy said.
"Yeah, but what kind?"
"How should I know?"
"But why did Mom tell us that Gramma quit the church
and her job?"
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"Because it's a family secret, that's why! Now leave me

alone!"
George had thought about it for a long time, and finally,
about a month after Aunt Flo had left, he went to his mother
and asked her.
When he asked Mom, she had sat silent for a long time,
and then she began talking.
"Maybe it's time for you to know it," she had said. "Lying
is bad, and we all lie to our children about Gramma. And we lie
to ourselves too, I guess. Most of the time, we do."
So his Mom told him that after Granpa and Gramma had
got married, they had had a baby that was born dead, and a year
later they had another baby that was born dead, too, and the
doctor told Gramma that she would never have a healthy baby,
and that her babies would be born dead or would die as soon as
they were born. And that would go on, he said, until it killed
her, too.
Soon the books began.
But Mom didn't say what kind of books they were, or
where Gramma got them, or how she used them. Gramma got
pregnant again, and this time the baby wasn't born dead, and
the baby didn't die afterwards; this time the baby was fine, and
that was George's Uncle Larson. And after that Gramma got
pregnant and had babies many times. Once, Mom said, Granpa
had tried to make her get rid of the books, and Gramma
wouldn't. George asked his mother why and she said: "I think
that by then the books were as important to her as her babies.
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All I know for sure is that those books had some power over
her."
George closed his history book and looked at the clock. It
was almost five. He realized suddenly and with something like
horror that if Mom wasn't home by six or so, Gramma would
wake up and start asking for her supper.
George looked out the window. If Buddy hadn't broken
his leg, Mom would be here now, making something for
supper, and they would be talking and laughing, and maybe
they'd play cards later on.
His thought about Gramma, some years ago, sitting in her
chair like a big fat worm in a dress, and him - hiding behind his
Mom, crying.
"Send him to me, Ruth. I want to hug him."
"He's a little frightened, Momma. He'll come, in time."
But his mother was frightened, too.
"Come on, Ruth! Send him here; I want to give him a
hug."
"No. He's crying!"

Mom had been born in 1930, followed by Aunt Flo in

1932, and then Uncle Franklin in 1934. Uncle Franklin had
died in 1948 because of appendicitis. So Gramma had her
babies and taught school, and the doctors were totally
surprised, and Granpa worked and got more and more well-off,
even during the Depression, and at last people began to talk.
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They said that Gramma and Granpa were too lucky for
ordinary people. And it was just after that that the books had
been found. Mom wouldn't say more than that, except that the
school had found some and that a hired man had found some
more. There had been a big scandal. Granpa and Gramma had
moved to another town, and that was the end of it.
The children had grown up and had children of their own.
When Granpa had his heart attack, no one wanted to put the old
lady in a nursing home. And Gramma didn't want to do a thing
like that either. The old lady wanted to go to one of her
children and live the rest of her years with that child. But they
were all married, and none of them wanted to share their home
with a senile and unpleasant old woman. All were married,
except Ruth whose husband died in a car accident.
So George's Mom was the one to take care of the old lady.
George knew that Mom had agreed to do it because everyone
in the big family had told her that Gramma couldn't possibly
live long. She had too many things wrong with her - high blood
pressure, obesity, heart problems. It would be eight months,
Aunt Flo and Aunt Stephanie and Uncle George all said; a year
at the most. But now it had been five years, and that was long.
George suddenly remembered one conversation he had
heard years ago. His Mom was talking to Uncle George.
"She's more dangerous now that she's senile, Uncle
George said."
"George, be quiet. The boys can hear us."
"You know what I mean. You remember what happened
to Franklin when he made her angry?"
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"George, be quiet!"
"Well, she didn't really mean to do it."
"George, shut up!"
He was all prepared. The tea was ready on the stove if
Gramma wanted that. He could make tea or he could make
dinner if Gramma woke up and yelled for it. Dr. Arlinder's
number was on the board, in case of an emergency. Everything
was cool. So what was he worried about?
George had never been left alone with Gramma - that was
what he was worried about. Neither he nor Buddy had ever
been alone with Gramma. Until today.
"She's more dangerous now... you know what I mean."
"We all lie to our children about Gramma."
Suddenly, from the other room where Gramma lay all her
days and nights, came a terrible choking sound. George froze.
Gramma had never made a noise like that before.
It came again, a choking sound - then it stopped. George
slowly walked toward the doorway to Gramma's room and
looked inside. "Gramma's still sleeping and it's all right," that
was his first thought, "it had only been some weird sound, after
all; maybe she made it all the time when he and Buddy were in
school. Just a snore. Gramma was fine. Sleeping."
Then he noticed that her hand with her long nails was
now hanging lifelessly over the side of the bed. And her
toothless mouth was open.
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Carefully, George walked closer. He stood by her side for

a long time, looking down at her, not daring to touch her, and
couldn't understand if she was still breathing or not.
"Gramma?" he whispered. "Gramma? You want your tea
now? Gramma?"
Nothing. The eyes were closed. The mouth was open. The
hand hung.
George also remembered one of the "bad spells" when
Gramma began to shout, as if in a foreign language, "Gyaagin!
Gyaagin! Hastur degryon Yos-soth-oth!"
Mom had sent him and Buddy outside, where they had
been standing, wondering what was happening.
Later, Mom had called them in for supper as if nothing
had happened.
George hadn't thought of that "bad spell" from that day to
this. But now, looking at Gramma who was sleeping so
strangely in her bed, he remembered with horror that it was the
next day they had learned that Mrs. Harham, who sometimes
visited Gramma, had died in her sleep that night.
It was Gramma, Gramma and her books, Gramma who
had been kicked out of town, Gramma who hadn't been able to
have babies and then had been able to, Gramma who had been
kicked out of the church. Gramma had been a witch. And now
she was dead.
"That terrible sound," George thought with horror. "That
snoring sound had been her..."
"Gramma?" he whispered.
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No response. He held his hand in front of Gramma's

mouth, but could feel nothing. No air. He decided to call Dr.
Arlinder, and then stopped. What if he called the doctor, and
she really wasn't dead at all? He should take her pulse. He
stood looking at that hanging hand. He didn't really want to...
to touch Gramma. Even if she was dead. Especially if she was
dead.
"What about a mirror? When you breathed on a mirror; it
got cloudy." He had seen a doctor do that once in a movie.
George ran to the bathroom and got Gramma's little
mirror. He took it back to Gramma's bed and held it until it was
almost touching Gramma's open mouth. He held it there while
he counted to sixty, watching Gramma the whole time. Nothing
changed. He was sure she was dead even before he took the
mirror away from her mouth and saw that its surface was
perfectly clear.
Gramma was dead.
George realized with relief and some surprise that he
could feel sorry for her now. Maybe she had been a witch.
Maybe not. Maybe she had only thought she was a witch.
However it had been, she was gone now.
He returned the mirror to the bathroom, then walked back
through her room, looking at the body on his way. He went
through the doorway and straight to the telephone.
"I was all by myself in the house when Gramma died, and
I did everything right," he thought proudly. He should call Dr.
Arlinder, first of all. Call him and say, "My Gramma just died.
Can you tell me what I should do?"
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Or: "I think my Gramma just died."

Or even: "I'm quite sure my Gramma just died."
That was best of all.
The doctor would come and say to George, "You did very
well in this situation. I want to congratulate you." And George
would say something modest.
George looked at Dr. Arlinder's number and picked up the
phone. His heart was beating fast. Gramma had died. The worst
had happened, and somehow it wasn't as bad as waiting for her
to start yelling for Mom to bring her tea. No more tea for
Gramma. Not ever.
But the phone was dead.
He listened to the blankness. No voices. No tone. He
pushed some buttons. Nothing. Just dead blankness. Like the
dead blankness in the bed in there.
"I'm alone in this house with her dead body."
He crossed the kitchen slowly, and then turned on the
light. It was getting dark in the house. The wind outside was
blowing hard. Soon the sun would be gone; night would be
here. Wait. That's all he had to do. Just wait until Mom gets
back.
He went back to the door of Gramma's bedroom just to
make sure again.
There she lay, one hand out of bed, her mouth still open.
Gramma was part of the furniture now. You could put her hand
back in bed or pull her hair, or pour water into her mouth, and
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it would be all the same to her. George glanced at Gramma one

more time and then went back and tried the phone again. Still
dead. He sat down, trying to think.
An hour later it was full dark. The phone was still out.
George sat at the kitchen table, jumping at every sound, his
history book open in front of him.
"She'll be home soon. She'll be home and then everything
will be okay. Everything will be all right."
George suddenly froze. You were supposed to cover the
dead person's face like in the movies. But he didn't.
So he hadn't done everything right then!
George stood up. Gramma was totally dead, and he was
going to go in there and pull the cover over her face. And then
it would be perfect.
He went in, cautiously. Gramma's room was dark, her
body was like a huge hump in the bed. George turned the
yellow light on. Gramma lay there, hand hanging, mouth open.
George felt that he couldn't pick up that hand and put it back in
bed with the rest of Gramma. He decided not to. Her hand
could stay where it was now. That was too much. He couldn't
touch her.
Slowly, George walked up to Gramma. He stood over her,
looking down. Gramma was yellow. Part of it was the light, but
not all. George quickly grabbed the cover and pulled it over
Gramma's face.
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Some of the fear went out of George. Now he looked at

the hanging hand and decided that he could touch it. He took
the cool hand and lifted it.
Her hand moved in his and grabbed his wrist.
George screamed.
He jumped backwards, screaming in the empty house,
and her hand relaxed and let go.
"I'm all right, it was nothing, it was nothing but a reflex."
George tried to find some rational thought, but his panic
didn't let him. He looked at the hand. The hand hanged as it had
before. He had imagined the whole thing. He had come into the
room, and all the rest of it had been his imagination.
But the pain in his wrist soon cleared his head. Dead
people didn't grab you. Dead were dead.
Unless you're a witch. Unless you choose your time to die
when no one's around but one little kid, because it's best that
way, you can... you can...
"Can what?"
Nothing. It was stupid. He had imagined the whole thing
because he had been scared and that was all. He wasn't going to
come near her again, that was all. The panic was gone, but he
was still scared, almost crying, only wanting his mother to
come home and save him from this hell.

George was back in the kitchen, sitting at the table, when

Gramma's voice spoke from the other room.
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"Come here, boy," she called in a dead voice. "Come in

here - Gramma wants to hug you."
George tried to scream but no sound came out. No sound
at all. But there were sounds in the other room. Sounds that he
heard when Mom was in there, helping Gramma, lifting and
turning her. Only now it sounded as if Gramma was trying to...
to get out of bed.
"Boy! Come in here, boy! Right NOW!"
With horror he saw that his feet were obeying that
command. He tried to tell them to stop, but they wouldn't.
"She IS a witch! She's a witch and she's having one of her
"bad spells"!"
George stepped across the kitchen and through the
doorway and into Gramma's room and yes, she hadn't just tried
to get out of bed, she was out, she was sitting in her chair
where she hadn't sat for four years since she got too heavy to
walk and too senile to know where she was.
But Gramma didn't look senile now. Now Gramma's face
shone with intelligence, but her eyes were dull and dead, and
her chest was not moving.
Gramma held her huge arms out to him.
"I want to hug you, Georgie," that dead voice said. "Don't
be a scared crybaby. Let your Gramma hug you."
George tried to go back, but his body began to walk
toward her anyway. He couldn't help it.
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"Ok, he would show Buddy that he wasn't scared of

Gramma, either. He would go to Gramma and be hugged
because he wasn't a crybaby. He would go to Gramma now."
He was almost there when the window suddenly opened
and a tree branch knocked by the wind was in the room with
them. The wind flooded the room, and somehow now George
could scream. He backed, but Gramma made a hissing sound,
so George fell down and couldn't get up. Gramma began to rise
from her chair and move toward him.
George started crawling backwards, crying. Gramma
moved on, slowly but steadily, dead and yet alive, and then
George understood what the hug would mean. The puzzle was
complete in his mind, and he managed to jump to his feet just
as Gramma's hand grabbed his shirt. The shirt ripped, and
George ran into the kitchen. He looked back over his shoulder
and saw Gramma's shadow rising on the wall as she came
through the doorway.
He would run outside, into the night because when his
mother came back she would find Gramma dead and George
alive, oh yes... but George would've been a different person
who would like drinking herbal tea.
And at that moment the telephone rang.
George picked it up without thinking and screamed into
it; screamed for someone to come, to please help him. He
screamed these things silently; not a sound came out of his
mouth.
Gramma came into the kitchen, grinning.
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"Ruth?" It was Aunt Flo's voice from more than two

thousand miles away. "Ruth, are you there?"
"Help me!" George screamed into the phone again, and
what came out was just a whistle.
Gramma was holding her arms out for him now. Gramma
wanted her hug; she had been waiting for that hug for five
years.
"Ruth, can you hear me? I can't hear you."
"Gramma," George whispered into the telephone.
"George?" Aunt Flo's voice suddenly rose. "George, is
that you?"
He began to back away from Gramma, and suddenly
realized that he had stupidly backed away from the doorway
and into the corner of the kitchen. Then his paralysis broke and
he screamed into the phone, screamed it over and over again:
"Gramma! Gramma! Gramma!"
Gramma's cold hands touched his throat. Her dull, ancient
eyes looked into his eyes.
Faintly, he heard Aunt Flo say: "Tell her to lie down,
George, tell her to lie down and be still. Tell her she must do it
in your name and the name of her father Hastur. His name has
power over her, George... tell her 'lie down in the name of
Hastur!'"
The old, wrinkled hand took the telephone from George's
hand and the cord broke. George fell, screaming: "Lie down!
Be still! In Hastur's name! Hastur! Lie down! Be still!"
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Her hands closed around his neck.

***
When his mother finally returned home an hour later,
George was sitting at the table in front of his history book.
"Such a wind," she said. "Was everything all... George?
George, what happened?"
His Mom's face turned a horrible white.
"Gramma," he said. "Gramma died. Gramma died,
Mommy." And he began to cry.
She held him in her arms. "Did... did anything happen?"
she asked. "George, did anything else happen?"
"The wind knocked a tree branch through her window,"
George said.
She looked at his shocked face for a moment, and then
went into Gramma's room. She was in there for several
minutes. When she came back, she was holding a piece of red
cloth. It was a bit of George's shirt.
"I took this out of her hand," Mom whispered.
"I don't want to talk about it," George said. "Call Aunt
Flo, if you want. I'm tired. I want to go to bed."
She tried to stop him, but didn't.
He went up to the room he shared with Buddy and
listened to the sounds in the house. She wasn't going to talk to
Aunt Flo, not tonight, because the telephone cord had broken;
not tomorrow, because before Mom had come home, George
had said some words, some of them Latin, some pre-Druidic,
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and over two thousand miles away Aunt Flo had died from a
stroke. It was amazing how those words worked. How
everything worked.
George lay on his bed. He put his hands behind his head
and looked up into the darkness. Slowly, slowly, a grin
appeared on his face. From now on, things were going to be
different here. Very different.
George began to laugh.

- THE END -
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