Well, no. I suppose he did return.
On evenings when the moon is covered by gloomy clouds, or when it’s raining so heavily that the showers seem to obscure the light of the streetlamps, or on nights so dark and forlorn that no light neither natural nor artificial can withstand it, Grandfather reappears in the armchair next to the window, turns on the bunny lamp, and begins to tell the same story he has told me scores of times before.
Perhaps that’s Grandfather’s curse.
Or, his blessing.
“It’s late,” he says, “you’ve got to sleep early if you want to go to school tomorrow.”
I am well past school-attending age. No one in this house goes to school anymore. But I always answer the same way.
“Yes, Grandfather. Good night.”
Then, on impulse, I give his wrinkled cheek a light peck.
There was a time when I wondered if I should ask how he died, what happened to his body, or where his grave is. I’ve thought about it several times. But now I firmly suppress the desire to ask whenever it threatens to get a hold of me.
If Grandfather ever remembers how he died, he might stop coming. Worse, he might not remember, leaving my questions unanswered, and his surprise at my questions may make him disappear for good. I couldn’t stand it if that happened.
So I say nothing. I quietly turn around, go back to my room, and close the door.
But not completely. I leave it open a crack to see Grandfather still sitting in the armchair and the pretty bunny lamp shining next to him. The sight reassures me.
“When we make our cursed fetishes, it’s important that they’re pretty.”
That’s what my grandfather used to say. And business is better than ever these days.
If I keep doing the work that I’m doing now, I’ll end up like Grandfather. Dead but not dead, sitting in the dark of some living room on a moonless night in front of an object that keeps me anchored to the world of the living.
But by the time I sit at that armchair by the window, there will be no child or grandchild to listen to my story. And in this twisted, wretched life of mine, that single fact remains my sole consolation.
I close the door and walk down the hall into complete darkness.
The Frozen Finger
She opens her eyes.
Darkness. Pitch black. Like someone has dropped a thick veil of black over her eyes. Not even a pinpoint of light to be seen.
Has she gone blind?
She tries moving a hand in front of her face. There does seem to be a faint object there. But nothing she can clearly discern.
After a few more attempts at this, she gives up. The darkness is simply too dense.
What hour could be so dark? And where in the world …
She extends her arm and probes the space before her. A round thing. Solid.
A steering wheel.
She slips her right hand behind the wheel. The ignition. Her keys are still in it. She turns them. No response. The engine is dead.
Her left hand prods the left side of the wheel. It grips something that feels like a hard stick. She pulls it down. The left-arrow on the dashboard should have lit up. No light to be seen. She pushes it down. Still no light. She feels her way to the tip of the lever and turns the headlight switch. And of course, the lights do not turn on.
What has happened?
She tries to remember. But her memories are as dark as the scene before her.
“—eacher.”
A woman’s voice, thin and frail. She looks up. The voice calls for her again.
“Teacher.”
Craning her head toward the voice, she strains her ears attempting to determine where it’s coming from. But the voice is so thin that its direction is unclear.
“Teacher Lee.”
“Yes?” she answers. She can’t make out where the voice is coming from, who is speaking—or whether the voice is in fact calling for her. But the sound of another person’s voice in the darkness is such a relief that she finds herself answering before she can stop herself.
“Are you there? Who are you? I’m over here!”
“Teacher Lee, are you all right?” The voice is coming from the left. “Teacher Lee, are you hurt?”
She tries moving her arms and legs. No pain anywhere in particular. “No.”
The thin voice, still coming from the left, says, “Then come out of the car, quickly.”
“Why? What happened? Where am I?”
“We’re in a swamp,” the thin voice patiently explains, “and the car is sinking, little by little. I think you better come out of there.”
She tries to get up. The safety belt presses down on her torso. Tracing the belt to her waist, she presses the release and the safety belt disengages. She turns to the left and gropes around for the door handle. There, the glass pane of the window. More prodding, downward.