Mind Your Manners

By Shelly

When I was a child, my father's father, affectionately called Pawpaw, died in his home. I can remember him in his hospital type bed in the living room with tubes and machines intertwining with him. He had always been a larger than life kind of man and it was so strange, even to my childish eyes, to see him looking so frail. Not long after he died, my parents moved in to the very house in which he had crossed over.

When my Pawpaw lived in that house, the very back bedroom was his and off-limits to the children. When my parents moved in, that, as fate would have it, became my bedroom. One evening in the fall, my parents had family over to play cards. While the adults were in the kitchen, several of my cousins and I were horsing around in my bedroom. There was an antique organ that was very small and I loved to play around on it because the sounds it made were so different.

Being imaginative children, we had devised a game in which one person would play the organ for however long they saw fit. Once the organ started playing, the "it" person would switch the lights off and the rest of us would scramble to hide in the dark. Whomever the "it" person found while the organ played was the "it" person on the next go around.

We were having a grand time with this game. So much so that, at one point, my parents came in to the room to quiet us down. This worked for a while, but as children often do, we became completely engrossed in the game and it wasn't long before we were screaming and laughing again. As my mother made her way back towards my bedroom for a second time, a familiar and distinct smell filled the room. It was the smell of the tobacco that only my Pawpaw smoked. All four or five of us children and my mother smelled the aroma. It was so strong and fresh that my mom even accused one of us of smoking it.

Once she concluded that none of us had Pawpaw's old pipe and/or his tobacco, she returned to her card game with a stern warning that we could not get that loud and rowdy again. Frustrated by the warning and probably a bit tired as well, my cousin Judy and I fashioned a new plan for our game. We would turn the volume down on the organ, turn the lights off when it played and instead of touching or grabbing each other in the dark, the person closest to the "it" person would be the "it" person on the next go around. Everyone agreed to this and off went the lights again. We were all being church mouse quiet when the silence was broken by a series of high pitched screams.

I knew my cousins well enough to know that the screams I heard were not the usual kids-having-fun screams. They were horrified screams. I ran over to the light switch and flicked it on and off repeatedly, but it wouldn't turn on. All over the room I could hear this smacking sound followed by these screams. After trying the light switch for what seemed like an eternity, it finally hit me to open the door and let the hallway light spill in. Bear in mind, the door locked from the inside and opened to the inside; also, it was not the kind of lock that needed a key. The door would not open.

Panic filled me. Suddenly and without provocation or warning, I felt something icy cold stab me in the back of my right hamstring. I remember hearing this wild screeching sound and realizing that it was me making it. Finally, the door opened and I saw the familiar silhouette of my mom. She flicked the light on without incident and came in to see what all the commotion was about. One by one, and in private (she took each of us to another bedroom), we began to tell her what had happened in the darkness. Each of us told a similar tale and had a mark on our bodies as proof of the strange assault.

The marks stayed on each of us for quite a while - long enough that we watched the entire "Wizard of Oz" movie and it was still as red as ever. That night, after everyone left, my parents tucked me in bed and assured me that everything was going to be just fine. I refused to believe them as I rubbed the back of my leg wondering when the sting was going to go away. But, in the morning light, everything seemed like a strange dream.

Several years later, that house burned down. I was pretty devastated and shocked by the loss. Then a teenager, I had long forgotten that strange night and the stinging red marks. Staying next door with an Aunt, I pretended to sleep while the stench of fire lingered in the air. Just as I was about to cross the threshold in to sleep, I was jolted awake by the smell of Pawpaw's tobacco. I hadn't smelled it in years, but I knew it immediately. I followed the aroma much like a bloodhound and was led outside under the old apple tree. I didn't see him, but I knew he was there and I could hear him. He apologized for being so hard on me that night when we weren't minding our manners and were demolishing my bedroom. He remarked about how he never liked having kids in there because there were adult things in his room that could hurt us.

After a few brief moments, Pawpaw's scent tapered off and I returned to bed. The next morning, while getting dressed for the day, I laughed when I noticed the bright red welt on the back of my right hamstring. I knew it was Pawpaw's way of saying he loved me and he was with me.

BACK TO NONFICTION STORIES

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN HOMEPAGE