Page 16 of Grim
Something soft brushes against my ankle. I open my eyes to see Esther—the true queen of this house—twining around my legs. She headbutts me once, then plops dramatically onto her side, tail flicking.
“Well, hello, Miss Sass,” I murmur, bending down slowly to stroke her soft fur. “Can I tell you a secret?” I pick her up and nuzzle her nose as I whisper, “You’re the only creature I like haunting this place.”
Her presence brings a sense of comfort, a reassurance that I’m not alone in this struggle.
She purrs—a declaration of her loyalty, her unwavering support.
I lie on top of my bed, and I stare at the ceiling. My soul hurts today. I miss my dad.
My gaze drifts to the wall across from me, where books line the shelves like old friends. These books have always been my refuge, a secret society that my dad gave me the password to many years ago. But the escape of fantasy feels fraught right now in the face of my bleak reality.
My journal rests solidly on the nightstand. I derive comfort simply from seeing it sitting there, existing.I reach for it, the cracked leather cover soft and worn from years of use. The weight of it in my hands is not just physical, but a reminder of the significance of writing in my life. The pages are dog-eared and ink-stained, filled with poems and stories I have not dared to speak aloud.
The act of writing, of pouring my thoughts and feelings onto the page, is a form of therapy for me, a way to make sense of the chaos within. Words matter, and they outlive our physical form. Someone, someday, might read my thoughts and think,I get her.
And if they don’t?
Well, Poe only made nine bucks off “The Raven,” and look how that turned out.
I flip through the pages, scanning some of my own words.
I scribble a few notes in the margins of one of my works in progress, then close the notebook reverently.
Esther curls beside me, and I press the journal across my traitorous heart like leather-bound armor. The weight of it settles my breathing. Another sharp ache pulses behind my sternum, and I rub at it again, slow and firm.
My heart will fail me sooner rather than later. An unfortunate genetic curse handed down to me by my dad.
I think about what will happen to this house when I die. A thought occurs to me, and I can’t help but chuckle. Mom will absolutely turn this place into a haunted artist retreat the second I’m gone. She’ll swan about in chiffon, sighing dramatically as she tells guests about the tragic daughter who haunts her own home.
And you know what? She’ll make it beautiful.
I close my eyes and focus instead on the thunder as it booms and rolls across the roof like a haunted orchestra with no conductor. Each lightning strike is a dramatic crescendo, each raindrop a melancholic note. It rattles through the bones of the house, deep and rhythmic, and I let it settle into mine.
Some people flinch at storms, but not me. I’ve always loved them. There’s something romantic about the way the sky unravels and demands attention. Storms don’t pretend to be anything but what they are. They come undone in a furiously loud sight. I admire that frankness.
There’s a strange kind of peace in it too—the way the air stills before the crack, the hush that makes even the ghosts pause. Thunder reminds me that the world’s still turning. That a force that has seen generations come and go still thrashes and breathes and sings.
I inherited this old Victorian home after my father passed away, just like I inherited his heart condition. Heart and home—both faulty, stubborn, and prone to giving out when you need it most. The house is an elegant, crooked thing—paint peeling in places, windows warped with time, shutters that groan when the wind kisses them just right. It leans a little to the left, like it’s tired of standing, but hasn’t quite given up. But in its imperfections, it holds a unique charm that I’ve come to appreciate.
It suits me.
The gables are sharp and spired, slicing into the sky like ink strokes on parchment. The porch wraps around like a warm embrace that never lets go, and inside, every creak of the floorboards sounds like a story being retold. My dad always said the house was a living thing—breathing through its vents, sighing through its rafters. I didn’t understand what he meant until the first night I slept here alone and realized I could hear it in my dreams. This sense of connection with the house makes me feel like I truly belong here, bringing me comfort in times of solitude.
I love this place, even if it’s falling apart. Actually, I love itbecauseit’s falling apart in places. It reminds me of Dad and me.
That’s why I don’t mind the storms. They make the house feel less empty. They fill it with something electric and alive. And on nights like this, when the thunder hums in the walls and the wind sings through the chimney, it feels like the house remembers us both. Like it’s keeping the rhythm of two hearts—one gone too soon, one not far behind. Our house, with its unique character and the memories it holds, becomes a place for me to reflect and feel connected to my past.
Esther stretches beside me, her little body curled tight against my hip. She’s the only other creature who knows how to be still with me through all this noise.I run my fingers through her fur as lightning flashes against the window and casts spidery shadows across the ceiling.
“I think I need some fresh air.” I smile softly, giving her one last scratch as I stand. “A little family reunion at the cemetery.”
Esther gives me a small, chattery meow as I make my way from my room, through the kitchen, and toward the back door.
The sky splits open with a crack of lightning just as I push open the door. Rain spits gently against the porch, not yet a downpour, but steady. That kind of quiet, persistent rain that seeps into your bones before you even realize it.
Esther follows me to the edge, her tail flicking with unease. She might be okay with storms, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be outside during one.
“I’ll come back if it gets bad,” I promise her, which is most likely untrue. Honestly, I want to go to the cemetery and stay there until dawn.
