Beth stared at the blood red letters, unbelieving:
It wasn't heart attacks
Beth had never been one to believe in ghosts or hauntings or demons or anything like that. The most she'd done was watch ghost hunters with a bit of amusement as to how ridiculous it was. She found herself doing the cliche thing of pinching herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming. How could this be real?
After writing the shocking sentence, the pen had laid itself down again. This time, it offered no resistance when Beth picked it up. She wrote in her own, much uglier script:
Who is this?
She had assumed it was one of her grandparents, but considering this whole thing was surreal, she didn't see the harm in confirming.
The feather pen leapt out of her hand and wrote back:
Grandma Anna, sweet pea. I always told you it was your grandpa who'd lost his pen. Guess I was right.
Beth smiled in spite of herself. The long argument over who'd lost their matching feather pen was finally settled. In all honestly, Beth had always thought her grandma had lost the pen because she was certainly the more forgetful of the two. Remembering why she'd decided to write back to what appeared to be ghost, Beth snapped back to the dark reality she was in. The pen, or perhaps it was her grandmother, allowed her to write:
How did you and Grandpa die?
The pen didn't immediately spring out of her hand this time. It seemed to be taking its time, minding its words. After what felt like hours, but was in reality only a matter of seconds, the pen wrote:
I think something was wrong with our tea.
Beth puzzled at this. Her grandparents had tea every afternoon and had been buying it in bulk from their favorite local tea shop for decades. They had never had anything but glowing things to say about the shop and its owners and employees, so Beth couldn't imagine that it had been the shop's fault.
Which meant...it couldn't have been an accident.
Dazed, Beth simply wrote:
Why?
The pen jumped out of her hand and began writing:
Our tea smelled oddly of almonds and then your grandpa had a seizure and then I...well I don't remember anything else.
Almonds, thought Beth. That was odd, her grandparents didn't drink any kind of tea that would smell like that. A tingling shudder when through her spine. She knew what smelled wrongly of almonds: cyanide.
Beth grabbed the pen and forcefully scrawled:
Did you see anyone on your last day?
The pen gently rested on the page for a moment, as though it was thinking carefully:
Gerard our mailman came as he always does, but he didn't come inside. Your brother gave us a call and we talked about his new job. Your father stopped by on his way to work because he needed to use the bathroom. Some nice Mormon boys dropped by, but your grandfather, I'm afraid, yelled at them.
Beth shakily wrote her next question:
Did Dad go in the kitchen?
The pen seemed to freeze mid-air as though it was shocked by the implication. Finally, it wrote:
Yes
Tears of rage and fear and hurt and something darker she couldn't even say fell and splotched up the paper and inked words. It finally made sense why her father had been so cruel about the will lately. He had planned it all. He had wanted her grandparents money. He hadn't cared at what cost.
Wiping her eyes she looked down at the page and saw new words had appeared:
You're not safe, sweet pea
(Prompt by Bri Aaron)
It wasn't heart attacks
Beth had never been one to believe in ghosts or hauntings or demons or anything like that. The most she'd done was watch ghost hunters with a bit of amusement as to how ridiculous it was. She found herself doing the cliche thing of pinching herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming. How could this be real?
After writing the shocking sentence, the pen had laid itself down again. This time, it offered no resistance when Beth picked it up. She wrote in her own, much uglier script:
Who is this?
She had assumed it was one of her grandparents, but considering this whole thing was surreal, she didn't see the harm in confirming.
The feather pen leapt out of her hand and wrote back:
Grandma Anna, sweet pea. I always told you it was your grandpa who'd lost his pen. Guess I was right.
Beth smiled in spite of herself. The long argument over who'd lost their matching feather pen was finally settled. In all honestly, Beth had always thought her grandma had lost the pen because she was certainly the more forgetful of the two. Remembering why she'd decided to write back to what appeared to be ghost, Beth snapped back to the dark reality she was in. The pen, or perhaps it was her grandmother, allowed her to write:
How did you and Grandpa die?
The pen didn't immediately spring out of her hand this time. It seemed to be taking its time, minding its words. After what felt like hours, but was in reality only a matter of seconds, the pen wrote:
I think something was wrong with our tea.
Beth puzzled at this. Her grandparents had tea every afternoon and had been buying it in bulk from their favorite local tea shop for decades. They had never had anything but glowing things to say about the shop and its owners and employees, so Beth couldn't imagine that it had been the shop's fault.
Which meant...it couldn't have been an accident.
Dazed, Beth simply wrote:
Why?
The pen jumped out of her hand and began writing:
Our tea smelled oddly of almonds and then your grandpa had a seizure and then I...well I don't remember anything else.
Almonds, thought Beth. That was odd, her grandparents didn't drink any kind of tea that would smell like that. A tingling shudder when through her spine. She knew what smelled wrongly of almonds: cyanide.
Beth grabbed the pen and forcefully scrawled:
Did you see anyone on your last day?
The pen gently rested on the page for a moment, as though it was thinking carefully:
Gerard our mailman came as he always does, but he didn't come inside. Your brother gave us a call and we talked about his new job. Your father stopped by on his way to work because he needed to use the bathroom. Some nice Mormon boys dropped by, but your grandfather, I'm afraid, yelled at them.
Beth shakily wrote her next question:
Did Dad go in the kitchen?
The pen seemed to freeze mid-air as though it was shocked by the implication. Finally, it wrote:
Yes
Tears of rage and fear and hurt and something darker she couldn't even say fell and splotched up the paper and inked words. It finally made sense why her father had been so cruel about the will lately. He had planned it all. He had wanted her grandparents money. He hadn't cared at what cost.
Wiping her eyes she looked down at the page and saw new words had appeared:
You're not safe, sweet pea
(Prompt by Bri Aaron)
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