Growing up, we weren't allowed to look at Grandma during her 'Golden Hour'. I wish I never found out why.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/lightingnations on 2024-11-13 14:53:46+00:00.

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At the front door Mom hesitated, drew a deep breath, and said, “Okay, has everybody still got their blindfolds?”

“Noooooo,” my brother Logan replied sarcastically. “I lost mine since you asked three seconds ago.”

Logan hated the safety lectures we got whenever we visited Grandma. He was thirteen and I was ten, both tall and stocky with a shock of blond hair.

Mom’s eyes narrowed at him. “Logan, how about you drop the attitude? Like I haven’t got enough on my plate already.”

“My blindfold’s right here,” I said, tapping my forehead before another argument broke out.

“Good boy Blake. We’ll be in and out in twenty minutes, I promise.”

“Then we’re getting Burger King right?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a bright smile. I punched the air while Logan muttered something too low to hear. A special treat like Burger King was a huge deal to me back then.

Our grandparents’ house lay in the centre of a dirt lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. All the curtains were taped shut. Mom rapped the door, then we waited there for a few minutes while rain hammered the gutters like a steel drum. I remember worrying we’d stand there until Grandma’s ‘golden hour’ started.

Mom grabbed a ring of keys from her bag and undid the series of locks, then we stepped into the musty air of the house, shaking water from our coats and jackets. All the tacky upholstered furniture was already outdated, even back then, and the walls were covered with shelves displaying Grandpa’s prized model car collection.

Usually, Logan and I stood on the welcome mat while Mom battened down the hatches, but past the stairs and to the left, smoke was pouring out from beneath the kitchen door. Mom rushed along the corridor into the kitchen, followed closely by Blake and I. The downstairs landing wrapped around the stairs, with the kitchen at the back of the house.

On the stove, a fry pan was spurting with giant flames as Grandma, completely unaware of the danger, tried to scramble some eggs. Mom yanked the pan off the grill just as an alarm started shrieking. She shouted for us to get Grandma out of there, waving away most of the smoke with a set of oven mitts.

Dressed in her pink nightgown, Grandma fought us every step of the way, swiping at the air with her long, yellow nails. I was afraid of using too much force because her frail body always made me picture a skeleton. In the lounge, she refused to settle on a plastic-covered sofa—everything was shrink-wrapped, really—until Logan promised he’d make her a corned beef sandwich if she behaved, speaking in the soft tones you’d use around a fussy toddler.

Shortly after the alarm quieted, Mom came in and said to Grandma, “Where’s Dad? He didn’t answer the door.”

“Eugh, don’t speak to me about that man. I was washing the dog but he kept climbing away.”

“Grandma and Grandpa got a dog?” I whispered to Logan.

“No dickhead. Grandma’s nuts, remember?”

“Logan,” Mom snapped. She insisted we refer to Grandma’s problems as her ‘funny spells’.

Once it became obvious nobody could coax any sense out of the old lady, Mom went to find Grandpa herself. We’d barely had time to sit when she screamed from a room upstairs. Logan and I exchanged a look of concern then rushed after her.

Grandpa was sprawled across the bathroom floor, groaning. A shower curtain which had been ripped off its hooks covered his midsection, and blood oozed from a deep gash along his forehead staining the tiled floor red. He’d slipped while climbing out of the tub. Him and Mom had endless arguments about that house being a death trap but he refused to move. He was afraid what might’ve happened if they moved someplace filled with nosey neighbours.

Mom shouted for me to call an ambulance. I rushed downstairs but the rotary phone in the landing spat a dead tone. I figured the storm knocked out the lines.

“It’s not working,” I said as I rushed back.

Mom pinched the bridge of her nose and sobbed while Logan and I stood there. Kids aren’t great at processing those sorts of situations. She told Logan to help her get Grandpa into a bathrobe hanging from a nearby rack.

“Ew, gross,” Logan sneered.

“NOW!” Mom’s sudden outburst upset me more than all the blood. She rarely raised her voice.

She told me to help with the doors. Grandpa must’ve noticed me shaking, because he forced a smile and said, “I tell you Blake, this getting old business ain’t for the faint-hearted.”

He spoke as if he’d just had five glasses of whiskey, all sluggish and lazy.

Logan and Mom helped him outside into the family Volvo, all four of us getting drenched.

“Alright, everybody in the car,” she said, panting heavily.

“I’m not leaving Helena,” Grandpa protested from the passenger seat. “She needs somebody to keep an eye on her.”

Mom’s hand shot up out of frustration. She took a moment to compose herself, checked her watch, and then said, “Okay, you boys stay here while I take Grandpa to hospital. Grandma’s gonna be fine for another three hours. I’ll be back before then, but keep your blindfolds close just in case. Logan, you’re in charge. Set your electric watch thingy for a quarter to nine so you don’t forget.”

“That’s okay, I’ll rememb—"

“JUST FUCKING DO IT,” she screamed as she climbed into the car, slamming the door shut behind her.

As we watched her drive off, I told myself there was no reason to freak out. We’d stayed with Grandma during her golden hour many times.

Yeah, before her ‘funny spells’ a voice at the back of my mind added…

“Are we still getting Burger King?” I asked Logan after Mom’s Volvo disappeared. He rolled his eyes and spun toward the house. That stung. I was sick of him treating me like a stupid kid.

The locks were more complicated than a Rubik’s cube, so Logan needed to reseal them. As he did, Grandma hobbled out of the lounge. I met her at the doorway, but she said, “Get your hands off me pervert.”

“Gramma it’s me. Blake.”

“I’m not an invalid. Piss off before I scream.”

It hurt when she treated me like a stranger. Growing up, I’d always looked forward to seeing her. The way she’d hug me close and cover the top of my head with fierce little kisses and insist on giving me money for sweets.

Logan and I both had a go at explaining what happened, but she only tutted and said, “That man always was a drama queen.”

She went to climb the stairs, but between her stooped spine and rickety knees, the trek took five minutes. Even with our help. Anytime we steadied her she unloaded another round of insults. She disappeared into the bedroom, and then her rough, chainsaw snore rang out.

And that was that. My brother and I were stranded there without so much as a Gameboy.

In the lounge, a CRT TV received a fuzzy picture of BBC One, so we watched twenty minutes of a cooking show where celebrities crowded around a sizzling pan. With every roll of thunder, the signal temporarily turned to black-and-white fuzz.

I kept pestering Logan to play ‘the blind game’, but he insisted he was too old until a program about renovating houses started.

The blind game was simple: somebody put their blindfold on and looked for the other while the ‘hider’ tried sneaking up on them. Usually, I hid in a storage cupboard at the back of the kitchen just large enough to hold me, a vacuum cleaner, and a mop, but now I was old enough and smart enough to realize it was the first place Logan checked. So, I left the door slightly open and perched myself on the closest counter instead. When he made a b-line for the nook, I leapt onto his back.

He shrugged me off, wrestled me onto the floor, and then pinched the pressure point in my shoulder, both of us laughing. After a few rounds we’d exhausted every hiding place and returned to the TV. Our stomachs wouldn’t quit grumbling. A bacon double-cheeseburger should’ve been halfway through my digestive system by then…

As time marched on, we spoke less and less. Even though the windows were blocked, I knew it was getting dark. 7.30 became 7.45. Then 8. My teeth started chattering together.

"Quit being such a pussy," Logan said, although I could tell he was nervous because he kept tapping his watch non-stop.

I must’ve still looked scared because he reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “Just chill. Mom’ll get back soon. Then we’ll go for Burger King.”

As if on cue, his watch beeped. Fifteen minutes to go. Swallowing a gulp, he said, “Okay, get your blindfold on.”

He helped adjust mine so everything was perfectly black, then we sat in silence while a tennis ball got batted around on TV. I’m not sure how much time passed because I didn’t want to risk peeking at the clock above the mantlepiece.

Soon the TV cut to an emergency weather report. A lady announced several major roads were closed due to flooding. My hands balled into fists. Did that mean Mom couldn’t reach us?

From above our heads, there came a heavy thud. My neck craned towards the sound. On television a crowd applauded. Logan fumbled for the remote to switch it off, then we breathed in sharply.

“What should we do?” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

“But what if Grandma’s hurt like Grandpa was?”

“Nobody’s fucking hur—”

There was another thud, loud enough to rattle fixtures around the room.

“Wait here,” Logan sighed.

When he got up, I did too—partly because I was sick of him brushing me aside, mostly because I was terrified of being left alone. I grabbed onto his t-shirt despite his protests, and then we shuffled into the chilly, draughty h...

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