I was 10 years old when Grandma came to live with us.

It was about six months after Grandad passed away, and I guess, looking back, she must have been lonely in that big house of theirs, rattling around with only the grief

and memories for company.

So despite a few protests from mom, my parents took her in. There were no protests from me. None at all.

Grandma was loud and fun and I loved her. She had an almost limitless supply of boiled sweets and she'd always

slip me a couple whenever she saw me. She was always the first to stick up for me when I got

in trouble too. But it was her stories I loved best. Grandma had all kinds of

stories, stories about growing up during World War II and stories about the things she get up to with her friends on the South Coast.

After, her family had been evacuated.

Sad stories, funny stories, adventure stories, but it was a scary stories that were my favorite.

Grandma had a lot of scary stories.

She told me she dabbled in the occult when she was a teenager, trying out Ouija boards with

her friends, tarot cards, fortune telling, all that stuff.

Most of the stories I'd laugh off or forget about not long after she was done telling them.

But there are a couple that really did spook me a bit.

I was only 10 at the time you have to understand and Grandma

certainly knew how to bring the stories to life. She'd shut off the lights in my room

so only the glow of the night sky showing through the curtains, and she'd

shuffling real close. Close enough, so I could see the wrinkles on her face and smell the boiled

sweets on her

face, face and the boiled sweets on her breath,

close enough so her deep blue eyes could stare

...