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Grandmother’s Grimoire 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

When my grandmother died, I shed few tears. No one else remained to mourn her. My grandfather had died decades ago, and my own parents when I was young. I had no siblings, and neither did she. Having seen the pain she suffered, I couldn’t be sad. I felt only relief that her suffering had finally ended.

She had been the touchstone of my life, raising me from the time I was six. I could scarce remember life before I came to live at the old Victorian Painted Lady…much the worse for wear.

As a child, its nooks and crannies fascinated me. Something new and interesting lurked around every corner. But, as I grew older, what had been a source of wonder became difficult to keep clean and embarrassing to show my friends. I withdrew more and more from society.

By the time she died, I was a virtual shut-in—by choice, not necessity. I ordered groceries and medication online and only left the house for one of Gran’s myriad medical appointments. It suited my temperament, having never been a social butterfly. I did not need to work, but made a decent living, anyway. I wrote short fiction and poetry for local magazines and longer pieces for publication with various publishers. If I told you my name, you would no doubt recognize it, but I prefer anonymity.

When I had squared away the funeral arrangements, and brought grandmother’s ashes home to sit in pride of place upon the mantle, I turned to the matter of the house and its disposition. With no relatives to clamor for a portion, and no mortgage to consider, I knew I could sell it if I chose, and move anywhere in the world. But I was fond of the place, despite its flaws, and planned to remain. Her possessions, on the other hand, I resolved to winnow down to those I considered worth keeping.

Grandmother was a bit of a pack rat, while I preferred the minimalist approach. I saw no point in collections or bric-à-brac—which the house was full of. Something pulled me to the library as a starting place, and I sorted through shelf after shelf of bodice-ripper romances and high fantasy. The material surprised me. I never knew Grandmother had such eclectic tastes. One shelf might contain Mary Shelley cheek-by-jowl with Barbara Cartland or Stephen King. The next Euclid and Dan Brown. No organization existed that I could decipher.

I set aside anything that I might be interested in and boxed up several crates to donate. Luckily, there’s an app for finding people to do things like carry books to the library for you.

It took the better part of a week, but I finally reached the end of the shelves. Most of the floor to ceiling bookcases were empty now—rather sad to look at when all was said and done.

One shelf contained copies of my own works, and two others the books I had saved for my personal reading.

Standing back against the door, I looked over the bookcases one last time. Something caught my eye—a book I hadn’t noticed, laying flat on a top shelf. It had been easy to overlook it, as Grandmother had cleared the top two tiers of shelves years ago, when she became wary of climbing the rolling ladder. Curious, I dragged that ladder to the correct spot and climbed up to look at the mysterious book. I would never had noticed it with the visual noise of the other volumes, but now, it piqued my interest.

Cradling the book with care, I felt my way down the ladder. When I reached solid ground, I set it upon the library table and opened the leather cover. The pages were brittle and dusty, as if no one had opened it in quite some time. I recognized Gran’s precise script, but I never would have dreamed the contents. As I turned through the pages, I realized what I had in front of me…a grimoire full of incantations and instructions for making amulets and charms. How had I never known my grandmother was a witch?

She must have put aside her practice for me. She had sacrificed her arts and spells to raise a child she had never expected.

I will make sure that sacrifice was not in vain.

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!