Just wrote this one this morning. Back when I was growing up in New Jersey, one of the sweetest elderly women I’ve ever known lived next to my family. It was neighborhood custom to knock on her back door and she would answer with cookies. Most of the kids within a few houses range took her up on it daily, myself included. Of course, I’ve managed to take one of my most cherished childhood memories and twist it. If my Mom reads this, I’ll be answering for it.
* * * * *
Timmy stood outside Millie’s back door, not daring to knock. The patio was littered with yard debris from last week’s thunderstorms and the grass was higher than Millie usually allowed. It looked like she had gone away.
An odor, nothing like the usual scents of cinnamon and ginger, wafted down from the open screen above the door. It was a foul, sweet smell, and to Timmy’s young nose it reminded him of rotten eggs and syrup. He held up his fist again, poised to knock on the painted wood. A rustling came from inside. Timmy lowered his hand and pressed his ear to the wood. A weak shuffle, like that of slippered feet. He also heard a metallic creak and the rattling of pans. Kitchen sounds. Maybe she was there.
Timmy gave the door a tentative rap. Nothing.
He knocked again. “Millie?” Still no answer.
The shuffling continued, thumping now and then. Shadows moved behind the curtains of the side window. She was definitely in the kitchen. Usually, when he knocked she would pass by the window, sometimes parting the curtain to see who it was, and he would hear the familiar click of the latch, followed by the sweetest aroma found only in the homes of the world’s most fabled grandmothers. This time, however, the shadows only gave a hint of themselves; never getting closer.
He decided to give it one more try. If she didn’t answer, Timmy would simply give up and go back home. No cookies today, that’s all. He opened the screen door and gave a rather firm knock on the thick wood. It was much louder than he intended and Timmy expected to hear her drop whatever she was holding, startling the poor woman.
No answer. The shadows continued in their monotony. He put his ear to the door. There was a dry chattering sound coming from the kitchen. It was an uneven, random noise with the irregularity of a twitch, or muscle spasm. Timmy quietly closed the door and tried to peek through the window. He was provided a narrow view of a short hallway, walls lined with photos, that led into the kitchen and continued down into the living room. His view into the kitchen was limited to a strip of floor and the side of a cabinet and counter top. The linoleum floor that led into the kitchen became increasingly gobbed with greasy clumps of cookie dough, both smeared and rolled into the other clutter that littered the kitchen. Movement by the cabinet revealed a brief view of Millie’s nightgown, followed by her feet. One foot wore a blue stained slipper, and the other was bare. Her small toe, clearly broken, pointed out in a different direction from the rest. Her foot, caked with dried blood and sugar, stepped into a clump of dough, squishing out from between her white, pasty toes. She moved out of view and the noise of the pans and the strange chattering continued without pause.
Crap, he thought, it’s happened to Millie, now. Timmy turned and ran to tell his parents.
∞
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