Let Your Grandma Be Your Guide

By Jillian Ponchot

My undead grandmother is my conscience.

By “undead,” I don’t mean a decrepit old woman who looks like she shouldn’t still be sucking wind. I mean a decrepit old woman who died of a heart attack three months ago yet still manages to ruin my life.

I don’t know what she is. A ghost? A spirit? A zombie with an axe to grind? All I know is dealing with her dead is far trickier than dealing with her alive.

The first time I saw Grandma in her undead form was the night I finally scored a date with Lana—the hottest girl at Seaford High. If a guy actually managed to take her out, he instantly became a legend.

Miraculously, I managed not to make a complete fool of myself on The Date. By the night’s end, we were parked outside Lana’s house with only the moon to light us… and no parents in sight. This was my chance.

Before I could chicken out, I pushed my face towards hers. Our lips met. My heartbeat tripled its pace.

Slap!

I pulled back, rubbing my stinging cheek. “Sorry.”

Lana frowned. “About what?”

“You slapped me.”

Lana gave me a look saying either I was losing my mind or something unbecoming was growing on my face. But she still seemed to want to make out, so I assumed the former.

I pressed my lips on hers, waited a few seconds, then let the kiss deepen.

Slap!

“Ouch!” I lurched back. “Would you quit doing that?!”

“Doing what? You’re freaking me out, Nick.”

Was she crazy enough to forget slapping me? Twice?

A tuneless little whistle filled the vehicle, eerily familiar. The last time I’d heard it was…

I jerked my head to the backseat of my car. There, with a scowl on her pinched-up face, sat my deceased grandmother.

My scream couldn’t have been less masculine if I’d tried.

Lana jumped. This time, it was her who hit me. “What are you doing?!”

My eyes were laser-beamed to the backseat. “Don’t you see her?”

She stared back, then narrowed her eyes on me. “There’s nothing there.”

I pointed a trembling finger. “It’s… my grandmother.”

Evidently, claiming to see dead relatives when you’re in the middle of making out is not a big turn-on. At a speed that would’ve made Superman insecure, Lana flung open the door and vanished into the night.

Thus began my miserable existence as a teenager cursed by his grandma.

After that, every time I reached a “moral crossroads,” my grandmother materialized, the only warning of her presence being her distracted, low whistle.

She was there when my buddy scored answers to my history final, viciously ripping my cheat sheet into shreds. Guess who had to make up history in summer school?

And trying to sneak out to attend the wildest party of the year? Grandma caught me by the collar, shoved me in a closet, and locked the door until morning. Apparently being undead gives you supernatural strength. How else can I explain losing a fight to a woman whose weapon of choice is a knitting needle?

Grandma popped up anytime I tried to lie, swipe change off of Mom’s dresser, or sell fake IDs to freshmen. She was my guide, which basically meant I couldn’t do anything.

At first I tried to confront her with reason: I needed to lead my life without fear of otherworldly visits from a grandmother who stubbornly refused to stay dead. She informed me I should be thrilled to spend this extra time with her. I tried explaining that I was a good person considering everything I could have been doing. She raised her furry eyebrows, unconvinced. Finally, I resorted to the only weapon I had left in my arsenal—begging.

Grandma hates whiners.

She made it clear she wouldn’t stop haunting me until I learned to make good choices.

“Nick,” she croaked in her unnaturally deep voice, like someone who’d been a chain-smoker since the age of six, “I can only move on to my eternal resting place once I have accomplished my purpose.”

That didn’t sound good. “Your purpose?”

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head then refocused on me. “You, Nick, must stop being an idiot.”

Message received loud and clear.

That left me with one option and one option only: I had to kill Grandma. And make sure she stayed dead.

For weeks, I poured myself into study, reading books with long titles and no pictures. I tested insane theories—heck, I even tried to rig a rock-salt explosive device in the hopes it resulted in her decapitation. Know what I discovered?

Killing someone who is already dead is impossible.

I sat at an empty dinner table with only a plate of asparagus and my fruitless thoughts to accompany me. It didn’t even have to be a quick death—I wasn’t picky. I just needed Grandma out of my life!

I glared at the slimy asparagus as it mocked me. This wasn’t comfort food—I needed ice cream.

Frustrated with my entire life and deciding to place most of the blame on the inanimate vegetable, I flicked the asparagus onto the floor for the dog to lick up.

Then I heard it. I didn’t need to look up to see who was whistling in the chair across from me.

“Listen, sonny, food isn’t a thing to waste. When I was a girl, this asparagus would’ve been a feast! I had seven siblings; Daddy worked two jobs to…”

My undead grandmother kept talking, but I stopped listening. Was this my cursed destiny?

Why me? Why? Why? Why?!

I shoved my plate aside and slammed my head against the table repeatedly.

Maybe knocking myself out will give me some relief.

As I began slipping into unconsciousness, I smiled. Sleep would make everything better. I let the blackness overtake me.

Then I heard a whistle.

Can you guess which song inspired this story? (This month it could be any time period, any genre.) Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jillian Ponchot works as an administrative assistant to a high school where she gets to connect with kids and proofread and write for the marketing team. She’s passionate about learning, her family and friends, and Jesus. In addition to being proficient at Candy Crush, she also enjoys reading, writing short stories and attempting novels, playing Scrabble, listening to podcasts, and searching for passageways to Narnia.

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