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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-09-08 13:00:34+00:00.

Hate to say it, but deep down I thought my grandma would never die. The old bat. Now, don’t get me wrong, part of me loves her dearly – but damn, she was mean. At least now I know why.

“Byron,” her voice hoarse, just above a whisper, “there’s something you need to see.”

Her veiny blue hand trembled as it pointed to the old chest on the bedside dresser. The chest, which she’s had for as long as I can remember, was locked. The chest is modest sized and heavily jeweled. It looks important. And the fact that she brought it with her confirmed this. As a child, I often wondered what was in it, but over the years, I stopped caring. Probably just old photos.

I opened it, using a tiny gold key plucked from her key ring. As suspected, a plethora of old-fashioned photos spilled out. A young Grampa, with his long hair and tie-dyed gear posing in front of the shiny new GTO. Classic. Stacks of old report cards; and to my surprise, a Beatles concert ticket dating back to 1964. I was awestruck. How could my grandma – same grandma who raised me with a whip – same grandma who never let me out after dark (until I turned 16, and stopped listening to her), be cool enough to see the Beatles in concert? Who knew?

She was getting frustrated, watching me rummage through the relics. It was obvious she had little little-to-no interest in these items, and that I’d better stop mucking about. Even in her current state, I feared her. When she’s angry, she turns wicked and cruel. Like the time she locked me in my bedroom for an entire weekend, sneaking food scraps and water while I slept. All because I stood up to a bully at school. Jeesh.

Drops of drool drizzled from her pasty lips as she flapped her wrinkled finger. Then I saw it: An old pamphlet, so old I could barely read the words.

“This?”

Her head started bobbing, her lips moving wordlessly. Her expression changed so suddenly, I dropped the pamphlet, just in case. She snatched it with remarkable speed, snapping like a crocodile. Her mouth shrank to the size of a pea. I groaned. The sooner I was out of this room, the better. In fact, I was wishing I’d never bothered coming here, as bad as that may sound.

Grandma’s eyes swelled. Tears trickled down her furrowed cheeks. She stared at the pamphlet for an uncomfortable length of time, then she did something I’ll never forget: she spat a loogie and made the sign of the cross. I was stunned. Worse, I was terrified. Fear, as real as the falling rain battering the window outside this dimly-lit hospice, flooded my heart. One could imagine her final fit of revenge before she leaves this cruel world.

I seized the pamphlet, careful not to get her snot all over me. To my amazement, the pamphlet was older than the Beatles ticket. It was dated July 11, 1957. Grandma would’ve been 13.

She started convulsing, so I called for the hospice lady, who put a cold cloth over her head, gave her a shot, then left the room. Whatever was in the shot worked, because soon thereafter, Grandma started speaking. In fact, she seemed better than she had in years, if only briefly.

“Byron,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “there’s something you need to know.”

She coughed. It was an awful sound, like a sputtering old train. She was pointing to the pamphlet, which read: Clarington’s Summer Camp for Girls.

“Something happened,” she said slowly, “ a very long time ago.”

And for the following half hour, I sat next to her, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth, listening to my cruel and dying grandma’s bedside confessional. It’s not what I’d expected. Not even close. But it explained a lot. Here’s what she told me:

Life was simpler back then, but certainly not easier. Papa died in the war, so Ma took care of us. Me being the youngest of 7 siblings. We grew up poor. So poor, we only got one gift for Christmas. One! Which we shared! Of course, Sean and Judy, the oldest, always got first dibs.

When I turned 13, Ma made me get a job, so I worked as a camp counselor. I’d been going to that camp since I was six or seven, and I liked it. Most of it, that is. The camp was run by a wicked nun named Sister Christina, who would put the fear of God in you, let me tell you. And she did, on many occasions. You’d never believe the things she did.

The camp had a strict schedule. First thing in the morning, we’d all jump into the lake. Rain or shine. We’d share a bar of soap, if they had any, then clean up before mass. Problem was, I never could swim too good. But I learned to fake it. I had to, or else. You see, back in those days, you never disrespected your elders. Especially the clergy. If they said swim, goddammit, you swam!

Anyway, I’ll get to the point. I can tell you’re getting restless. You were always restless, Byron. Especially as a boy.

(Grandma pauses for a sip of water.)

You ever seen someone die?

(This time it was me who coughed.)

Well, I did. It was the summer of '57. My first week of being camp counselor.

Dorothy was her name. I’ll never forget her, even if I tried. She was a wee little thing, no older than 11. I knew Dorothy couldn’t swim, so when it came time to jump in the lake, she’d stand at the end of the dock, wailing. Being in charge meant I had to force her in the lake. There was no other choice. Rules were rules, they’d say.

Remember, our parents and grandparents were war heroes. Tough as nails. Failure was frowned upon, lemme tell you. If we misbehaved, we’d get the strap, our mouths washed out with soap, or sometimes a good old-fashioned beating. You young’uns could use a bit of this tough love, if you ask me. You’re too soft, selfish. But what do I know? I’m just a dying old coot.

Anyways, being afraid of the water myself, I could sympathize with Dorothy. But sympathy was a weakness. If Dorothy didn’t get her skinny butt into the lake before Sister Christina came out, there would be hell to pay. Take it from someone who knows.

Once, back when I was her age, maybe younger, I refused to jump in the lake. As punishment, I was boated into the middle of the lake, and tossed in. “You’ll sink or swim,” the nun said. I watched, terrified, as the boat floated away. Cruel as it was, it worked. After the longest minute of my life, screaming for help that never came, I swam. Goddammit, I swam!

Dorothy, the poor child, was fragile and weak. I had to do something – and quick – so, while the other girls were laughing and splashing about, I kicked her into the lake. SPLOOSH. She flew headfirst. Right about that time, the nun came marching towards the dock, carrying her dreaded pointing stick, and scolded us for making too much noise. It was almost time for church, she reminded us, so hurry it up!

Sister Christina pulled me aside, said something about the itinerary for the day, then she disappeared inside the chapel. When I turned my attention back to the lake, relieved I wasn’t reprimanded, I noticed one kid was missing: Dorothy. By now, most of the girls were drying themselves off, giggling about whatever girls giggled about back then. Probably, boys.

“Where’s Dorothy?” I asked.

They shrugged. I did a head count, just in case. Twelve, not thirteen. Ugh. This was my first week on the job, like I needed this. I ran down to the edge of the dock, calling her name, scanning the white-capped water.

“There!” someone shouted, pointing.

I followed her hand until I saw the girl, bobbing up and down.

“Do something!” another girl shouted.

I was in charge, and by the looks of the others, no one was going to help. No one dared call the nun, so it was up to me to save the girl.

Now I know what you’re thinking: You can’t be a camp counselor unless you can swim, right? Correct. But like I said, I learned to fake it. Had to. There were no other options.

Before I could chicken out, I jumped in the lake, holding a life preserver. Being tall for my age, I managed to walk most of the way, the water inches below by my chest. How cold the water was, I remember. Cold and dark.

I hated the feeling of my feet touching the lake’s floor. I could imagine all the gross stuff grabbing me, the fish nibbling, the rocks scraping my toes. The seaweed. But I kept going. By now, Dorothy disappeared. I plunked my head under water, looking for her. The lake was murky and green. I couldn’t see her. By now, the water reached my chin, even on my tippy toes. Not knowing it, I was crying. I hated my mother for making me do this stupid job. I told her I was unqualified. That I couldn’t swim. Also, I hated the nun, who surely would punish me for this.

“Help!”

Dorothy was to my right, floundering. I swam. It’s funny what you’ll do under duress, because suddenly I felt like an Olympian. Like a dolphin. The lake was furious, white caps pounding me into submission, and soon I grew tired, but my adrenaline was strong, and kept me going.

As I swam, something latched onto me – something strong – and I let go of the life preserver, and watched it float away. Whatever latched onto me wasn’t letting go. Panicking, I kicked and clawed, unsure what was happening, until suddenly, I bumped into her. The girl’s eyes were frozen with fear. When I reached out my hand, she grabbed it, and started pulling me under.

We struggled. Somehow, I managed to free myself, and resurface. When I tried calling for help, I started choking. I was losing strength. Something stabbed my foot. A stick, perhaps. But not likely. We weren’t alone. There was someone – or something – in the lake.

We’d all hear…

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