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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SunHeadPrime on 2024-10-15 22:30:22+00:00.

Recently, my Grandmother Beryl died. Shed no tears. She was old and lived an amazing life. I was with her at the end. I sat by her bed, holding her frail hand and silently crying. She had slipped into a coma, and the odds of her coming out of it were slim…and slim had left ten minutes ago.

Right before she left for good, her eyes fluttered open. She looked at me and whispered my name. I looked up, stunned that I could see her fading baby blues, and called out for my mom. My Grandma beckoned me to come closer. I leaned as close to her as I could get, and in a tired, raspy voice, she said, “I’m afraid I’ll see him again.”

I asked who, but she shut her eyes and laid back down. Her internal clock slowed as her head hit the pillow. As soon as my mom came into the room, Grandma left us. I held my mom, and we cried into each other’s shoulders until our shirts were soaked. Not my best day.

When Mom and I went through Grandma’s things, I told her what Grandma had said to me right before she expired. I asked if she had any idea what she was talking about. Mom was silent for a beat, but then shook her head ‘no.’

“Who knows what was going on inside her mind right before the end? I don’t think it was anything specific.”

“Is this related to her moving to Iowa all those years ago?”

This had been a sticking point between my family and I since I found out about it. My family had been born and raised in Minnesota for generations before Grandma had up and left one night years ago. She never talked about it. Once I learned this weird fact, I asked her. She would always dodge the answer, typically by promising me ice cream. What can I say? I’m bought off cheap.

But with her gone, I thought this might be the time to learn the family secret. Why had Grandma left Minnesota? Why the big secret? Who was she worried she’d see again? I knew my mom wouldn’t answer - if she even knew - but I held out hope my Grandma had journaled about these experiences.

Grandma was an avid journalist. But, unlike most people, she didn’t write her daily musing like they were a list of things she’d accomplished. No, she wrote them like she was telling a story. More than once, my mom caught me engrossed in a journal instead of cleaning the house. My mom punished me by assigning me to clothes donation duty.

She hardly missed a day, and there were boxes of journals in her closets. Her will said she wanted them given over to the University of Iowa. She thought maybe they’d learn something from her daily writings. What life was like for a quasi-radical middle-American housewife during the country’s golden age?

We were finishing up moving these boxes around when I noticed a small gap in the timeline of the journals. The ones from around the time she’d fled Minnesota were missing. I informed Mom about it, and she gave me one of Grandma’s patent non-answers. I wasn’t satisfied with that response, though. Worse, Mom didn’t even promise me ice cream.

Later that night, I went looking for the lost journals. I hoped I’d find answers to questions I asked for twenty years. I went through her entire bedroom with a fine-tooth comb and found zilch. Less than zilch. It was as if these things had just vanished. It was possible she burned it, but Grandma had hoarder tendencies, and I couldn’t see her doing that.

These dumb journals were gone.

Out of frustration, I kicked the inside of her closet wall. My foot easily broke through the drywall. I started coughing from the particulates in the air. My spasming lungs would not keep me from seeing the hole I’d just booted in the wall. As I got closer, I realized I hadn’t kicked through drywall. It was foam made to look like drywall.

Inside, I found the journals I had been looking for.

I devoured them in one sitting. A lot of my questions found answers. That said, those answers just spawned more questions. Questions I knew no one in my circle - not even my mom - could answer. So, I throw it out to you, Reddit. What the hell happened here? If anyone knows anything about the group my Grandma’s ex started, please let me know.

***

May 2, 1961

“I think the Lord just spoke to me.”

Paul, my loving husband of ten years, told me this as soon as he entered our apartment. I looked up from my paperback and stared at him, waiting for the punchline, but it never came. He was being serious. I didn’t realize how serious until I saw that he had tears in his eyes.

“What?” was all I could think to say.

“I heard the word,” he said, his voice catching, “he spoke to me.”

Paul was not the most religious man. Sure, we went to church on Sundays, but neither of us would call ourselves devout. He’d always grouse about missing the first few innings of the Twins games. The Twins were his new obsession. They’d just moved from Washington, and Paul was worried that if the city didn’t embrace them, they might leave for greener pastures.

As for myself, I’d been feeling a serious spiritual disconnect from the church for years and was going now out of obligation and not faith. Not that I would tell anyone that publicly. You couldn’t go around talking about how you didn’t believe in God in Minneapolis in the year of our Lord 1961. That’s a good way of losing your invite to bunco night.

“Start from the beginning,” I said, still confused.

“I was closing up the shop,” he said, “and I had gone into the basement to make sure the sidewalk cellar door was locked, and I heard someone say ‘I am the truth’ as clear as day.”

“Maybe someone was on the street. You can hear people through the cellar door,” I said.

“I thought that too, but there wasn’t anyone out there.”

“Why do you think it was Jesus?”

“Who else would call themselves the truth?”

“Why would he tell you?”

“I don’t know, but I know I heard it.”

“What do you want to do?” I asked, unsure of how to handle this. My mother told me all kinds of tips and hints about having a happy marriage – be loyal, make him comfortable, be his biggest supporter, learn how to make his favorite cocktail, etc. - but there had never been any discussions on what to do if your husband hears uttering from the divine.

“I don’t know,” he said, “He touched my soul, Beryl. I need a drink, I think.”

“That I can do,” I said, putting down my book and heading to the bar. He sat on the couch, but he was a million miles away. Something had happened, but I didn’t think Jesus made house calls. I gave him a heavy pour, hoping it’d relax him. When Paul latches onto something, it can consume him to the point where he forgets to do basic things like eat and sleep.

“Jesus Christ spoke to me tonight,” he said out loud but mostly to himself. “I am the truth. What do you think that means?”

“Maybe you can talk to Father Jones,” I said as I handed him his drink. “If anyone else has potentially heard the lord speak, my money is on him.”

Paul thanked me for the booze and gulped most of it down in one swig. I could tell he was inside his own head, and any attempt at conversation would be met with silence or anger. I grabbed my book and mentioned taking a quick bath before bed. I left him contemplating his spiritual awakening. I was at a good part in my book anyway.

***

May 9, 1961

I thought the Jesus stuff would pass, but he still focused on it a week later. He hadn’t had another conversation with the Lord, but he did speak to Father Jones. The old priest listened to Paul’s whole story patiently and offered him some pretty milquetoast answers. “We all hear the word. Make sure you heed it. Following in Jesus’s footsteps is not bad advice to follow.” Paul left unfulfilled.

The following day, he went to the library and checked out six books on Christianity and prophecy. He focused on others who’d heard from Jesus or God. I popped into the pharmacy before leaving to run errands. I was surprised to find Paul hunched over an open book, furiously scribbling notes onto a pad. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Paul pulled his head out of the book and met my eyes. “What’re you reading?”

“Book on prophets,” he said, “A lot of them heard an audible voice, too.”

“Are there any outside witnesses that can corroborate that claim?” I asked, and my old university studies came back to me.

“I believe them. I wouldn’t have a week ago, but,” He trailed off.

“What happened to these prophets?”

“Some went on to start their own church. Some became disillusioned with humans and fled to nature. Some went crazy and killed themselves or others. It’s a mixed bag.”

“Well, thank God you were just a one-off. The thought of living in nature after we spent our savings getting this apartment and storefront makes me queasy. Oh, and not being part of a murder-suicide thing is nice, too.”

“Beryl, please.”

I was going to respond, but he dove back into his book. I rolled my eyes and left. I didn’t mind when Paul got obsessed with things. It’s part of his charm. But I wasn’t a fan of this current obsession. Somewhat ironically, I prayed he’d end it soon and come back to his senses.

***

May 17, 1961

Two days later, Paul had to go to a conference two towns over. He didn’t want to go. Said he felt bad putting me out. I said it was nonsense, plus, we’d already paid for a hotel room. He reluctantly left, and I watched over the store. I’d worked in the pharmacy before and knew what I was doing, but there was a pall over the place this time. People weren’t unkind but weren’t friendly either. It felt like being at a funeral.

Later, when I retired to my apartm…

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