The Day Granny Died

The day Granny died, the house did not mourn. It listened.

It stood still in the thick afternoon heat, its old walls holding more than just memories. Outside, a few neighbours gathered and spoke in hushed tones, but inside there was nobody, no final glimpse, no closure. Only an empty chair and a silence that felt heavier than grief.

Granny had not been well for years. The doctors called it schizophrenia. They said she saw things that were not there and heard voices that existed only in her mind. The family accepted it because it made everything easier. It gave her fear a boundary.

But Granny never spoke like someone imagining things.

The Barking at the Wall

The quiet of the house was shattered by the relentless barking of Granny’s dog, Babu. It was a deep, guttural bark, one that seemed to echo through the house with unnerving intensity. It wasn’t the kind of bark that came with a wagging tail or a playful spirit. No, this was different. It was frantic, desperate, and filled with an anxiety that made Granny’s skin crawl.

Babu was pacing back and forth, his eyes locked on the wall that separated their home from the abandoned building next door. The same building that had stood there for as long as Granny could remember, its windows long shattered and its doors sealed shut. The property, overgrown with weeds and ivy, had always given off an eerie vibe. It was as if the building was hiding something—something that didn’t want to be found.

But now, Babu was barking at the wall—at a wall that had always been just a wall to Granny. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing to suggest that it should be the focus of such intense attention. And yet, the dog wouldn’t stop. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and his body was rigid, as though every fiber of his being was attuned to something Granny couldn’t see. Something that was there, just beyond her perception.