Eye

My grandmother was a superstitious woman. She enforced so many nonsensical rules that it was often hard to keep track of them all: always knock before entering a cellar, spill a drop of milk in the garden before bed, and never hold the hand of a child with no name. We obliged this advice only because it troubled her when we did not. Regardless, she was our family's beloved matriarch. Despite her peculiarities, my siblings, my parents, my aunties, uncles, cousins, and myself looked forward to the 40th of every month with gleeful anticipation. Sweet and savoury scents would waft from the kitchen as we all waited eagerly at the dining table, stomachs growling as the thought of her cooking flooded our minds. It was a tradition across the Empire, but one that my grandmother observed with particular zeal. Nobody could go hungry on the last night of the month.

Everyone found these eccentricities endearing. Everyone except me. Honestly, I found them quite terrifying. To most, these bizarre decrees were like a fun game or inspiration for humourous tales to tell share with friends, but I always sensed there was something more sinister afoot. Deep inside of me, I knew these were not just the ramblings of an elderly woman who had become suspicious of her own shadow. Her rules were consistent and her concern was genuine. Where everyone else indulged her demands with a jovial smirk and a chuckle, I took her warnings to heart.

Her death hurt everyone. Old age and illness took its toll upon her. We are thankful that she did passed away surrounded by friends and family.

Grey clouds wept heavy tears on the day of her funeral. At her request, a bouquet of violets was scattered atop her coffin before the gravedigger's shovel began to seal her away forever. An icy chill hung in the air. Beneath the pouring rain, I stood for hours. My gaze held firmly on the headstone of glistening marble which read her name and when she lived and when she died. She was never truly gone. We would all remember her. Then, when we died, our children and grandchildren would pass on her stories and wisdom. When they died, this stone would still remain. Night drew near when my father returned to coax me back to the chapel.

"Hey kid, you feeling alright?" He asked with an unfamiliar gentle note on his voice.

"Yeah, I'm ok." My voice sounded flat and dull, like a talentless actor upon a stage.

I felt his arm wrap around my shoulders, holding me close. It was a pleasant reprieve from the biting cold. For several minutes, we stood together in silence, staring at the freshly shovelled soil which concealed my grandmother and his mother. My father exhaled a long sigh.

"We should go back inside. You know what she would say about this kind of thing." My father jostled my shoulders slightly as he spoke.

He was right. The sun began to sink beneath the horizon, turning the morose blue hue of the overcast day into the deep black of night. It should be no surprise my grandmother detested the idea of being in a graveyard after dark.

I do not remember much else that happened that night. By the time we returned to the chapel, the dreary demeanour of the family had melted away and had been replaced with merriment. It was jarring to say the least, but she would rather see us smiling than frowning. Wine flowed like a mighty river that evening and soon enough people were singing and dancing. It was too much for me. I loved them dearly but they never took anything seriously. Not even four hours had passed since her grave was filled and here they were acting as if life had just begun. After waiting for a particularly boisterous moment, I slipped away unnoticed.

A small room greeted me, holding a small table piled with parcels. Desperate for anything to distract me from the revelry next door, I shamefully began to rummage through the stack. My grandmother was always thoughtful. Each one had a family member's name on a small tag, denoting it as a gift left behind. I succumbed to my curiosity. Eventually, a box with my name sat in my hands, pleading to be tore open. It was light and its contents slid around as I tilted it. Fascinated by what was left for me, I ripped it open. Inside, a tiny glass eyeball which gleamed like a pearl, encircled by a steel ring, and held by a silver-chained necklace; the one piece of jewellery that my grandmother was never without.

Nobody scolded me for taking the necklace early, perhaps feeling lenient after our loss. But I could feel the nervous glances of my parents when I wore the eyeball. Fortunately, they were kind enough to make no comment on the memento. I was glad. There must have been a reason that my grandmother entrusted this heirloom to me. She always swore that it would keep us safe from the things that lurked where things could not lurk: towering shadows that crouched in dark corners and bulging behemoths that skulked beneath beds. I was certain that these were not just tales to scare disobedient children into behaving, so why she would bequeath this gift to me was a conundrum. Without her guidance, I was sure I would be the only one to continue abiding by her rules. I would knock before entering the cellar to give the Eyeless Man time to hide, I would spill milk on the garden so that the Bramblesnatch would not come inside, and I would never offer a hand to the False Orphan. Surely I was the one who needed the extra protection least.

Then it became obvious why she bestowed the eye to me. I was the only one who cared. I did not just inherit her jewellery, but her burden as well.