Gram’s Gift

This is a work of Fiction. No Grandmothers were lost in the making of this story :)

The funeral had been pleasant, considering. It’s always difficult to lose a family member, especially one that keeps the family together. I wonder what will happen now that Grams is gone. Will we still meet for holidays to share a homecooked meal? Will we still have an annual reunion, where we come together to celebrate births and marriages and mourn losses. Will the family be the same or will her absence remind us that we have nothing in common and send us our separate ways? I hope it’s the former.

My mum has taken the loss harder than the rest of us. I know they were close, but Grams was in her late eighties and had lived a good life. She was sharp as a tack to the end, even though her body refused to agree. I will miss her dearly, but I’m glad she’s no longer in pain. I tried telling mum this, but she didn’t want to listen. We all mourn in our own way I suppose.

Since Gram and I lived in the same town, it has fallen on me to box her items according to her wishes. Her will was detailed and placing each item with its’ heritor has been a simple task. I can sell whatever is leftover and has value and add it to the estate, but what about her collection of glasses shaped like boots? Or the thimbles that line her sewing room windowpane? Maybe there’s a collector out there somewhere who will have some use for them.

My name wasn’t in the will and I found that strange. Being the closest, I spent a lot of time with her, especially at the end. But she was very adamant that I should be the one to settle the estate. So here I am, packing boxes and labeling piles; sell, keep, and charity. The charity pile seems much larger than it should be, maybe I should go through it again.

Walking down to the basement, I flip the switch, but the bare bulb stays dark. I search for a new one and find myself rummaging through the drawer beside the sink. There are no bulbs there, but I do find a key. An odd-shaped one. It looks like a skeleton key found in historic times. The brass is dull, it’s been used often. The bow is worn, the brass turning black from years of handling. Whatever the key was made for must be quite old as well. Pocketing it, I continue my search for a bulb.

Finding one in the pantry, which is stocked more than one would have guessed considering Grams was a frail woman who lived alone, I change the bulb quickly, smiling as the light shines bright. Descending the stairs, I feel a loose rung and make a mental note to call a carpenter to repair it before I put the house up for sale. At the bottom, I see the amount of work in front of me and I sigh. Why do people keep everything they’ve ever owned? If you don’t have a use for it, it’s probably not needed.

I start by separating boxes into seasons and holidays. Thanksgiving here, Christmas there, Easter somewhere else. When I’m done, the charity pile is even larger than I at first thought and I decide maybe I don’t need to go through it again after all. Grams old sofa is down here too, the one covered in a floral print. I spent many childhood nights on it before Grams and Grumps-as I used to call him, updated it to the dusty rose one currently under the living room window. I run my fingers over the plush fabric, reminiscing those early years, when Grams was still so young and vibrant, her laughter echoing off the walls.

I look around me and notice that the wallpaper behind the sofa is peeling, exposing a seam, or a door frame. Pushing the sofa away, I trace the line with a single finger surprised to find a keyhole. It appears to match the key that currently sits in my pocket. I take a deep breath. Thinking about whether I want to know what this door leads to; I sigh before I finally insert the key and turn the lock. There’s no resistance, the lock is well oiled and maintained. I hear a click and watch in wonder as a hidden door slides out noiselessly. With shaking hands, I pull the door toward me. It moves effortlessly considering it is six inches thick. Apprehensively, I look inside and gasp at what I find.

The space is dimly lit, the recessed lights blinking to life as I step over the threshold. Motion censored. Way to go Grams! The space is large, at least a third of the area the basement should have been. It’s a wonder that it was never found before. Whoever designed it did a great job of making it blend into the existing structure. The walls are crimson, the furniture all dark wood, so dark it’s almost ebony.

One wall is covered in an X. The sort you find in torture chambers and BDSM dungeons. The top of the adjoining wall is lined with tools of all sorts: floggers and crops, paddles, and gags. Beneath it is a chest with twelve drawers of different sizes. It perfectly matches the St. Andrews cross and the bed frame across the room. Each piece appears to have been custom-built. I fall heavily onto the loveseat that is placed center room and take it all in. My Grams has a dungeon in her basement. Either she was into some kinky shit, or… How does one sell a home with this sort of accessory? Is there a special agent for homes specializing in BDSM?

On the end table placed bedside the seat I now claim, is a white envelope. The familiar cursive that displays my name calls to me. With a tremor that has only gotten worse since I opened the door, I flip open the flap and pull out a handwritten letter. Gram’s writing was always so neat and tidy, years of practice perfecting her curlicues.

 Tears fall as I read the words so lovingly placed upon the page. Words it would seem, meant for my eyes only.

                Dearest Abigail,

You clever girl, I knew you would figure it out. The bulb wasn’t dead, just untwisted. Feel free to use it again. Obviously, you’ve found my and your Grandpa’s lifelong secret. Yes, we were into BDSM, but I know you’ll be accepting of it. I see how you are with Andrew and know you’ve chosen to take this journey too.

It is a wonderful adventure, should you embrace it. Your Grandfather was a loving Dominant and I am very blessed that he claimed me to serve him. My only hope is that Andrew is willing to lead the way, and if not, that you’ll find another who is brave enough.

I know the will looks like there was nothing for you, but don’t fret. That was a copy and has a minor omission. The proper will is in the safe. This room and the house containing it is all yours. If you choose not to keep it, I understand, but I would very much love for it to become your home. Who knows, maybe Andrew will find a place here too. Whatever you choose to do, please know that I pass it to you with love, my blessing, and hope for you to reach your full potential.

My weekends with you were some of my fondest memories and I’m so happy to see the beautiful woman you have become. You make me proud.

With love and a life’s worth of good wishes,

Grams

p.s. The carpenter who designed the furniture will fix the creaky stair. He knows about this room and is in the kink community himself. Just tell him who you are, and he’ll know what to do.

My tears splatter the paper and I fold it quickly, placing it back in the envelope as to not smudge the ink. I’m unsure what the next step should be now that the house doesn’t need to be sold. To make this place my home is a dream come true and not having to pay rent couldn’t have come at a better time. At almost 35, the hustle and bustle of life have left me little time for establishing roots. I guess, I already have some.

I walk the area of the room, looking at the details once more. I let my hands trail over the flogger tails, take my time examining each drawer. While I will probably not keep the contents of the drawers, I have enough to fill them anew. Andrew will be pleased to help as well. I wonder what he’ll say when I tell him.

Now that I know about Grams and Grumps, it seems so obvious. I wonder why I never realized before. I guess it’s true that people only see what they want to.

I know that I will never sell this house, for all the memories it holds, and all the ones still to come. Mum wanted Grams jewelry, and I guess that’s for the best, some heirlooms have to be carefully passed on.

To see who else is writing about family heirlooms, hit the bullseye.

For more Fiction, see Fiction by MrsK.