The Creepy Secret of Grandma Has Been Unveiled

Insomnia had long set up camp in Helen’s life, trailing her like an unwanted shadow. That night she kept to her bitter habit. As if following a wellworn ritual, she slipped out of bed, walked to the chilly pane of the kitchen window and cracked it open just a crack. She drew a deep breath of the damp, mistladen night air and stared out at the milky veil that lay over the sleeping city. From behind the dark ridge of a neighbouring roof the wan crescent of the moon crept slowly into view, hanging in the wet hazehuge, faceless, spilling a cold silver over the streets.

Helen loathed those endless, soulchilling nights. She thought enough time had passed for the ache to dull, for her spirit to settle and learn to enjoy life again. Yet she clung to the ghosts of the past as tightly as a drowning man clutching at a straw, refusing to let go. In the quiet she begged, in her dreams, for her husband and her daughter to appear, her heart howling with loneliness, her woundscarred soul howling with the weight of a fiveyear void. Time, however, proved not a balm but a harsh reminder of loss, tightening its grip around her throat a little more each day.

On the fateful morning nothing hinted at disaster. Helen was, as usual, packing for a work trip to one of the universitys satellite colleges where she taught. These trips had become a regular part of her routine, especially midterm when she was sent out to give lectures and set exams for parttime students, sometimes several times a semester.

Her husband Simon and their daughter Mabel had long grown accustomed to their mothers suitcase life. They teased her now and then, but the jokes were always warm, underscored by boundless love.

Then came the dreadful day when Helen stepped back into a dead, deafening silence in the empty flat. A few minutes later the phone rang: Simon and Mabel had been involved in a horrific car crash. Simon could not be saved; Mabel clung to life in a hospital for months, fighting desperately.

A yawning void settled over Helens soul and the future she had imagined. Work became her refuge. Lectures, students, endless days of teachingshe took on the maximum load the department would allow, just to drown the pain in a whirl of duties.

Yet every time a passerbys face reminded her faintly of Simon or Mabel, she flinched, tears welling unbidden.

At 8:55 a.m. the departmental secretarys persistent ringtone cut through the quiet.

Good morning, Helen. Just a reminder about the parttime resit at ten oclock announced Irene, the lab manager.

Thanks, Irene, Im aware Helen replied, already gathering her things.

Usually she walked to work through the subway tunnel, past rows of stallholders, elderly ladies hawking simple wares and street musicians.

Today, however, a young woman with a baby clutched to her chest caught her eye. The child was held close as if trying to shield it from every evil in the world. The woman wore rippedattheknees jeans and a thin jacket utterly unsuited to the crisp autumn chill. She pressed her chin into the collar, staring ahead with a vacant gaze. People hustled past, dropping no coins, offering no help.

The infant, swaddled in a clean, warm blanket, slept peacefully. Beside the stranger lay a battered suitcase and a paper cup holding a handful of coins.

She could not be older than eighteen, perhaps less; fatigue made her look even younger.

Helen slowed, her heart tightening at the memory of Mabel. Without thinking, her hand reached into her bag, pulled out a tenpound note and handed it to the woman.

The girl lifted her eyesdeep, endless, full of cosmic sorrow. They stared at each other in silence for a few heartbeats.

Mum the girl whispered, so soft it seemed a shout to Helen.

Helen froze, unable to utter a sound. Summoning her courage, she managed:

Please, take it and buy something for yourself and the baby Her heart hammered, urging her onward; she was late, and she could not afford to linger over a mistaken encounter in a dim tunnel.

At the university Helen plunged into the familiar storm of resits, lectures, office hours. Yet the image of that morning lingered, gnawing at her.

Muma word she would never hear again. What had become of that young mother? How had she fallen into such desperation? What else could be done?

That evening, returning home, she passed through the same tunnel. The woman with the baby was gone, leaving only a gust of wind that fluttered a discarded chocolate wrapper and a few fallen leaves across the concrete floor.

The flat door swung open, and Helen was greeted not just by a scent but by a cloud of warm, homecooked air, the smell of freshly baked cabbage pies and vanilla scones. In the kitchen, amidst pots and bowls in a charming chaos, her mother, Eleanor, bustled. Eleanor lived just next door, in her own longoccupied onebedroom flat. She refused to move in with her daughter, insisting her flat was her fortress, each object a treasured imprint of her life. The thought of strangers crossing that threshold was unbearable, so she gave only one firm answer to Helens pleas.

Yet the two women supported each other. Eleanor often stopped by with trays of pies, crisp pancakes and fluffy crumpets made from a secret family recipe. She tried her best to help Helen get through the grief, smiling through her own buried pain, though inside she felt a bitterness that scraped at her soul.

How was your day? Eleanor asked as soon as Helen hung her coat.

Mum I met a girl in the tunnel today, Helens voice trembled. She was almost a child, holding her own little one. They were asking for alms.

Probably another scammer, Eleanor shrugged, wiping her hands on her apron. The news loves to talk about those.

I gave her money

Oh, dear, you cant help everyone, love. Youre a soft heart, thats all. Come, sit down for dinner before it gets cold.

Helen slipped into a chair at the kitchen table. Eleanor set a plate of steaming pies before her, while a kettle whistled on the stove, ready to brew tea. On the windowsill, under the glow of a streetlamp, curled up in a ginger ball, was Whiskers, the cat Eleanor had once rescued. He purred quietly, lost in feline dreams.

Mum Helen called again, softer this time.

Yes, love? Eleanor looked up, concern in her eyes.

She called me Mum Helen said slowly, staring at a spot on the wall.

Eleanor said nothing, just shook her silvered head silently. After an hour of evening chores, she retired to her own flat.

There, in her quiet onebedroom, Eleanor sat in the living room with a thick family album on her lap, turning yellowed photographs with tender fingers. There was a picture of a young Helen, tiny in her fathers strong arms, a man who had seemed carefree then. How she loved him why life so cruelly snatched away the dearest ones just when they were needed most?

The pendulum of the clock chimed midnight. Eleanor closed the heavy album, switched off the light and lay down, trying to convince herself it was just coincidence, a cruel joke of fate, a bitter taste shed learned to recognize.

The next morning fate brought Helen and the stranger together again, this time at a bus stop drenched by an autumn downpour. Rain hammered the streets as if trying to wash the city clean. The girl wore the same shivery jacket and torn jeans, the battered suitcase at her feet. She shivered, the baby wailing softly as she tried to soothe it with a low hum.

Helen froze once more, torn between the urge to help and the fear of intruding. She knew there was a thin line between genuine aid and unwanted interference. Still, she remembered a thousand reasons why a young mother could be standing there in the rainperhaps not even homelessness, but something else entirely.

She stayed a little distance away, watching the scene unfold. Buses came and went, yet the girl made no move to leave. Eventually her shoulders gave out, and she collapsed onto the wet bench, sobbing silently.

Helens heart ached. No longer able to stand aside, she stepped forward.

Hello! she said gently. Sorry to bother you, but perhaps I can help?

The girl flinched, as if jolted from a deep sleep, but said nothing, tears mixing with the rain. Helen sat beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder with a mothers tenderness.

Its dangerous to sit out in this weather, she whispered. The baby could catch a cold, and youre soaked through. I live just round the corner. You could come over, wait out the storm, warm up, and get the little one sorted.

Without waiting for a reply, Helen called a taxi, and the girl, almost mechanically, followed her to the car. The ride was quiet, broken only by the babys soft whimpers.

Whats your name? Helen asked as she opened the door to her flat, letting in a rush of cold, damp air.

Claire, the girl replied, stepping over the threshold.

Come in, Claire, make yourself comfortable. Do you have anything to feed the baby?

Yes shes still breastfeeding, Claire answered, voice a little louder.

While Claire changed and fed the infant in the living room, Helen phoned the department and cancelled all her commitments for the day. Shed been working to the bone for years, and the university understood her sudden leave.

Claire, theres a hot bowl of soup on the table, you must eat, Helen announced, placing a steaming plate before her.

The baby was now soundly asleep. Claire slipped into the kitchen, eyes flickering between gratitude and fear, as if the warmth of the home might vanish at any moment.

Thank you, she whispered. Its so hard being alone with a baby when you have nowhere to go.

What happened? Wheres your home? Helen asked gently.

Claire sighed heavily, shoulders sagging under the weight of memory.

We have no home. Its my fault, really. I signed papers in my youth, giving my mothers flat to my husband, Nathan, believing it would help our business. He promised everything would be fine, but then he threw us out onto the street. I spent my savings on a ticket to the first train I could find, and thats how we ended up here.

Any family? Mother, father? Helen pressed.

No you you reminded me of my mother. She died three years ago. I never knew my father; mother never spoke of him, it was a forbidden subject. She barely talked about herself, as if her past held a terrible secret.

Claire broke down, tears spilling over.

We learned too late about her illness, she choked. Doctors said there was a chance, but we missed it. Then Andrew came into my life. I thought it was love, but he only wanted the flat. My daughter became a burden

Claires sobs grew louder, helpless. Helen moved close, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, feeling the shiver in her.

Stay with me, she said firmly. I live alone. My husband and daughter died years ago. Honestly, seeing you brought back memories of Mabel.

That evening Claire rummaged through the few belongings in the room that had once been Mabels, careful not to disturb the lingering aura of the past. From the battered suitcase she pulled out an old wooden frame holding the only photograph of her mother. The faded picture was of a woman in her midtwenties, smiling broadly, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. Claire seemed certain her mother could hear her, feeling an unseen but warm presence guiding her away from lifes hardships.

The next day Eleanor dropped by with another bundle of hot rolls and pies, and thats when she finally met Claire, the girl Helen had spoken of with such emotion.

Claires heartfelt tale of wandering stirred a longburied memory in the elderly woman, as if a gust of wind had flipped open a dusty page of an old book. She saw herself, forty years ago, lying in a maternity ward after a painful labor, exhausted, her mind drifting into a deep sleep. When the nurse brought the first baby, a sternfaced matron sneered, One child, youre daydreaming, love youre still young enough to have more! Those cruel words lodged in Eleanors mind forever.

When Claire showed her the worn photograph of her late mother, Eleanor could not tear her eyes away. The woman in the picture, despite the age gap, looked uncannily like her own daughter Helen, as if they were twins. The realization sent Eleanors heart racing.

She kept her discovery quiet for weeks, watching Claire, piecing together fragmented memories like a mosaic. With tender affection she tended to little Natalie, believing, if she was right, that Claire was her greatgranddaughter and that Natalie was the child of a daughter she never got to know.

One quiet evening, as the first snow began to drift down the streetlights, the three women sat around the kitchen table, the soft glow reflecting off the polished cabinets. The air was heavy not just with the smell of food but with the anticipation of truth.

When Eleanor finished her slow, tearstreaked story, silence fell. Claire, pale from shock, looked at Helen, tears already streaming down her cheeks.

You know, Claire whispered, gripping Helens hand, I saw you in the tunnel. You look exactly like my mother. I now understand why I felt drawn to this city, why I bought that ticket that night. It was my mother, guiding me here. I always felt she was somewhere nearby, watching over me and Natalie. Now I know I wasnt wrong.