The Creepy Secret of Grandma Has Been Unveiled

Emmas insomnia had long settled in like an unwelcome houseguest, shadowing every night. That same night she fell into the same bitter habit. As if following an old ritual, she swung her legs out of bed, padded over to the cold pane of the kitchen window and cracked the little vent. She gulped the damp, misty air of the night, eyes drawn to the milky veil that wrapped the sleepy town. From the dark ridge of the neighbours roof the wan crescent of the moon crept out, hanging in the soggy haze, huge and faceless, spilling a cold glow over the streets.

Emma hated those endless, soulchilling evenings. Shed thought enough time had passed for the ache to dull, for her spirit to settle down and start enjoying life again but she clung to the ghosts of the past like a drowning man clutching at a straw, refusing to let go. In the silence she beggedonce her husband, once her daughterto appear in her dreams, wrung with grief, while her wounded heart howled with a crushing loneliness. Five long years went by, but time proved no balm, only a harsh reminder of loss that tightened around her throat day after day.

The day it all went wrong, nothing hinted at disaster. Emma was packing for a work trip to one of the universitys satellite campuses, as she did every semestermidway through term. Those trips had become a routine, especially during exam periods for parttime students; she was sent out to lecture and mark papers, sometimes several times a term.

Her husband James and their daughter Rose had grown used to Moms ontheroad life. Theyd tease her now and then, but there was always warmth and endless love behind the jokes.

Then came the terrible evening when Emma stepped back into the deadquiet flat. A few minutes later the phone rang: James and Rose had been in a horrific car crash. James didnt survive, and Rose was fighting for her life in the hospital, barely clinging on.

A hollow void settled in Emmas mind and the future shed imagined. Work became her refuge. Lectures, students, the endless parade of academic daysshe took on the heaviest teaching load just to drown the pain, to lose herself in the whirl of duties.

Yet every time she caught a familiar glance in a crowd, something that reminded her of James or Rose, she flinched, tears welling up unbidden.

At 8:55am her phone buzzed insistently.

Good morning, Emma, chirped the lab assistant. Just a reminder about the resit for the parttimers at ten.

Thanks, Iris. Ive got it, she replied, already pulling on her coat.

Normally shed walk to work through the underground tunnel, past rows of market stalls, elderly ladies hawking cheap wares, and street musicians strumming their guitars.

Today, though, a young woman holding a baby caught her eye. The infant was snuggled against the mothers chest as if she were shielding him from every bit of evil. The woman wore ripped jeans, a thin jacket illsuited for the chill, and stared straight ahead with a hollow gaze. People hustled past, none stopping, no coins tossed, no offers of help.

The baby, wrapped in a clean, warm blanket, slept peacefully. At the womans feet sat a battered suitcase and a paper cup with a few pitiful coins.

She couldve been about eighteen, maybe a year or two olderher thinness and fatigue made her look younger.

Emma slowed, her heart tightening at the memory of Rose. Without thinking she reached into her bag, pulled out a £20 note and handed it over.

The girl looked up, eyes deep and full of a cosmic sorrow. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats.

Mum the girl whispered, so soft yet so clear it felt like a shout.

Emma froze, as if rooted to the spot. Finally she gathered her courage and said, Please, use this to buy something for you and the baby. Her pulse hammered, urging her to rushshe was late. The girl must have been lost in the gloom of the tunnel, misreading the situation.

At the university, Emma plunged back into the usual whirlwind: resits, lectures, office hours. But the image of that morning stayed glued to her thoughts, gnawing at her.

Muma word shed never hear again. What had happened to that young mother? Why was she in such a desperate state? What else could Emma do?

That evening, on her way home, she walked the same tunnel again. The woman with the baby was gone, only a gust of wind pushing a discarded chocolate wrapper and a few fallen leaves across the concrete.

The flat door swung open and Emma was greeted not just by a scent but a whole cloud of warm, homely airfreshly baked cabbage pies and vanilla scones drifting from the kitchen. Her mother, Margaret, was bustling among pots and bowls, a delightful mess of culinary chaos. Margaret lived just next door in her own little flat; shed never move in with Emma, saying her own space was her sanctuary, full of years of memories. Still, she dropped by often, armed with trays of steaming pastries, crisp crumpets, and her secret pancake recipe, trying hard to lift Emmas spirits despite the ache that clawed at her own heart.

Hows your day been? Margaret asked as soon as Emma hung up her coat.

Mum I saw a girl in the tunnel today, Emma started, voice trembling. She was barely a child, holding a baby, asking for alms.

Probably some con artist, Margaret shrugged with a sigh, wiping her hands on her apron. The telly loves those stories.

I gave her some money

Sweetheart, you cant save everyone, you know. Youre such a softie. She patted Emmas shoulder. Come sit down, have dinner while everything cools down.

Emma sank into a chair at the kitchen table. Margaret placed a plate of steaming pies before her, while the kettle whistled on the stove. On the windowsill, bathed in the amber glow of the streetlamp, curled up in a fluffy orange ball, Milo the cat Rose had loved purred contentedly.

Mum Emma whispered again.

What is it, love? Margaret asked, concern flickering in her eyes.

She she called me Mum, Emma said slowly, staring into the distance.

Margaret said nothing, just shook her grey head gently. After an hour of cleaning up, she headed back to her own flat.

Later, alone in her quiet little home, Margaret settled on the sofa with a thick family album, fingers tracing the yellowed photos. There she was, a little girl in her fathers strong arms, the man whod been young and carefree then. She wondered how life could snatch away those you love most just when you need them.

The grandfather clock struck midnight. Margaret closed the heavy album, turned off the light, and lay down, telling herself she needed rest. Just a coincidence, a cruel twist of fate, she mused, the bitter taste of loss still fresh.

The next morning, fate nudged Emma toward another encounter, this time at a bus stop drenched by an autumn downpour. Rain hammered the pavement as if trying to wash the whole city away. The same ragged jacket and torn jeans clung to the young woman, the battered suitcase at her feet. She shivered, trying to soothe her baby, humming a soft lullaby.

Emma froze again, torn between helping and fearing shed intrude. She knew there was a fine line between genuine aid and unwanted interference. Yet she felt a spark of compassion flare up, even as doubts gnawed.

She lingered at a distance, watching the scene play out. Buses came and went, but the woman didnt move. Eventually, her shoulders gave way, and she slumped onto the wet bench, tears mixing with rain.

Emmas heart ached. She stepped forward, settled beside the soaked stranger, and said gently, Hey there. Sorry to bother you, but maybe I can help?

The girl flinched, as if woken from a deep sleep, and let the tears fall silently, mingling with the rain. Emma placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Its dangerous to sit out in this weather, Emma said softly but firmly. The baby could catch a chill, and youre shivering. I live just around the corner. You can come over, wait out the storm, warm up, and get the little one sorted.

Without waiting for a reply, Emma called a taxi. The girl, as if on autopilot, followed her to the car. The ride was quiet, broken only by the babys soft breaths under a blanket.

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

Alice, the girl replied, stepping inside.

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

Yes shes still nursing, she said, a little louder.

While Alice changed and fed the infant in the living room, Emma called the department and cancelled all her classes for the day. Shed been working nonstop for years, so the head of the faculty was surprisingly understanding.

Alice, theres soup on the table, you need to eat, Emma said, setting a bowl of hot broth before her.

The baby was already asleep, and Alice, moving quietly as if afraid to disturb her newfound peace, slipped into the kitchen and sat down. She glanced at Emma, eyes wide with a mixture of hope and doubt, as if fearing the cozy, piefilled world might dissolve at any moment.

Thank you, she whispered. Its awful being alone with a baby and having nowhere to go.

What happened? Wheres your home? Emma asked gently.

Alice sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping under the weight of memories. Weve got nowhere. Its my fault, really. Years ago I signed papers giving my mothers flat to my husband, Nathan. He promised itd help with his business then he threw us out. I sold what I could, bought the first train ticket I could find, and ended up here.

Family? Mum, dad anyone? Emma pressed.

No one. You you reminded me of my mum. She died three years ago. I never knew my father; mum never spoke of himalways a taboo. She didnt like to look back, as if the past held some terrible secret.

Alice broke down, tears spilling over. We found out about her illness too late. 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. We became a burden

She sobbed again, quietly, hopelessly. Emma wrapped her arms around Alices shoulders, feeling her shiver.

Stay with me, Emma said firmly. I live alone now. My husband and daughter died years ago. Honestly, seeing you in the tunnel brought Rose back to mind.

That evening, Alice rummaged through the few belongings shed managed to bring into Emmas spare room, careful not to disturb the lingering aura of the past. From the battered suitcase she pulled out an old wooden frame holding a single faded photograph of her mother. In the picture, her mother, about twentyfive, smiled brightly, eyes looking toward some unseen horizon, cheeks flushed with youthful glow. Alice seemed convinced her mother could hear her, feeling an invisible, warm presence guiding her away from lifes hardships.

The next day, Margaret popped round with another bundle of hot rolls and pastries. It was then she finally met Alice, the girl Emma had spoken about.

Alices raw, bitter tale sparked something deep in Margarets memory, a longburied story from a wintry December decades ago. She recalled herself, exhausted but happy, lying in a maternity ward after a tough birth. The nurse had handed her a single newborn, and when she asked about a second child, the matron sneered, One baby, dear. Youre dreaming. At your age, youll never have another! Those harsh words had etched themselves into Margarets soul forever.

When Alice showed Margaret the worn photograph, Margarets heart pounded. The woman in the picture, despite the years and style differences, looked uncannily like her own daughter, Emma. It was as if she were looking at a twin.

Margaret didnt rush to tell anyone. She let the weeks pass, watching Alice, piecing together fragments like a mosaic. With tender affection she cared for the little baby, convinced that, if her hunch was right, Alice was her greatgranddaughter and the baby her greatgreatgrandchild.

One quiet evening, as the first snow drifted down outside the modest kitchen, the three womenMargaret, Emma, and Alicesat around the table. The room glowed softly, the scent of fresh pastry filling the air, and a hush settled over them.

When Margaret finally finished her trembling story, silence hung heavy. Alice, pale and stunned, looked at Emma, tears already forming.

You know, Alice whispered, gripping Emmas hand, I saw you in the tunnel. You look just like my mum. Now I understand why I felt drawn to this city, why I bought that train ticket that night. Its as if shes been guiding me all along, watching over us.