Dead Ahead - Part 1 - By Michelle Howarth

Granny Sims snatched the grapes from Pete like an impatient three year old, and clawed at the plastic wrapper without so much as a thank you.

“They ain’t the seed type, are they?” she said, worming the pad of her butt deeper into the armchair. “I don’t like the seed type.”

“No, Granny,” Pete assured her, certain he’d delved to the bottom of the crate to retrieve the last packet of seedless fruit. “I got the ones you like.”

“Good.” She twisted a fat, red fruit from the bunch, and mashed it between her naked gums. A glop of juice squirted through her lips, as crow’s feet gathered in their usual intensity at the corners of her eyes.

Peter sighed, plucked the two carrier bags of shopping from the floor, and muttered, “I’ll put these away, then.”

Granny Sims grunted, busy chomping a second grape.

Least she’s happy, Pete thought en route to the kitchen, where he proceeded to empty tins of prunes and baked beans into Granny Sims’ cupboards – who wasn’t his actual grandmother, but his neighbour – like he did every Wednesday.

He nudged aside two empty milk bottles, and pulled a carton of eggs from one of the loaded bags. Next he opened the fridge, flipped the plastic box lid, and started to plant the speckled brown ovals into their snug little compartments.

A scream from Granny Sims set him reeling. Eggs tumbled to the floor. They shattered in a gooey, yolk explosion. Pieces of splintered shell scattered on the lino. Pete cocked his head, baffled by a burst of silence.

“Granny?”

Not even a rattled breath replied.

“Granny?”

He left the broken eggs in a slime-ridden mess, and hurried through to the living room. Granny Sims sat bolt upright in her chair like someone had tied her torso to a post. Grapes lay sprinkled at her feet. Her face no longer resembled a crow’s nest, but a thin, threadbare canvas stretched across her skull, held in place by invisible elastic. Her eyes, previously sunken ink drops, now stood out like black beads on stalks, focused on her lap.

“Granny?” Pete shuffled into the room. “Granny, what’s up?”

A shiver rocked her body. Her hands grasped the plush chair arms. Her knuckles drained white and the yellow of her nails pierced the chintz fabric.

“Get ... it ... off ...” she said, speaking through a tight clenched jaw.

“It?” Pete wondered what she meant, then saw it nestled in the ruffles of her dress. Its black tail, much like a scorpion’s, wiggled to and fro. Its legs – thin, brown, and bony – skittered as though attempting a Mexican Wave, its fangs – twice the length of its pea-sized head – dribbled syrup saliva.

To be continued ...