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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item.php/item_id/2064483-An-Axe-to-Grind
Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Horror/Scary · #2064483
Did her granddaughter really want what was best for Lucy? 3rd Place Bard's Hall Nov.'15
Note: This story was a submission for the November, 2015 Bard's Hall Contest. To view the contest rules, click on Contest Rules:

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A Breath of Fresh Heir

Indelible Ink


Peering out warily from beneath a worn, musty quilt, the old lady eyed the pair as they entered her bedroom.

First was Lucy's granddaughter, Sandra. In a stylish two-button grey business jacket, the young legal secretary was at one time Lucy’s favorite, at least until she found out about her grandmother’s money. Blonde hair – and not a one out of place, mind you -- with blue eyes, she was full of all that fashion model-type make-up, which must have cost a small fortune. Lucy snorted in disgust as her granddaughter hummed a tune of what sounded much like – to Lucy, anyway -- “I’m in the Money.”

Sandra was followed by Weston, her granddaughter’s sorry excuse for a husband. What did she ever see in this jerk? Lucy never trusted this joker from day one. How could she, with those shifty, beady eyes of his? And the thing about it was, he always looked guilty even when he wasn't, much like the guilty little kid who wasn’t aware that “I did it” was plastered all over his face. That was Weston, alright. No question he was the guy – the mastermind if you will -- leading the charge to Lucy’s riches. For a natural-born parasite like Weston, Lucy's money was just another cash grab. It was a shame Sandra had fallen into his company. He’ll probably dump her once he has his paws on my money. But love is blind, as they say. She’ll learn someday. Too late to do much good, probably, but she’ll learn.

Lucy emitted a loud, exaggerated groan as she sat up in her bed to make certain she had their attention; that she was watching them. “Well, well, well. They dare return to the scene of the crime, do they?”

No "crime" had been committed – yet. But when husband Cliff had passed on three years earlier, it was discovered he’d set Lucy up quite well with some investments which were never previously divulged, not even to Lucy. He’d dabbled in stocks – at least that’s what he called it – and he’d dabbled up a small fortune in the process. The farm alone was worth quite a bit, and as it turned out, was only a small fraction of Lucy’s net worth. Her wealth was no secret ever since the funeral, and she’d been inundated with bothersome contact from so-called “friends” who only “wanted to help” – or so they said -- ever since.

Weston – looking guilty as charged, of course -- shook his head nervously and avoided eye contact with Lucy, while his wife set a bag on the table close to her grandmother’s bed. Sandra exhaled loudly in exasperation, placed her hands on her hips, and leaned in toward the suspicious old woman.

“Aw, Grandma, don’t start in with that ‘crime’ stuff already, okay? We brought you some things today -- nice things. Some magazines, movies, a new nightgown…”

“Hogwash! It likely was my money you spent on that trash, anyway,” the old woman exclaimed. “That crap might help with your conscience, Sandra, but I know exactly what you’re up to…”

“Grandma, please!” Sandra interjected. ”We’re not trying to hurt you; we’re trying to help you.”

“Help?” Lucy exclaimed. “A body wouldn’t need any of your so-called ‘help’ if she wasn’t so busy trying to pull the knife out of her back. I’m lucky to still be breathing at all in the company of you two.”

Sandra, wearing the tired expression of someone who’d been down this road a million times already, held up her right palm in the direction of Lucy as if to say, “Stop.”
“We’re doing what we have to do, Grandma, to provide the proper care for you. You can’t go on in this big old house, out in the middle of farm country where you’re miles from anyone else. Plus, what with the stairs here and all…”

The old woman shot up in bed, a sudden fire raging from her sunken eyes. “They’re the same damn stairs I’ve always climbed, Sandra, and there’s never been a problem, has there?” she shrieked. “And attempting to have me declared mentally unfit just so you can sell this house out from under me is just…just nothing short of scandalous! Someone needs to lock the both of you up!”

The lack of response from Sandra or Weston reiterated Lucy’s contention that neither gave a damn about her well-being, and she slumped back in her bed, her matted hair once again resting on a pillowcase which was in desperate need of a washing. She knew full well that if Sandra threw enough money at some psychological “expert”, she’d succeed in getting him or her to declare Lucy mentally incompetent. And sure, Lucy could get her own lawyer for legal protection, but Lucy had always been self-sufficient, and she’d be damned if she was going to change now. She could handle things her own way, thank you. After a few moments, a slight smile came to her face, a smile shielded by her wrinkled bed sheet.

As Sandra was emptying the bag of goodies they’d brought over for Lucy, Weston emerged from the kitchen, asking, “What happened to all that Ensure we brought over three days ago?” After apparently poking around the inside of the refrigerator, as he held some expired dairy products, he continued. “That stuff’s not cheap, you know…”

Lucy rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. “You never brought me any Ensure three days ago, my dear grandson-in-law.”

“I’m positive we did.”

Lucy watched as Sandra grabbed Weston’s arm and shook her head, then gave her husband what appeared to be one of those it’s-not-worth-the-aggravation-so-don’t-make-matters-worse looks.

Sandra followed with a cheery, albeit unconvincing, laugh, grabbed her jacket, purse, and headed towards the front door. “No big deal, Grandma. The store is only a half-hour away,” she added with a touch of sarcasm. “I’ll be back in about an hour or so.”

“Take your time, dear. No rush.” Lucy could see how the mere thought of being left alone with her for the next sixty-plus minutes seemed to bother Weston. If the little shit had a tree limb and a noose, he’d probably use it -- anything would be preferable to spending time with me. She chuckled at the thought and looked out the window at Janice, her American White Park dairy cow, grazing close to the pasture’s lone oak tree. Looking at the big, sturdy branches, Lucy smiled again. Perfect. If only I had the strength to drag his sorry ass out there…

Lucy shook her head ruefully, which also brought her back to reality. After thinking a moment, she yelled, “Weston, I think one of those rat traps you set in the basement may have worked. I heard a loud crack last night, like the sound of a neck snapping.”

Of course, Lucy was quite aware that her description would give Weston the willies, as those city boys didn’t have much stomach for that which came naturally to those raised on the farm. Hell, it had taken her an hour to get him to even set the traps a couple of weeks earlier – and that only after openly questioning his “city boy” manhood. He was a creep, so for Lucy it was icing on the cake to make the little snake squirm. If he was going to get his mitts on her money, the swindler was going to have to at least work for it.

“Wonderful.” Weston returned to the bedroom after making a ham and Swiss. “Where did you say it was?”

“In the basement, my dear. Remember? You're the one that set 'em. I’m pretty sure it was the one you put in the old butchering room. Hell, I’ll go with you in case you get attacked by a vicious field mouse or something. You can take my mace if you need it.”

Weston frowned at Lucy's perceived cheap shot, and Lucy responded with the classic "What did I say?" expression.

When Cliff was alive, some of the slaughtering of smaller livestock occurred in the basement, although typically only in times of really bad weather. Lucy recalled hearing Cliff opening the storm cellar doors – she wouldn’t allow him to carry any of the doomed critters through the house (bad luck) – and once she heard the sickening “thud”, she knew “Bob Cr-hatchet” had done his job. A play on words from the Dickens classic A Christmas Carol, kindhearted Cliff felt giving the instrument of death a humorous name somehow made the deed easier to tolerate. Lucy chuckled as she recalled Cliff saying the funny name; he always emphasized “hatchet” which invariably got a laugh out of her. While the nickname may have worked for the pair, Lucy still shuddered at the memory of Cliff’s gloved right hand (to protect from the splinters in the homemade handle) pausing with Bob Cr-hatchet raised high in the air, and the unsuspecting pair of innocent eyes -- usually a chicken's -- looking up from the chopping block, completely unaware of its date with destiny. Lucy always closed her own eyes at that moment; she could never actually watch the final act. Looking back, however, she felt she’d seen it hundreds of times. Neither Cliff nor Lucy had ever referred to it as “butchering”; Lucy used the term now simply to creep Weston out.

Lucy smiled again when Weston – as she’d silently predicted – offered no objection to her joining him. She’d thrown on a robe to cover her pajamas, as it tended to get really cold in the basement in February. She followed Weston, who’d armed himself with a flashlight and trash bag – presumably for any bodies requiring disposal – down the steps.

The stairs leading to the basement were original equipment to the century home and in truth they were fairly challenging. Some with rotted wood, some steps partially broken and hastily repaired countless times, it was indeed a scary journey for anyone new to the home. Weston descended the staircase as if tiptoeing down a mountain booby-trapped with land mines. On the other hand, Lucy, with a virtual lifetime of experience under her belt, navigated them as if she were floating on air.

There was a dank, musty smell to the basement -- not at all unusual for a building of such vintage – yet it seemed worse once the wooden gate to the butchering room was opened. Taking in a breath of the stale air, Weston looked back at Lucy as he nervously stepped in, as if hoping for a last minute reprieve from the governor.

“Go ahead Weston; it’s cold down here. Get the damn thing over with.” Lucy’s voice sounded more authoritative now than it had upstairs, and Weston did as instructed. Shining his flashlight back and up into a fairly large crack in the masonry – a perfect thoroughfare for immigrant rodents – he could not see the trap he’d set a couple of weeks earlier.

“It’s back there somewhere; obviously it moved when the trap sprung. Here…crawl up there on this.” With her foot, Lucy tapped a large block of wood, which Weston picked up – with great difficulty – and placed it on the wooden ledge. He reluctantly shimmied up and over the block and began to fish around inside the cracked masonry in search of the trap, when he heard the gate behind him spring shut.

Weston turned his head just in time to see Lucy, her right arm raised in the air, wielding Bob Cr-hatchit.

“Nobody’s taking me out of my house.”

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Lucy was back in bed – still in her robe – when Sandra returned from the store.

Arms folded, Lucy calmly said, “I only wanted to scare him...”

Sandra almost dropped the case of Ensure. “Oh my God, Grandma, what happened here?”

The reply was cold and methodical. “The basement. I only wanted to scare him...”

Sandra ran to the open basement door and descended the steps as fast as possible. It wasn’t long before her screams filled the old home.

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

“No, detective, I never, ever would take another person’s life.”

“But you admit to planning, as you say, to ‘scare’ the deceased, along with your granddaughter, because you were convinced they were trying to take your estate from you?”

The old woman nodded. "Big difference between pretending you're going to do something and actually doing it."

The detective leaned back in his chair. “Isn’t it possible you were overcome with anger, and simply became caught up in your very own ‘scare tactics’?”

Lucy poked at her temple with her index finger. “There’s nothing wrong with this.” Her voice rising, she pushed a cup of water from the desk. “Weston fainted when I threatened him with the hatchet – that’s all. Damn right I wanted to scare the devil out of him – to convince him and Sandra to leave and never come back – but, I swear to you, the little bastard fainted; that's all. He was fine before Sandra went downstairs.”

Across the hall another detective was taking a statement from Lucy’s newly-widowed granddaughter.

“I never thought Grandma was capable of something like this...doing that to Weston with an ax? I mean sure, she threatened us all the time – especially Weston; she hated my husband – but neither of us ever could have predicted…this. My poor, poor Weston...” With that, Sandra broke down, and the tears flowed freely.

The detective got up and began going through the drawers of his desk. “I know we have some tissues here somewhere. But, what I'm trying to say Mrs. Stone, is that the evidence against your grandmother is pretty damning. Motive, opportunity…you name it, it’s fairly cut and dried. Aha! Here we go…tissues.”

“Thank you so much, Detective." Sandra dabbed the tears from her cheeks. "I’m not sure I can ever accept that Grandma is capable of such a vicious attack.” Sandra shook her head, discreetly itching one of several wood splinters in her right palm.

“It’s just not like her.”


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Words: 2337
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