Four years is a long time to a 12 year old girl.
That's how long I lived with them.
She - my grandmother promised to haunt me even after she was dead.

Dead women don't lie

No pun intended.

Where will she be today?
Hiding in the closet? Behind the shower curtain again?

I'm kissing my boyfriend, warm and safe in his arms. Will she be there when I open my eyes this time?

Will she be waiting for me in bed tonight? When I make love, or later, when exhausted I close my eyes to dream.

Sleeping, dreaming... whose hands are touching me? Whose lips on my throat? His, of course. I think. But sometimes, it's her.

Only I can see her.
For now.

The house was 100 years old when I got there.

There was a house, a barn, a milk house, a silo, a front porch, back porch, and many rooms.
44 acres of corn and beans.

The driveway was long. It took forever to get there, and even longer to leave.

The front porch - dirt floors, 3 rooms, one with a door where they locked up Little Mother. Sometimes possums would get in and eat the cat's food. My Grandmother would beat them to death with a broom. Didn't bother her much. She used to drown kittens with her father. I'm sure he made her do it. No little girl willingly drowns a kitten.

The front porch had a VERY distrinctive scent. It wasn't bad. But strong. Kind of a musky, cat smell. Kind of herby.

The kitchen had linolium floors, yellow and cracked with age. A design, all but faded were supposed to be faux tiles. The kitchen table - the scene of Casper's abuse. Grandma would cook like the whole church was coming, heap piles of food on my plate and cry if I didn't eat every bite. It wasn't long before I gained a bunch of weight. The kids at my school called me fat, and so did I my dad. Bulliema became my best friend and we shared 3 meals a day in the summer.

The living room was just off of the kitchen. Both were large. We used to sit in the living room and talk. I remember when we got new carpet. It was Maple. It was nice for a little while. Lightening struck the room once. Very scary. But I was sad that it didn't strike me, and kill me. That would have nice. My boyfriend says that God was warning my Grandparents. They were in the room too. Couldn't He have sent a cop instead?

Oh, that's right. The "investigation" turned up nothing. My word against theirs. And cats don't talk. But if they did....

The piano room, contained the Piano, and the Christmas tree once a year. The front window never quite shut completely, and in the winter it got really cold in there. My grandmother made me play year round, cold or not, for 30 minutes a day (unless she was mad at me, then it was an hour). My fingers, in the winter, would be so stiff I almost couldn't move them.

We had a pantry down stairs too. Filled with food. They were mormon. If the world ended, we had enough canned and dried food to last the three of us for 5 years. Maybe more. Of course, there was no chocolate, soda, hot tea, iced tea - no caffiene. No hot or cold drinks. Stupid mormons. Why don't you give up something useful like cows, pigs, chickens, or fish? Why do you have to kill animals? I mean, if you are going to deprive yourself... make it something worth while, like an animal's life. That woman's backside was comprised of several cows.

The stairs - where she will always be in my mind. I was going up, she - coming down. She pinned me, back against the railing, pressed her body up against mine and promised "I'll haunt you even after I'm dead". And she meant it too. Fat rolly bitch. Welcome to death. I'll get you out of my head. Out of my dreams. Out of my eyes. The whole world is going to know what you are.

At the top of the stairs is the bathroom. The tiny bathroom where she would watch me shower. Or help me shower. Because I didn't know how to clean myself of course. Especially - "there". Just like I needed help finding my nipples, right? Or like I needed you to dress me when I was 12 years old? Like I needed you to SUPERVISE. Perverted bitch. Her hands, her eyes, her lips. All over me. You can't eat innocents. You can't scrape it off me.

The master bedroom was to the left. Where they slept. Where I used to help Grandpa get dressed in the morning because he had Parkinson's. His whole body shook towards the end. First it was his arm, then his other arm. Then one leg, then the other. Each year a new limb joined his dance. A drum beat only he could hear. Did it deafen him to her? She didn't mind he if touched me too. Or urinated in my room. Or drooled on my hair while he ran his hands where he wanted. Once I began developing, at the stupid age of TEN it was all fair game. Or maybe I just didn't notice before then?

Do I feel it all again as I write this? Of course I do. But you need to know. And I need to get it out. And maybe this will help someone else. Maybe someone who's been through it. Hopefully, someone who will never have to, because someone will read this, or something else I've written, and know what to look for, what to do, and will save a child who will never know to be grateful.

There was a closet in their room. It ran from their room, behind the bathroom and into mine. There was a tiny little wood panneled latched door that you could use to travel to my room, unseen. I have dreams, even today, that there is a little woman, with long hair and a long red dress and blood red nails that lives in there, and is coming to get me at night.

There was a room off of my room. Grandma Goldie's room. Grandma Goldie was Grandpa's mother. She'd been dead for at least a decade, if not two, when I moved it. But it was always her room. Set with a ruffled bed, a dresser and lilac perfume in case she wanted to move back in. The door was always shut.

That leaves just one room.

Mine.

We always had lots of cats on the farm. Black cats, white cats, fluffy cats, fat cats, sweet cats. Lots of cats. I love cats. They are tiny little toys, completely independant of other cats, or their human "owners". If they like you, they like you, and to tame a cat speaks volumes of the tamer.

Jared, Keekoo, and Dono were all pure black. Dono got her name because Aunt Louise asked Grandpa what her name was, and Grandpa said " Don't know" but pronounced it "Dough - no".

Sally was gray. Cute, and sweet.

Casper - well, I'm sure you can figure out what color she was.

Itsy Boo and Iddy Tom were kittens. Persian kittens. Grandma used to lock them up in the down stairs bathroom all the time. I don't know why. I don't think there was a "why". It was her little fetish - to lock things up. They were "silver". Smart kittens too. And twins. They learned to turn the handle to let themselves out, but then Grandma put a stool infront of the door so they couldn't push it open.

Sylvester - can you picture him? He looked just like Sylvester the cat. He was locked in the milk house. There were tools and junk piled high, it was filthy dirty. His litter box wasn't changed in the 4 years I lived there. Grandma said he was a very mean cat, and would hurt the other kitties if he got out. But he was never mean to me. They called him Kadophe - after the Russian leader. I used to sit, perched in my window, watching him across the yard, locked up in his window. This is the one that breaks my heart the most. I love you Sylvester. And I'm really really really sorry I never let you out. I'm sorry I was 8 and stupid, 9 and stupid, 10 and stupid, 11 and stupid, then 12 and stupid. I'm sorry I never saved you. It's been a thousand years since I've seen your kitten face in the dirty window - but I promise you I see it every day. And every day I'm so sorry.

There were twinkle toes and white toes. They were wild. At first we thought they were the same cat - but they are twins. One day we saw them both at the same time.

Turtle was 1/2 siamese. Talkative cat. Lovable.

Gretchen was little mother's mother. Little mother was locked up on the front porch. I don't know why. Little mother had two cat kids- Jared and a yellow kitty. I don't remember yellow kitty's name. Gretchen had LONG hair, like Bashena. Bashena is my cat today. I don't lock her up anywhere, or throw her into walls, or feed her vicks. That's wrong. I love my cat, and pet her when she wants it, and give her treats and wet food, and cuddles. Some people say she's mean, but I don't care. She's a beautiful cat. And I love her.

Thumbs was the kitty they locked in their bedroom. She was a million colors - even some pink! I thought maybe that is why they kept her in their bedroom. Every night, Grandma would get out a bottle of Vicks Vapor rub, stick her finger in it and get a big glob. She had long, thick nails she painted Vixen red. The goo coated her nail, but the red still shone through. She would grab Thumbs, sweet, skittish Thumbs, by the neck and force the glob down her throat, and hold her jaw until she swallowed. She said it kept her from getting sick. She did that every day for almost 4 years. One day Thumbs jumped out the second story window, and no one ever saw her again. I loved that cat, but I knew why she ran away. We called her thumbs because her thumbs were very pronounced. Her little paws were the cutest, with pink and black pads, and a pink and black nose! I hope she didn't hurt her cute little paws when she jumped. Good luck to you Thumbs. You were a beautiful kitty, and you didn't deserve that awful place.

Casper was the only declawed kitty. She still bit though. And she bit alot. Probably because grandma and grandpa used to throw her into the walls, the corners of tables, clear across the room, whereever. They would feed her from the table, then kick her across the room for being on the table. She came in and out as she pleased. One of the few cats they didn't lock up. They treated Casper the same way they treated me. Hot and cold. Loving, then violent.

Of all the things that they did, abusing the cats was the worst. And the hardest for me to live with.

You are going to hell Grandma.
Once I get rid of you.

People keep asking me if it is true. Did the church going, piano playing, cookie baking, plump grandma really molest an 8 year old girl? Did she really? How? Why?

I can't answer why. Except to say that she was sexually abused herself. That she lacked power and so she took it where she could. And she took it from everyone around her. She decieved everyone so she could go on molesting children. Was our girl the only one? Probably not.

How... now there is the question to answer. Do you really want to know where her hands and fingers went?  Do you want the image of a nude, saging, fat old lady in obscene positions? Or shall we stick to the verbal stuff? Can you stomach the threats - "Do as I say or I'll strip you naked and lay you spread eagled and have grandpa come in and look at you". Or the promises "I'll haunt you even after I'm dead".

We're not keeping her secrets any longer. She can haunt till the cows come up (as she used to say) but she's going to have to do it with you watching.

This is the hardest thing I've ever done. Take the worst thing in my life and show the world. Could you just hold my hand for a little while? I don't think I can do this without you.