Chapter 1: The Cat on Grandma’s Grave

When my grandma took her last breath, out of nowhere, a stray cat jumped right onto her face.

The whole room froze. Aunt Linda let out a little yelp, and for a second, nobody moved. The cat’s fur puffed up, its tail whipping back and forth as it landed right on Grandma’s face, paws pressed against her cheeks. I’ll never forget how the sunlight hit the cat’s ragged whiskers, or how the air went tight, like the house itself was holding its breath.

And then—against all odds—she came back to life.

One second, Grandma’s chest was still. The next, her eyelids fluttered and she sucked in a jagged breath, like someone who’d just come up from the bottom of a freezing lake. My cousin Jake dropped his phone. Even Uncle Dennis, who never believed in anything, stumbled back a step. I swear, even the air seemed to shiver, like it couldn’t believe what it just saw.

Pretty soon, folks in Maple Heights started whispering that this was some kind of resurrection, saying Grandma would be out for blood. My dad didn’t buy a word of it—he just grinned and hoisted Grandma up, carrying her home on his back like nothing weird had happened.

Rumors spread fast in our little Ohio town. By sundown, Mrs. Pritchard from next door was already telling everyone at the grocery store that Grandma was some kind of zombie. Dad just shook his head, scooped Grandma up—her body light as a feather. For a split second, I wondered if he was going to make a joke or say something smart, but he just gave me a wink, like we were sharing a secret. Then he carried her down Maple Street like he was giving her a piggyback ride after church on Sunday.

But as soon as they stepped onto our front porch, they saw Grandma squinting and trembling. There was uncooked white rice scattered across the walkway, right in front of my mom.

Mom stood there, arms folded. She paused for a moment, her eyes hard and steady, and at her feet was the box of Uncle Ben’s rice—orange and white, with the picture of the smiling old man—wide open. The rice was scattered in a thick, uneven line right across the porch steps, like some kind of homemade barricade. Grandma’s eyes narrowed, her lips quivering, her whole body shivering as she clung to Dad’s back.

Old ghost stories say the undead are terrified of rice—just a touch and they’ll sizzle, maybe even crackle.

I remembered hearing that one from Grandpa when I was little, how he’d lean in close and tell us about restless spirits who couldn’t cross a line of rice without blowing their cover. It was one of those weird bits of Appalachian folklore that stuck around, even if nobody really believed it—except maybe Mom, right then.

Grandma shrank inside the laundry basket Dad had strapped to his back, leaning toward him with a pitiful look. For a split second, I thought she might start to cry. “Bobby, your wife doesn’t want to take care of me. My legs were already shot, and now she wants me to walk on rice? She’s trying to run me out! Ain’t that something?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but the accusation cut sharp. She looked at Dad with watery eyes, her lower lip trembling like a little kid’s. The laundry basket—an old plastic one with a cracked handle—creaked as she shifted, making the moment almost funny if it hadn’t been so tense.

Grandma had been seriously ill not long ago; she’d been half-paralyzed. Just getting out of bed was a struggle. The doctors said she might never walk again.

We’d spent weeks tiptoeing around her sickbed, bringing her ginger ale and mashed potatoes. The doctors at County General had said she might never walk again. The whole house had smelled like Vicks VapoRub and stale hope.

Dad wasn’t happy either. He let out a sigh, like he was about to launch into a long argument. “Mom just got her breath back, why are you making things hard for her? I’m her son—do you really think she’d bite me or something?”

He shot Mom a look, his jaw clenched. He shifted his weight, bracing for a fight. Still, he tried to keep his tone light for Grandma.

Mom sighed and picked up the snow shovel next to her. She leaned on it like it was a staff, boots planted wide on the porch, feet set like she wasn’t budging.

Dad looked at Mom’s sturdy frame and hesitated. He knew better than to argue when she looked like that.

He glanced between her, the rice, and Grandma. His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand through his hair. The silence stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable, broken only by the distant hum of a lawnmower down the block.

Mom went on, “When have your older brothers ever let you have the good stuff? Today, they’re all pushing you to carry Mom home—doesn’t that seem a little too convenient?”

She raised an eyebrow, her voice low, like she was letting him in on a secret. “You remember last Thanksgiving, when they ‘forgot’ to invite us until the turkey was gone? Or when they made you clean out Dad’s old shed by yourself? And now, suddenly, they’re all too busy to bring Mom home. Doesn’t that seem just a little convenient?”

Dad protested, “Don’t start. They’re not that bad. Besides, it was just a stray cat, how bad could it be?”

He tried to laugh it off, but it came out thin. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to believe his own words. “It’s just superstition, hon. The cat was probably just looking for a warm place to land. You really think that could turn Mom into a monster?”

Mom shook her head. “When I was a kid, there was an old man in our town. Some animal jumped on him as he died. Nobody cared, but that night, his whole family was found dead, each with a hole in their throat the size of a cereal bowl.”

“My little Tommy is only five—I’m not risking it. Not a chance.”

Her voice cracked a little as she said it, and she pulled me closer to her side. The story hung in the air like the smell of burnt toast—impossible to ignore.

Dad glanced at me, clearly taking it to heart. He hesitated. You could feel everyone holding their breath, waiting for what she’d do next. “Mom, why don’t you get down and try walking a couple steps? Just two steps.”

He looked at Grandma, his eyes searching her face for any sign of the woman he remembered. His hands hovered at her sides, ready to catch her if she fell. You could feel everyone holding their breath, waiting for what she’d do next.

Grandma’s eyes went wide, her face turning pale, the skin pulling tight across her cheeks. Looking at all the people staring at her, her words came out tight, like she was clenching her teeth. “You all just think I’m old and useless, looking for an excuse to toss me out!”

Her words hit like a slap—the kind that leaves a sting. For a beat, no one said anything. She glared at us, her pride flaring up even as her body trembled. For a moment, she looked like she might cry—or bite.

“Ha.” Her hand, thin as a dried stick, slapped Dad hard. “You’re just going to let them bully your old mother? Raising you was all for nothing! Ungrateful!”