When grandma Isabella died, her viewing was the talk of the town. All ears passed the tale of wiry metallic haired, puggy faced, razor nose Isabella—taken so early in life. She was 71. The viewing, at her house, was filled with men and woman from her generation, talking about how they’d known her—or in the men’s case danced with her at the parties when they were young. The women called her a wild child with a knife despite being a homebody. She frowned at the mention of a day without air conditioning and TV. Even more, any time I suggested unexpected adventure, she told me I lost it. What they said just made me more suspicious of the whole lot as they circulated the house during the viewing. A few stories passed around town about her made me a little suspicious of her past, but none ever seemed to hold truth. They said she used to go out with new men every week when young, and it’s true, I never knew my grandfather. The family was sure he was a one nighter, though her personality was more of a couch potato than a lady of the night. I never figured she’d get up to switching bed partners every week, and to my credit as her caretaker, I was mostly right. All my life, I roamed the halls of her corner of the street house—everywhere except the room she called her memory room. She went there from time to time and lock the door, and if I ever knocked, she told me to go elsewhere. I never thought much of it, and so I cooked dinner, or vacuumed the living room carpet. Now, all of this was fine until that day at the viewing. At that point, I still never thought to enter the locked memory room, though I figured it needed a good cleaning. A couple of the older ladies found their way to using a bobby pin on the door. I heard the door open from the other room. I rushed back to hear their ghoulish shrieks in full force as they passed me. Walking in the room, I saw a wall of knives, each one stained with dry blood on a wall of nails. I turned to try and leave the room, but the door closed behind me revealing her other collection on the back of the door. Human skulls mounted on each other to form a superglued collection on the back door. After the cops got done with me and the evidence, they found her prints on all the knives. What I still don’t get is the picture of the mayor from 40 years back hugging her. They figure that he might have been her accomplice, but he’s got the same chin as my father—who knows if it’s a coincidence. I wonder if his chin ended up on the door…