My grandma is the living definition of a sweet, kind old lady. She’s short, has a voice that’s smooth and warm as honey, loves to knit, and has the loveliest smile in the world. Her house is very much like her. Old, sweet and homely, and a scent that reminds you of everything pleasant. Except that one room in her house, the door to which would always remain locked. None of us were allowed to go in there, and if any of us tried, she’d say in a voice as sweet and deadly as elderberries, “My dear, you wouldn’t want to go down there. Not unless you want to meet a very sticky end. Now that would be simply ghastly for your darling granny, wouldn’t it?”

For twelve years, the sight of the door’s redwood grooves and polished sheen, crowned by an ornate bronze knocker, had tantalised me. Drawn me like a moth to a flame with its juicy secrets. I’d refused to yield, for I refused to let my gramma down (more so because she scared me half to death). But one summer evening before high school, I decided to let the adventure seize me. It guided me downstairs, where, astonishingly, gramma had left the mystery door wide open.

I walked in. Flicked a light switch on. My jaw dropped.

Before me was a host of high tech gizmos and gadgets, all too sophisticated for a lady who could barely use the landline. There were pictures of people, notes, pins on soft boards- all around a big screen with at least twenty active windows, which looked like something right out of a crime show.

“Daniela?” A voice called. Elderberries. I whipped around to find my grandma, attired in black tactical gear, eyes covered with a stylish pair of shades. Her hair was piled atop her head in a sleek silver bun.

Still reeling with the revelations, I could only ask one question, “Grams, wh-who… are you?”

She pulled off her shades, winked, and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m Mond. Jane Mond.”

My eyes became saucers. “Like…”

“Don’t say it. I shall never let myself be compared to that copycat. Like lethal old ladies aren’t cool enough.”