Peanut Butter

I remember it like it was yesterday. I wish I didn’t, but unfortunately, I do. I swear it’s the root of all my anxiety. And best of all, it’s the reason I have a phobia of peanut butter. 

It was sometime in autumn and I was just dropped off at my grandparents house. I was no older than ten, maybe eleven? My parents had a date night planned and needed someone to watch over me. It was definitely easier than trying to find a babysitter. 

Grandpa hugged me with a pat on the back, while my grandma smothered me in kisses. She said she had big plans for us, so of course I was excited. For as long as I can remember, fall has been my favorite season. I remember her guiding me to the kitchen where on the table was a big box of fall and Halloween decorations. She let me put fake spiderwebs on the lamps, bat stickers on the windows and even helped me sneak a skeleton hand under my grandpa’s pillow. She was in charge of stringing up the garland of orange leaves on the kitchen cupboards because of how high up it was. She didn’t want me getting hurt by climbing onto the counter and reaching. But she did let me put the pumpkin fairy lights on the fireplace mantel. My grandparents had gotten a stool for me to use to safely reach certain things so I still felt included, even though I was in charge of most of the decorations. They didn’t mind though. Grandpa would laugh quietly from his recliner in the living room as I gave detailed instructions to grandma as to where the different animal skeletons and ghost figurines should go. 

But what I was most excited for was the baking grandma and I were going to do. She loved baking. And I loved to lick the spoons clean. So we got to work on a favorite fall cookie of mine: peanut butter cinnamon. Grandma cracked open the kitchen window to let in a small breeze and turned on the oven. It was an older house, so the kitchen would get stuffy fast. 

I remember grandma fiddling with the recipe box until she found the index card. She sprung right into action, setting up the kitchen counter with the ingredients, mixing bowls, everything we needed. She also pushed my stool right up to the counter for me so I could reach and help better. She tied on her apron, helped me with my small one and we got right to work. Measuring flour, sneaking pinches of sugar, over-sniffing the vanilla. It wasn’t until we got to the peanut butter that things started to… change. 

It turned out that the peanut butter jar was almost empty, so grandma asked me to run to the pantry and grab a new one. I was more than happy to and took the stool with me. I waddled across the room, swung open the pantry door and let myself in. I spotted the peanut butter on the third shelf, plunked down my stool and started climbing. I had to stretch my arms out a little to grab the jar, but I managed. I was so proud of myself that I ran back to the kitchen to show off my skills. Grandma beamed at me and told me how impressive my reaching abilities were. She told me to grab the stool and took the peanut butter jar from my hands. 

By the time I’d gotten my stool set up at the kitchen counter again, grandma was unscrewing the lid to the peanut butter. That’s when she made a hmph sound as she stuck a spoon into the jar, scraping at the sides of the glass. She turned to me and asked for a second time if I’d be a sweetheart and ran to the pantry to grab another peanut butter jar. This one was almost empty. At first I sort of laughed, thinking she was making a joke. I told her she was funny as I giggled, but she only gave me a confused smile in return. She tipped the jar to the side so I could see and sure enough, it had next to nothing left in it

But I didn’t think much of this. My parents had already had “the talk” with me about grandma and grandpa getting older and not remembering as much as they used to. Especially grandma. At the time, I chalked it up to my grandma getting older. And I didn’t want to make her feel bad by telling I thought she’d mixed up the two peanut butter jars on the counter and grabbed the old one instead of the new one. So I smiled and told her I was on it. I knew my grandparents stocked up pretty heavily on condiments, so I wasn’t worried about finding more peanut butter. I scooped up my stool for a second time and made the journey back to the pantry. Again, I left my stool to bring grandma the jar. And again, she told me how impressive my reaching skills were. Honestly, it made my heart hurt at the time thinking that she was losing her memory. I told her I was going to go grab my stool and that I’d be right back. She hummed in response. 

Walking back to the pantry felt longer. It’s not like I was getting tired going back and forth across the room or anything, but the room felt like it had stretched itself out, as weird as it sounds. Even though I was a kid at the time, I tried my best to rationalize it. I’d always been taught that my grandparents' house was safe from any kind of danger. I tried to tell myself that maybe I was just tired or so excited to be making cookies that I didn’t notice how long the room actually was. Maybe it was the lighting? The shadows? I didn’t know, but those thoughts made me feel better. When I finally did reach the pantry, I grabbed my stool and bolted back. Something felt off, but I tried my best to ignore it. 

I’d barely taken one step back towards the counter when my grandma abruptly started speaking to me without even turning. For a third time, she asked if I’d run to the pantry and grab another peanut butter jar. I froze. I knew her memory might’ve been going, but I thought that at least this time she’d see the one empty and two full jars of peanut butter on the counter and stop asking. But I guess she didn’t, so I turned on my heel and went straight back. I didn’t even get a chance to set the stool down before she asked. 

When I walked into the pantry for a third time, it had finally dawned on me that the peanut butter jars I’d been grabbing were still in the exact same spot I’d taken them from. They shouldn’t have still been there, front and center because I had already grabbed them. Twice. At this point, I started to panic a little. Something definitely seemed off with grandma, but this is when I started suspecting she was off for reasons unrelated to her memory. I was hesitant, but I grabbed the jar off the shelf. But this time, I took a box of dried pasta off a lower shelf to take the jars place. Just in case I was sent back. I was hoping this small change of mine would do something, anything. Break whatever cycle was happening. And when I turned around to walk back, the change in the lighting hit me hard.Nothing was lit up anymore. The room was so dim, I had to squint. I looked up, and to my surprise, the ceiling was definitely farther away. It was like something had stretched out the walls like they were putty. I could barely see the light fixture above me, it looked so distant. 

I didn’t want to stick around by the pantry for much longer, so this time I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me. I swore I could hear the echoes of my feet slapping the floor as I flew back to the kitchen. It should have been right in front of me, but it took minutes before I finally stumbled back into it. I slided to a stop, panting hard, gripping the jar tightly in my hands. My stool was still at the counter. It was as if I never took it with me to the pantry. It looked like it hadn’t moved. And neither had grandma. She was as still as stone. Maybe, just maybe she was waiting patiently for me. That’s what I told myself that kept me pushing forward towards the stool, towards her. I felt so unsure if this even was my grandma anymore. 

Slowly, I climbed the couple steps and turned to her. She didn’t look at me, but she had a blank smile on her face and an empty stare. Her focus or what was left of it was on the mixing bowl. I set the jar on the counter and noticed that the bowl we had nearly filled with almost-ready batter was now a small pile of dry flour. 

Grandma still didn’t turn to look at me. She just stuck her whisk back in the bowl and churned slowly. I told her I’d brought her the peanut butter like she’d asked. Her whisking faltered very briefly before she then asked me, slowly, if I’d run back to the pantry to grab her some eggs since she had forgotten them. Confused, I asked her why the eggs would be in the pantry and no longer the fridge. No answer. I followed up by saying that I hadn’t seen any eggs in the pantry when I went. Then slowly, she took a deep breath in and told me to check again. The dead smile on her face never left. 

So I went back. What else was I supposed to do? The room was so dark and the walls horribly warped. But it was better than being left alone with whoever was in the kitchen wearing my grandma’s skin. I just remember being so scared. All I wanted was to go home. I wanted my parents to show back up in the driveway and save me from whatever the hell was happening. 

When I finally reached the pantry, the insides had completely changed. No longer were there stacked shelves filled with cans, cookies and sauces. In fact, even the shelves were gone. Even the dried pasta I’d left earlier. Instead, a single egg carton was sitting on the floor. It was the only thing there. Reluctantly, I picked it up. The bottom felt horribly wet. The worst part? It was warm. And it didn’t feel like broken eggs, either. I braved the dark, looming room once more going back to the kitchen. In my kid brain, I kept telling myself that I needed to bring these eggs to grandma or to whatever was left of my actual grandma standing at the kitchen counter. 

She hadn’t moved since I’d left. I made my way back up the stool and set the carton with shaking hands next to her. Finally, she stopped mixing the flour. All she whispered was Wonderful in the most god awful raspy voice. She reached out a hand and carefully flicked the lid back with her fingernail. The smell kicked me in the face. Something badly rotten. I remember gagging and had a hard time not throwing up. Grandma thought for a moment before plucking out the cracked egg she wanted. It was bleeding something yellow and pink. Thats when grandma smacked the egg against the side of the bowl and when the shell split, out fell a deflated eyeball. I was mortified. But she kept going. One after the other, she picked every single egg out of that carton and split them open. And each time, out would fall a slimy eyeball. I was so shocked I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare. And gawk as grandma then proceeded to stick her whisk back  into the bowl full of flour and eyes and violently start mashing everything together. The sound still haunts me to this day. She paused and then grabbed the jar of peanut butter. She didn’t open the lid. Instead, she crushed the glass between her fingers. The jar shattered and the jagged pieces fell into the mixing bowl along with the runny peanut butter. It smelled even worse than the eggs. Something fat and white was squirming in the peanut butter. Hundreds of them. I didn’t get to see what they were because grandma shoved her whisk back in the bowl and kept on mashing. Her hand still had shards of glass sticking out of the flesh and blood was trailing down her arm, dripping into the bowl. Worst of all, after she finished mixing, she offered the  sticky, bloody and dripping with strands of slime whisk to me to lick. That’s when I threw up. 

I don’t remember much after that. I’m pretty confident I fainted because my vision got all black and fuzzy. The next thing I knew, I was waking up on the kitchen floor with my grandparents hovering over me, shaking me and lifting my head. They told me I fell off the stool trying to reach the peanut butter in the pantry. That I hit my head. That everything I saw was a bad nightmare induced by pain or a concussion or some kind of head trauma. Funny thing is, I don’t remember ever telling them about the things I’d seen. Maybe I looked scared and they assumed. But I doubted it, because that smell… that damn rotten smell was still lingering in the kitchen. 

My parents picked me up shortly after. I was so grateful that I didn’t even care that they seemed upset about their date night being cut short. All I cared about was getting out of that house. As we drove away, I remember looking out the car window and seeing my grandma standing at the front door watching us go. When she spotted me, she waved. But all I could focus on was the heavy gauze wrapped around her hand. And I swore to myself never to go near a jar of peanut butter again.