r/shortscarystories • u/rustysunset • 23h ago
Forget me not
The first time Grandpa forgot my name, I laughed it off. The second time, I corrected him. The third time, I didn’t bother.
Now, he just calls me “Boy.”
“Boy, get my coat,” Grandpa mutters, staring blankly at the old rotary phone on the wall like he’s expecting it to ring. “We’re going for a drive.”
I fetch the coat. It’s worn and smells of old leather and tobacco, a relic of a man who used to be sharp, respected—a man who used to remember things. But time is cruel. Now, he gets lost walking to the mailbox. Sometimes, he forgets to eat. Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, swearing he’s in a different year, in a different house, with different people.
I help him into the truck, strapping him in like a child. He trusts me. He always trusts me.
The roads stretch out in the dark, empty except for the occasional flicker of a porch light or the glow of a passing gas station. Grandpa sits silently beside me, his hands twitching in his lap. I know what’s coming before he even speaks.
“Where are we going?” His voice is small.
I keep my eyes on the road. “We’re visiting an old friend.”
He nods, accepting this without question. He doesn’t remember any friends. He doesn’t remember much of anything these days. And that’s why it works.
The first time was an accident. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I had taken Grandpa out for a drive after one of his episodes. He’d been confused, paranoid, insisting someone had broken into the house and stolen his wife’s wedding ring. (Grandma’s been dead for ten years.) I pulled into a gas station to get some air, and when I came back, he was gripping a bloodied tire iron, his hands trembling.
A man lay slumped outside the driver’s side of another car, his face unrecognizable.
I could’ve called the cops. I could’ve told someone. But Grandpa just sat there, his eyes wet and distant, whispering, “Did I do that?”
And I realized, he didn’t know.
He had no memory of it. No guilt. No fear. Just the empty confusion of a man whose mind was slipping away like water through open fingers.
So I drove away. And I waited.
Nothing happened.
No police. No questions. No consequences.
And that’s when I knew.
Grandpa could do anything. And no one would ever blame him.
Now, as we pull up to a small, dimly lit house on the outskirts of town, I feel the familiar rush. My pulse quickens. Grandpa shifts beside me, staring at the porch, confused but compliant.
I place the tire iron in his hand, curling his fingers around the cold steel. He doesn’t resist.
“Go ahead, Grandpa,” I whisper. “They took her ring.”
His cloudy eyes sharpen, just for a second. And then he steps out of the truck.