What's the real thing the 3am text/creepy grandma at your door prompt is based on!?!? Please, I need details!!! đź’™
A friend got a text from an unknown number that said “do NOT answer the door” during a sleepover, which was instantly followed by someone knocking at the door and an elderly woman calling out, asking if any of us had any honey to spare. Given the fact they lived up a crazy long driveway, surrounded by forest, and it was 3 am, it was pretty sus.
Our small group kind of freaked out, and naturally I was delighted.
It was at this point that I remembered we had gone shopping for sleepover provisions earlier in the day, and had mistakenly bought honey instead of syrup, and no one liked honey (there was much complaining). So I did a dash for the kitchen and snatched the honey, then rather gleefully bounded over to the door, much to my friends horror.
Sure enough, very old lady is standing at the door, looking like every grandma stereotype you’ve ever heard of. I looked rather manic myself, with what my friends called, “That freaky unhinged grin you do.”, and handed her the whole thing of honey, and told her she could have it.
She looked genuinely surprised and kind of straightened a bit, then got this glint in her eyes and started fighting a grin.Â
We stood there and bantered for a while as my friends freaked the fuck out inside, before she finally said goodbye, told me to “Keep making mischief” and then strode off down the drive with a walk that was very much at odds with her hunched “feeble” appearance from a few moments earlier.
None of my friends slept that night, and I took particular glee in making strange noises whenever they would start to calm down. I was always a little shit like that.
Never saw her again, but I was gifted a rather beaten looking metal (Brass maybe?) flute the next evening on the doorstep with a simple “Thank you” written on a leaf of all things. None of my friends wanted to go anywhere near it, and I still have it to this day.
“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.
A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.
I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,
“I am the manager.”
Fantastic hands references by the website Hong14cafe.
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