My Grandmother didn’t know she was dead. 

“Ellie, Ellie! Out here, by the window.” 

My dads made me wear all black to the funeral, which I hated, but they said it wasn’t about me. Closed casket. The priest talked for too long, I think, because it didn’t seem like anyone was even paying attention. They were crying or staring into the sky, or eating those cheap funeral home mints that taste like chalk. 

“Poor Nina,” said my Aunt Amelia after the priest had finished, “Poor Nina, poor Nina!” 

Aunt Amelia always made everything a big spectacle. My grandma said it was a youngest-child thing, but I don’t really get that because I don’t have any brothers or sisters. Whatever the reason, it was annoying. My taller dad touched my shoulder and asked if I wanted to say anything before they lowered the casket. I hadn’t thought that anyone would want to hear what I had to say. I couldn’t think of anything. Later that night, I spent an hour writing down what I would have said on little yellow sticky notes. 

The next day, I didn’t talk. Nobody noticed, because I guess even though there was a funeral, you have to be sad for a lot longer until you stop thinking about the person who died. Which I guess makes sense, but then why go to the trouble of having a whole event? But I kept thinking about how it had happened. She had been planting something, roses or lilies or I can’t remember, and she fell into a bush by accident. It shouldn’t have killed her, but you see there was a bee’s nest inside and …

“Ellie! Ellie!” my grandmother’s voice outside the window again.

Too much moonlight to hide myself convincingly. Cold air, or maybe I was shivering from fear. And the room smelled sweet and rotten. I turned with the blanket shielding me up to my nose. 

My grandmother didn’t know how she looked. Long and pale and covered in holes. Her eyes rolled around in her sockets like pool balls. Her hair was like cobwebs, her teeth swiveled and scratched. With a ratty finger, she raked at the glass.

“Ellie!” she said. Her voice hoarse and buzzing.

What was I supposed to do? I shuddered at the idea of opening the window, but even when I turned away, all night long she croaked my name. 

The next night the same thing happened. I woke up shivering, and there she was. She looked even worse than before. The holes in her body were alive with little yellow bees, crawling in and out of them. 

“Ellie!” she said, “Ellie come and play with me! I’ve made friends with those bees, isn’t that nice, Ellie?” 

She pressed her rotten face up to the glass, her eyeballs spinning around and around, her voice seeming to make the whole room shake and drone. I cried under the blanket, but I didn’t answer her. 

On the third night, when I woke up, there was only the buzzing. She stood outside my window, in a swarm of angry bees. Her body was torn up, bony, ragged. Her eyes were gone now. She didn’t say a word, just clacked her jaw and scratched, scratched, scratched the window. In the morning, I threw what I had written in the fireplace. 

I never visit her grave when my parents go. I haven’t told them, but I think that maybe she’s there waiting for me. Long, and pale, and covered in holes. 

Because she hasn’t come back, and I think it’s better that way. 

And even if she did, what would I do? 

What would I say?