Tommy went to visit his 90-year-old grandfather who lived in a very secluded, rural part of West Virginia. The kind of place where GPS gives up and just wishes you luck. It took Tommy two hours, three wrong turns, and one very suspicious-looking goat to finally reach the old wooden cabin nestled in the mountains.
When he arrived, Grandpa greeted him with a firm handshake, a smile missing three teeth, and a sentence that doubled as both welcome and warning: “If you hear banjo music at night, don’t follow it.”
That evening, they sat on the porch in two rocking chairs, sipping sweet tea and talking about life. Tommy shared stories of city traffic, office jobs, and sushi. Grandpa nodded slowly, then shared tales of raccoon wrestling, home-brewed root beer that once exploded, and a neighbor who swore he’d seen Elvis and Bigfoot playing checkers.
After laughing into the night, Grandpa finally yawned, stretched, and said, “Time to turn in. Got a big breakfast planned for you in the morning.” He showed Tommy to a guest room with a bed that creaked louder than a horror movie door and left him with the soothing advice, “Don’t mind the possum on the windowsill. He’s just curious.”
The next morning, Tommy woke up to the delicious smell of coffee and frying bacon. He stumbled into the kitchen and saw Grandpa flipping pancakes like a seasoned chef, whistling a tune that sounded suspiciously like a chicken doing jazz.
“Morning, boy!” Grandpa beamed. “Hope you’re hungry!”
Tommy rubbed his eyes. “Smells amazing. What time did you wake up?”
“4:30,” Grandpa said proudly. “Woke the rooster up myself.”
Tommy sat down, grabbed a fork, and was about to dig in when he noticed something strange. There was a massive trapdoor right in the middle of the kitchen floor. Like, Scooby-Doo levels of obvious.
“Uh… Grandpa?” Tommy said, pointing at the trapdoor. “What’s that?”
Grandpa didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, that? That’s my emergency root cellar slash bunker slash raccoon jail.”
Tommy blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
Grandpa chuckled. “Relax, son. Mostly use it for storage now. Unless it’s squirrel rebellion season.”
Tommy opened his mouth to ask a dozen questions, but Grandpa handed him a mug of coffee and said, “Here, drink up. This’ll put hair on your chest and maybe even your back.”
Tommy sipped—and instantly coughed. “What is in this?”
“Secret family recipe,” Grandpa said with a wink. “Been known to start car engines and unclog drains.”
They spent the morning eating, laughing, and avoiding eye contact with the trapdoor. But just as Tommy was helping clear the dishes, the floor creaked… and the trapdoor popped open.
Out came a raccoon wearing a tiny hat and dragging a potato.
Tommy froze.
Grandpa sighed. “That’s Gerald. Ignore him. He’s dramatic.”
The raccoon stared at Tommy, dropped the potato with authority, and then slowly backed down the stairs like a villain retreating from a dramatic monologue.
Tommy didn’t say a word for three full minutes.
Finally, Grandpa said, “Well, you gonna help me clean or just stand there looking like a city feller who met his first rodent with fashion sense?”
Tommy nodded, speechless, and began washing dishes, silently wondering if he had just been adopted by a family of magical woodland creatures.
He never forgot that visit. Especially not the coffee. Or Gerald.
