Grandpa always said, Never talk to the lizard in the bottle, but I did

Grandpa had many odd rules.

Don’t ask questions without direct eye contact.
Don’t talk to myself or my stuffed animals.
Don’t eat or drink anything alone.

He recited these rules whenever I visited him.

Of course, I broke them a few times — never on purpose. And every time, Grandpa came running from wherever he was, yelling as though it had been clear all along that it was him I’d been talking to. He would glance around the room while he shouted, his eyes darting as if he was afraid someone else had noticed me.

Dad told me Grandpa had PTSD from his time in the army. He’d seen a lot of action in the jungles of Uganda, freeing hostages and fighting rebels. It made sense that one had to be quiet in the jungle.

But then why did Grandpa yell? 

As I grew older, I finally dared to ask him about the rules. He pointed toward the foulest thing in his home. A souvenir from Uganda. A clear bottle of spirits, about the size of a wine bottle, with a large green lizard inside.

Grandpa leaned in and whispered, “It might hear us. Never talk to it. Promise me. Promise.”

From that moment on, I understood the power of PTSD, and I did my best to follow Grandpa’s rules. Still, he did strange things with the bottle. Sometimes, when I entered the living room, the lizard’s scales would be swirling inside the bottle, like one of those small Christmas glass balls filled with snow.

The question sat on the tip of my tongue for years, but I never asked why. I just assumed Grandpa had shaken it.

It was a strange feeling, being alone in his house after he died. But I had made a promise. I was to throw the lizard bottle into a blazing fire, along with some herbs he’d prepared in a small cloth bag.

His last words echoed in my ears.

“Never talk to the lizard. Burn it. Remember the rules. Promise me. Promise me!”
The sad look on Dad’s face flashed before my eyes. It must have been hard, watching one’s father grow so delirious. Talking nonsense. I shook the thought away and entered the living room.

The bottle sat on the shelf, untouched, dust clinging to the glass. The lizard inside was perfectly still. The bottle was warmer and heavier than I expected when I picked it up.
I gave it a small shake. Nothing happened. The scales stayed firmly at the bottom, as if glued in place.

The front door squeaked.

“Hello?” I yelled, turning toward the entryway.

The door squeaked again.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

When no one answered, I set the bottle down and walked toward the door. The wind pushed gently against it. The hinges groaned softly. I chuckled and shook my head.

My eyes widened when I saw the scales swirling around in the lizard bottle. It was much warmer to the touch. And something else was different. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But I brushed the feeling aside, remembering my promise. 

I stopped at the front door, the bottle heavy in my hands, and squinted toward the small fireplace at the far end of the overgrown garden. A tight knot formed in my stomach. I swallowed.

The trees rustled softly in the wind. My throat felt dry. Something about leaving the house felt wrong. Dangerous even. I shook my head with a nervous smile and told myself I was overthinking it. Surely it had something to do with the few wasps I could detect among the rotten apples.

I set the bottle down on the living room table, lit a fire in the stove, and sat across from it. While I watched the flames come to life, the danger crept up in me again. Surely the smell would be awful, and perhaps the liquid itself would catch fire, explode even. No, this was also a bad idea. 

An uneasy chuckle escaped my lips. My mouth felt unbearably dry. Out in the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and downed it in one gulp. Then another, and another. Only when I reached for a fifth did I freeze.

My stomach stirred. It cried as though I had eaten nothing for weeks. Like some starving soul, I rummaged through the kitchen until my hungry eyes found a can of beans. I didn’t even bother with the can opener; a knife was all I needed to pry open the can and gulp down its contents. 

An icy wave passed up my spine, leaving me lightheaded. The house felt different. Quieter, but somehow not empty. Something was here with me. Then I realized. 
I had spoken out loud. I ate and drank alone. I had asked a question aloud.

Every rule. Broken.

I knew I had to leave. And I knew I couldn’t leave without the bottle. Without the lizard. Without whatever had been listening so patiently for me to forget Grandpa’s rules.