Second Brush

After decades away from us my grandmother and I were having a chat. I'd visited her at the centre and we were talking about old times, trying to jog her memory. She felt a strange stressful pulse come from her heart... It was then that looked at me with great seriousness in her eyes, and told me a story that I think to be true...
40 years ago something very simple happened. It wasn't greeted by fanfare, horrific music, strange sparkles of light or the giggles of small ghosts... No, it began with a small bump in the night during strange weather, a long patter of near silent rain hidden in a thick layer of British fog.
My grandmother recalls waking up the next day, after a strange bump in the night, only to find an extra hairbrush in the downstairs bathroom. This was strange because no one in the family brushed their hair downstairs. My grandmother looked over the brush and noticed the brush was the same make as the one she kept upstairs, though it seemed very worse for ware, almost older in appearance.
She asked around the house and no one in the family recalled buying it or borrowing it, neither did they know why such long light hair coated the brush, despite the whole family having very dark rusty coloured hair.
There was something about the brush my grandmother didn't like, she recalled a time when she was sitting in her room and put the brushes next to each other. She looked them over with an eerie tingle running down her spine. That second brush, the cracked leather handle, the splintered wood under scratched paint...
Grandmother says she left them in her room as she'd heard the kettle downstairs boiling... only to hear, as she reached the bottom of the stairs, something fall down upstairs. She rushed back upstairs to find the brushes one either side of the bed, pushed away from each other in opposite directions...
This worried her greatly, and she buried the second brush, in a small cardboard box, in the bottom of the garden...
Time passed and my grandmother grew old. The usual things happened, memory faded, children grew up and moved out, her husband passed away, she aged terribly after that. She could no longer walk upstairs as well as she used to. So she had most of her furniture moved downstairs.
After all those years she'd kept so few possessions, but one thing that remained was the first brush. She was brushing her hair one evening, during strange weather, a long patter of near silent rain hidden in a thick layer of British fog.
She stopped, and that chill ran down her spine, she looked at her brush and realized. Cracked leather handle, the splintered wood under scratched paint. Coated in long hair, turned white as she had aged. A rumbling of an oncoming storm made her jump and she dropped the brush. She did not hear it fall, looked down and did not see it. The brush was gone.
This was one of the oldest moments she remembered. Before her memory worsened dramatically and her strength failed her. After telling me all this...
She asked me: "Would you go to the bottom of the garden and dig it up?"
I often wonder what would happen if I had, dug up the box, found that brush, felt a cold chill down my spine and dropped it. Only to find no trace of it after and hearing no sound of it landing... Like a snowball down a cliff, growing in size as it rolled down. How much bigger that box my grandmother would need to have buried. How much strain she would have felt, with such a secret, no one would believe, weighing her down...
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