 They were cheering when he jumped, but he did not come up again. Turnpike Troubadours Before the devil and those were dead, I remember one time growing up when my best friend David asked if my grandparents were still living. His own grandmother had passed away a few days earlier, and I think he was just looking for someone to talk to about it. Do you still have your grandparents around? David asked from the sidewalk, pausing for a moment and looking over at me. Yes, I said, leaving it at that. Of course they were around, everyone was, but I could never tell, that's what mom and dad had said. No one in my family has died for quite some time, at least not in the traditional sense. Sure they will become sick and maybe for a few hours they will even leave this world, but they always come back. Like my uncle Carl for instance, he had developed bone cancer in his late 70s, and day by day it wore down his body until by the end he could nearly pass for a skeleton. One day as he lie in bed with his family circled around, his heart finally gave in and stopped fighting. He took one last breath, held his necklace tightly in his right hand, and then he was gone. My mother held me close and watched as I stared over at his vacant body. It's okay dear, he'll be back tomorrow. And he was. Sure enough the next morning uncle Carl was the first one at the table for breakfast. And what's more, he was young again. Uncle Carl, I yelled happily, running over into his arms. Hey there sport, I miss you, he said, ruffling my hair. Is it gone? It's gone buddy, he replied warmly. I didn't ask, and I'm not sure that even he knew the exact age he now was, but he appeared to be in his early 30s, it's different every time. I like to think that maybe you come back at the age you were most happy, but that's just speculation really. None of us know why you come back the age you do, all we know is that you always come back. That is until recently. My great grandfather Isaac was the strongest of us. He had been a coal miner and had seemingly come back in his best physical condition. His shoulders were broad and wide, and his arms thick and muscular. He still wore the same dusty pants and cloudy gray jacket that no doubt came from the old days. He would even wake up wearing a cracked mining helmet that looked to be over 100 years old. I could hear him swearing every morning, son of a sore neck again and his cursive thing. He would yell through the house, throwing his helmet angrily against the wall on the other side of mine. I always chuckled. That was one of the peculiarities with the family. Once you died and came back, you always woke up every morning wearing the same set of clothes. It seemed to be chosen at random, as far as we could tell. I was particularly embarrassed one day when upon entering my great aunt Natalie's room, I found her wearing a bright red negligee and a black top hat. Needless to say, I left the room immediately. I'm not going to ask about that one. But I digress and back to the main story. I'm 18 years old now and was due to leave for college this week when Grandpa Isaac went missing. Maybe more accurately still, he never showed up. That morning when our family sat around at the breakfast table, I noticed his seat was empty. I wouldn't have thought much of it had it not been for the surprised look of fear from my remaining family. I'll go, his wife had said, quickly rising from her chair and leading three or four family members upstairs to his room. He wasn't there either. We held the funeral three days later. I had never been to one before. His wife, my grandma gave the eulogy. And I wish I could remember more of what she said but I was too shaken up. I had never experienced death before and as she stood up in front of us, I only recall her saying one thing, death seems to have found us again. After it was all over she took my hand. Come with me, she said softly, leading me up the old creaky stairs that led to the attic. She unlocked a dark wooden chest I had never seen before and pulled out something small that was wrapped tightly. You need to know. That night I walked with her from door to door and window to window. At each she would recite a set of words. I'm still learning Latin but upon asking she told me the approximate translation. Death is not welcome here. The chest had contained an ancient vial of liquid. Guy blues, forest greens and taxicab yellows seemed to swirl endlessly and with purpose. And I held my breath and wonder as I walked behind her through our home. She would recite the words and then close her eyes, dip her index finger into the old vial and use a small portion of the liquid to draw a small symbol. The liquid seemed to glow more brightly upon contact with her skin and when the symbol was drawn completely it would shine as well. We double checked that every door on window was covered. They were. Upon our completion the rest of the family was then in charge of taping up the windows with dense black paper that made it impossible to see through to the outside. That night as the last of the sunlight began to fall over the mountains we locked the front door and checked it twice. My grandmother sat down next to me. There's one more thing. What is it grandma? She looked towards the closest window and then back at me. Whatever happens tonight, whatever you hear, never look outside. It's better you don't think of such things. Just promise me. I looked back at her. I promise. Good. She smiled. It's going to be alright dear. That evening as my family and I stayed up to keep watch, the night seemed to pass like any other. We played cards and made poor attempts at joking, trying our best to keep our minds off the current situation. And then the knocking started. First there were three knocks at the front door. My family grew silent. Then there were three more on the kitchen window close by. And then suddenly there was a rapid more powerful knocking that seemed to strike every window and doorway in the house at once. Something wanted desperately to get inside. After a time it stopped. There was quiet again. A minute or two passed and the calm was interrupted by a great howling. Our heads looked up almost in unison towards the ceiling as we strained to hear the distant noise. It came from directly above us, far off in the sky. The howl could be heard echoing throughout the house and seemed to shake the very foundation. And then as quickly as it had started, it was over. It was like none of it had ever happened and a sense of relief came over my family. We had survived. But there was a problem. Later that night I awoke to the sight of two blue eyes staring down onto me. It was my nephew, Iwan. You scared the hell out of me. I whispered angrily over at him. And then he began to sob, first softly and then uncontrollably. I know I shouldn't have, I know I shouldn't have. He cried, bearing his head into my chest. It's okay, I said warmly. It's gone now. The crying stopped for a moment as he looked up at me innocently. When the thing knocked on my window, the paper must have not been taped on good enough and my heart filled with dread as he continued. And I saw its face looking back. What's going to happen now? He asked. I looked into the bright blue eyes that belonged to my eight-year-old nephew Iwan. And I answered him truthfully, I don't know.