Same story really as Church Horror, just a different tone. Hope you all like it.

Chapter 1

Jacob was halfway through a bag of corn chips and emotionally invested in a 3-1 count with runners on second and third when his phone buzzed. He groaned, wiped orange dust onto his pajama pants, and checked the screen: Grandma Evelyn.

He knew better than to ignore the call. Evelyn was 82, just eccentric enough to be legally considered "a handful," and technically wheelchair-bound---though she still referred to her wheelchair as "her chariot" and once threatened to joust a mall security guard for parking in a handicapped space.

Jacob answered with the resigned enthusiasm of someone who’d just seen his team’s best hitter strike out.

“Hey, Grandma.”

“Oh, Jacob! Wonderful, darling. I need a tiny favor---just the smallest speck of your time.”

He sighed. “I’m kinda busy, Grandma.”

“Are you busy being broke and watching grown men in tight pants miss a ball with a stick?”

Jacob blinked. “…yes.”

“Well then. Wouldn’t you like to be well taken care of?” she said, her voice lilting like a fairy godmother who’d just discovered online gambling.

Jacob furrowed his brow. “What does that mean?”

Evelyn lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Would you like everything I have?”

He paused. “Define ‘everything.’”

“If you come over, that’s a start.”

Ten minutes later, Jacob’s half-functional 2009 Corolla was being winched onto a tow truck, courtesy of Evelyn’s “friend from bridge club who knows a guy.” Meanwhile, Jacob was awkwardly squeezed into the backseat of a cherry red Kia Soul driven by a man named Otto, whose dashboard was decorated with bobbleheads of historical figures---George Washington, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and what Jacob suspected was a miniature Julius Caesar wearing sunglasses.

“Headin’ to Grandma’s?” Otto asked cheerily, tapping the brakes just a little too hard.

“Yeah,” Jacob said, watching RBG nod vigorously. “She says she needs help. She also implied she might leave me her house, a collection of antique thimbles, or possibly her skeleton. You never really know with her.”

Otto laughed. “Eccentric, huh?”

Jacob nodded. “Last Thanksgiving she made a turkey out of tofu and stuck googly eyes on it. Claimed it was ‘too cute to eat,’ then made everyone apologize to it before carving.”

Otto grinned. “Sounds like a trip.”

“Oh, she’s a trip, all right,” Jacob muttered. “Just don’t know where this one’s going.”

As the Kia pulled away from the curb with the mild rattle of something loose in the trunk, Jacob realized two things. One, he was wearing mismatched socks. And two, when Evelyn said, “everything I have,” she may have meant trouble.

Chapter 2

Evelyn’s home---no, estate---was less “grandmotherly” and more “secret heiress with a penchant for floral wallpaper.” It was a sprawling old house with pristine gardens, polished brass fixtures, and the kind of doorknobs that whispered “I’m worth more than your car.”

As soon as Jacob stepped through the front door, he was met with the sharp scent of lavender, lemon polish, and a hint of Vicks VapoRub. Evelyn, parked dramatically in her velvet-lined wheelchair, pointed a commanding finger at him.

“You’re late.”

“I literally came the second you said you’d pay to tow my car,” Jacob muttered, shutting the door behind him.

“Well, I have plans tomorrow and I need you,” she said.

Jacob eyed her warily. “What kind of plans?”

“I need to go to church.”

“Why?”

“To make sure Pastor Dunleavy gets my tithe, of course.”

Jacob blinked. “You dragged me over here to drive you to church to give money to a guy?”

“Not just money,” Evelyn said, rolling dramatically across the foyer like a villain in a soap opera. “One thousand dollars. Cash. In an envelope. Hand-delivered after the service.”

Jacob scratched his head. “Okay. I mean, fine, I guess I can---”

“---And afterward,” she continued, ignoring him entirely, “we’ll be going to Seigelstein’s Jewels to buy a $10,000 necklace.”

“What?”

“For my bridge club anniversary. I like to outshine Dolores.”

Jacob opened his mouth, closed it, then sighed. “Alright, fine. If you’re buying me lunch.”

“Done.”

But the next morning, Evelyn emerged from her bedroom wearing a fluffy pink robe, a lavender scarf around her head, and a look of exaggerated distress.

“I can’t go,” she croaked, lounging like a Victorian lady with a case of the vapors. “I have the... trembles.”

“You were doing yoga on your bed ten minutes ago.”

“Gentle yoga. Now I need you to deliver the money.”

“I can do that.”

“No, you can’t. It has to look like it’s coming from me. Pastor Dunleavy needs to see Evelyn Farnsworth put that envelope in his hand. I want to see him sweat when he preaches about greed.”

Jacob smirked. “Then I’ll just go as you.”

Evelyn sat bolt upright and shrieked with joy. “Great!”

“…Wait, no, I was kidding.”

She was already rummaging through her closet.

“Hold on, no, I’m not---” Jacob said, backing away.

“You said it,” Evelyn replied sweetly. “It’s legally binding now. Family Rule No. 9.”

“There is no Family Rule No.---”

“MAGIC.” she declared.

Suddenly, Jacob’s knees felt weak. It wasn’t just guilt or obligation---it was something…weird. Magical. Slightly scented like her lavender drawer liners. Against his will, he was reaching for her dresser drawer. His hands trembled, but not with resistance---no, with inevitability.

He opened the drawer. Panties. Soft. Pink. Lacy. He blinked. Then, almost reverently, he picked up a pair and stepped into them, heart thudding. He added the matching bra---padded and oddly comforting.

“I hate how comfortable this is,” he muttered, even as he reached for her nude-colored stockings and carefully rolled them up his legs. The shapewear followed, pulling his midsection in with terrifying ease. Next came the padding---hips, chest, derriere. He looked in the mirror and gasped. He was becoming…matronly.

Then came the peach-colored dress. It was lightweight polyester crepe, soft and swishy. The high neckline with sky-blue trim whispered decorum. The decorative buttons screamed “Easter brunch.” The sky-blue belt cinched him just enough to form the illusion of a waist. The long sleeves brushed his wrists, demure and decisive.

He slipped into the beige orthopedic pumps---surprisingly stable, surprisingly awful---and adjusted the silvery wig, pinning it into a tidy bun. The lace-trimmed head covering went on top, matched perfectly to the belt and trim. He slid a gold band onto his finger, pinned a dove-shaped brooch to his chest, and stared at himself.

Then came the white gloves.

And then… the veil. A sky-blue lace number that softened his features and blurred his identity entirely. With a heavy coat of age-softening makeup, he no longer resembled Jacob. He was Evelyn.

His own grandmother clapped like a delighted banshee. “You’re perfect!”

“I hate everything,” he muttered, sitting carefully into her spare wheelchair.

“And now,” she said proudly, “you’ll wait by the window. My aide should be here any minute to pick me up. You’ll do fine.”

Chapter 3.

Evelyn, now mysteriously vibrant and suspiciously spry for someone claiming "a violent bout of the trembles," handed Jacob her purse with a flourish. It was heavy---ominously so. Inside was the $1,000 in crisp bills, Evelyn's ID (which had a photo of her giving the camera a sideways glare), and a veritable museum of elderly purse contents: six throat lozenges (five unwrapped), a travel-size container of hand lotion from 1987, two decades' worth of church bulletins, a rosary, a sewing kit, four paperclips, and a tiny plastic bag containing precisely one butterscotch candy.

Jacob stared at the bag with narrowed eyes. “Is… is this cursed?”

“Probably,” Evelyn said, already reclining dramatically on her fainting couch with a paperback mystery novel. “Oh! My aide is here.”

Outside, Jacob’s jaw dropped. There, glistening in the morning sun, was his car---not just repaired, but restored. The old dent by the passenger door? Gone. The weird rattling in the dash? Fixed. The bumper sticker that said ‘My Other Car is a Prayer’? Replaced with a crisp, tasteful chrome emblem. The engine purred like a content housecat.

And stepping out of it was the “aide”---a young woman who looked less like a nurse and more like someone who regularly walked slow-motion runways in French perfume ads. Her scrubs, if that’s what they were, fit like designer athleisure. Her hair gleamed. Her smile sparkled. Her name tag read Serenity.

“Miss Evelyn?” Serenity chirped, addressing Jacob with a perfectly practiced bedside manner. “You ready for your big Sunday?”

Jacob, gripping the purse and the arms of the wheelchair for dear life, gave a stiff nod.

Serenity helped him into the backseat with gentle efficiency, humming gospel music softly as she drove him to church in his perfectly restored car, which now smelled like vanilla, redemption, and new leather.

The moment Jacob---fully dolled up and deeply disguised as his grandmother Evelyn---rolled into the church in the backseat of his own freshly restored car, he braced himself for mild confusion. Instead, what he got was adoration.

“Oh, Miss Evelyn, you look stunning this morning!” --- “That head covering is simply divine!” --- “May the Lord preserve your elegance!”

He gave a delicate nod, gripping Evelyn’s enormous purse with both gloved hands like a lifeline.

During the service, Jacob did his best to play the part. As Pastor Dunleavy preached about authenticity---"being true to the soul God gave you”---Jacob tried to imitate Evelyn’s breathy, refined cadence whenever he whispered “amen” or muttered polite “mm-hmm”s. It became second nature. He was trying so hard to sound like Evelyn, he didn’t realize the effort had quietly slipped away.

Unnoticed, his body continued to shift beneath the conservative peach-colored dress. The shapewear, once tight, now fit like a second skin---because the shape it created had become real. His chest no longer rose and fell with a man's breath; it heaved softly, evenly, matronly. His thighs filled the skirt in the way Evelyn’s always had. His hips spread gently across the seat. His skin thinned and lightened, his cheeks softened with the delicate lines of age. His once-stubbled face was now smooth, powdered, and permanently marked by the quiet dignity of a woman in her eighties.

And yet, Jacob was none the wiser. He was too focused on saying “Thank you, sweetheart” with the right intonation, too busy tucking a stray hair under his head covering. His voice had transformed completely into Evelyn’s by now---breathy, genteel, slightly nasal---and yet it felt perfectly natural in his throat. He didn’t even question it.

He couldn't have sounded like himself again even if he tried. Not now. Not ever. Evelyn’s voice was his voice.

After the sermon, Jacob rolled up to Pastor Dunleavy with the practiced grace of someone who had accepted hundreds of thank-you cards and written twice as many guilt-laced checks.

“Pastor,” he said, handing him the envelope, “the Lord placed this on my heart. I pray it supports your calling.”

“Miss Evelyn,” the pastor beamed, “you are a blessing to us all.”

Jacob smiled beatifically, his heart oddly warmed. “Glory to God, dear.”

Then came the real fun.

The women from church surrounded him with admiration and bon mots, insisting that “Miss Evelyn must treat herself today.” Jacob found himself wheeled regally to Seigelstein’s Jewels by two retired piano teachers and one lively widow who could bench-press shame.

Inside, Jacob found himself standing before the glass case containing the modest $10,000 necklace Evelyn had originally intended to purchase. But something about it felt… underwhelming.

His eyes drifted downward to a shelf below, where the lights struck a truly resplendent piece: a $100,000 diamond-studded necklace that shimmered like a chandelier in a French opera house. It looked like something a duchess might wear to brunch.

And without even hesitating---because deep down, a part of him believed he deserved it---Jacob tapped the glass and said, “That one, please.”

The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Of course, Miss Farnsworth. You always know what you want.”

“Oh, I do, darling,” Jacob purred, adjusting his gloves.

He paid in full with Evelyn’s purse, not even flinching. The necklace was placed reverently around his neck. The sparkle danced against the soft neckline of his peach dress, the diamonds gently brushing the sky-blue trim.

Lunch afterward was divine. A group of church women took "Miss Evelyn" out to a boutique café with real linen napkins and overly complicated salads. They laughed, complimented Jacob’s “glow,” and talked about who had too much Botox and who secretly dated the choir director.

Jacob laughed with them---not as a man pretending to be Evelyn, but as Evelyn herself.

He even offered to split the check (no one let him).

Back at the house, Jacob wheeled in and noticed the silence. Evelyn was nowhere in sight. No hum of television, no sound of tea boiling, no dramatic coughing for attention.

Instead, there was a note on the doily-covered kitchen table, folded neatly in half and sealed with a tiny lavender sticker shaped like a teacup.

In Evelyn’s elegant, looping script, it read:

Dearest Me,

I love the necklace you chose. Absolutely perfect. Keep it!

Just do what you’re doing.

Love.

Jacob stared at the note for a long moment. Then he looked down at his gloved hands, at the diamonds glittering against his chest, at the pale folds of his peach dress.

He smiled faintly.

“Well,” he said in Evelyn’s unmistakable voice, “I suppose there’s Jell-O in the fridge. And a bridge tournament to prepare for.”

And with that, he wheeled himself to the kitchen, the light catching his diamonds with every gentle turn.

Chapter 5.

Still riding the high from buying a necklace that could put a modest down payment on a yacht, Jacob---now Evelyn in voice, body, and full peach-hued wardrobe---sat at the kitchen table sipping tea from a bone china cup decorated with tiny violets. He looked up at Serenity, his unnervingly glamorous aide, and said, in a perfectly demure grandmotherly tone:

“I want to go to the ballgame.”

Serenity blinked. “The… ballgame?”

“Yes, dear. Baseball. With the bats. The running. The men. I want front-row seats. Tonight.”

Serenity didn’t even flinch. “I’ll make a call.”

That evening, the sun gleamed down upon the stadium like a divine spotlight. And there, in the very front row behind home plate, sat Jacob---still dressed in Evelyn’s Sunday best, complete with dove-shaped brooch, orthopedic pumps, and pearls that softly clacked together every time he cheered.

His aide, Serenity, looked like a Vogue ad with a foam finger. She’d brought a parasol to shield “Miss Evelyn” from the sun, though Jacob waved it off, declaring proudly, “Sun spots build character!”

Before long, several of the team’s executives showed up at his seat. Word had spread: Miss Evelyn Farnsworth---wealthy, charming, generous patron of churches, jewelers, and now sports---was in attendance.

“Miss Farnsworth, we’re so honored!” said one executive in a suit made of more confidence than fabric. “Please, anything you want tonight---it’s yours!”

Jacob beamed. “Hot dogs. Peanuts. And one of those enormous plastic hats full of beer.”

“Done!”

The food came in waves. The beer flowed. Jacob daintily dabbed his mouth with a monogrammed linen napkin in one hand while crushing roasted peanuts in the other. Between innings, he led cheers like a retired cheerleader who’d found her second wind at age eighty. His team won---naturally. Jacob had never felt so alive… or so respected in a dress with matching gloves.

After the final out, Jacob turned to Serenity. “I want to meet the players.”

Serenity hesitated. “In the locker room?”

“Yes. The locker room. Do I not look like a woman who belongs in a locker room?”

“…You look like a woman who owns the locker room.”

Moments later, Jacob was wheeled through the tunnel and into the sacred, musky, half-towelled realm of the team’s inner sanctum. Players clapped. Coaches tipped their caps. One sweaty pitcher offered him a signed ball and called him “Queen Evelyn.”

It was, without question, the greatest day of Jacob’s life.

Back at the house---his mansion now---he sighed contentedly as he rolled through the polished foyer.

There were no clothes in his old room. Just a stack of old utility bills and a deflated beanbag chair. But in Evelyn’s bedroom, in her velvet-lined armoire, were rows of nightgowns, all labeled and color-coded by season and mood.

He chose a cream-colored flannel one with a tiny embroidered cat on the collar and slipped it on with surprising familiarity. There was no struggle. No shame. No question.

He brushed out his silvery wig, patted on some night cream from a porcelain jar, and climbed into Evelyn’s plush canopy bed, which smelled faintly of lavender and Werther’s Originals.

As he settled beneath the quilt, he whispered softly into the darkness:

“I wonder if they’ll let me throw the first pitch next week.”

And then, with a smile as peaceful as a sunset on a rocking chair, Jacob---Evelyn---drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 5.

Jacob awoke the next morning wrapped in his flannel nightgown, nestled in layers of floral quilts, and surrounded by porcelain angels that smiled down at him with creepy benevolence. He felt… good. Too good. Suspiciously good.

Something, he decided, was off.

He reached for the phone by the bed---ivory rotary, of course---and dialed his mother’s number, expecting her to scold him for forgetting something important, like laundry or his own birthday.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hi, Ma---it’s Jacob,” he said, shifting into a voice that sounded suspiciously like he was asking for coupons at the pharmacy.

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry,” she replied kindly, “I think you have the wrong number.”

“Ma, it’s me! Jacob, your son!”

Another pause.

“I don’t have a son named Jacob. But I do know Evelyn Farnsworth, and I’m guessing this is another one of her little games. You tell her she still owes me a Bundt cake from the church auction.”

Click.

Jacob lowered the phone slowly, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

He rushed---well, hobbled---into the bathroom. The mirror told him what he already knew in his bones: Evelyn’s face. Evelyn’s hair. Evelyn’s mildly judgmental eyebrows.

He patted his cheek with a lavender-scented powder puff and sighed. “Oh dear. I am a grandmother.”

The next few days passed in a blur of tea, gentle walks, and unsolicited knitting lessons from neighbors who invited themselves in. Jacob soon realized a few key things:

He was Evelyn now. Entirely. No slipping in and out. No "Hey guys, just kidding!" moments.

He could not stop talking like Evelyn. Even when he stubbed his toe on a footstool, he let out a “Well mercy me!” instead of the usual expletives.

He owned everything Evelyn had. The house, the money, the Wedgwood teacup collection with little hand-painted violets.

Nothing he did seemed odd. The neighbors barely blinked when he asked his aide to install a jacuzzi “for my circulation.”

He was constantly surrounded by young, pretty women who fussed over him, called him “Miss Evelyn,” and made sure he had meals, blankets, and the TV remote exactly where he wanted it. He began to suspect this might be some kind of reward system… or bizarre cosmic prank.

During the week, Jacob sat in the sunroom---wearing a tasteful shawl---and pondered. Who was he now? Was he still Jacob, the struggling, baseball-loving guy with a busted car and dreams of winning a scratch-off ticket? Or was he Evelyn Farnsworth, eccentric philanthropist, church VIP, proud owner of ten different nightgowns and a framed picture of herself shaking hands with a state senator?

Strangely, the answer didn’t feel like either/or. He was Evelyn. But Jacob was in there, too---somewhere between the tea biscuits and the bridge invitations.

He also noticed a curious compulsion: each day, as Sunday crept closer, he found himself organizing cash, tidying his bonnet collection, and checking church bulletins. It felt… important. Sacred, almost. Like putting on armor before battle, except instead of steel, it was cotton-poly blends and orthopedic footwear.

By Sunday morning, he was resolute.

He opened the wardrobe and selected a dignified ankle-length dress in navy blue with cream piping---modest, crisp, and elegant. Its long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, the neckline was high and dignified, and the skirt flared slightly as if to say, I have strong opinions about casserole.

He topped it off with a delicate, lace-trimmed bonnet that fully covered his now naturally silver hair. It made him look like he was either headed to church or about to appear in a Ken Burns documentary.

He grabbed his matching navy purse, still smelling faintly of lavender mints and responsibility, and turned to Serenity.

“To the bank, dear.”

At the bank, the teller greeted him warmly.

“Miss Farnsworth! Getting the Sunday special?”

Jacob nodded regally. “Yes, sweetheart. Make it crisp bills this time---last week they were rumpled, and I shan’t have that in the Lord’s house.”

He placed the money carefully in an envelope marked “For the Work of the Lord --- With Love, E.F.” in loopy cursive.

As they drove toward church, Jacob sat quietly in the backseat of his luxury sedan, gloved hands resting atop the envelope, reflecting on the strange peace he now felt.

He wasn’t sure how this all worked, exactly. Or why. Or what sort of magical fine print had rewritten his life. Jacob realized he had everything he wanted, he was living in a mansion, he could go anywhere he wanted, he was surrounded by and was always seen with pretty women who would do what he wanted. Why would he want to go back to his old life?

He also knew this: every Sunday, in his best dress, with $1,000 in hand, he would show up, smile sweetly, and give like Evelyn always did. And as long as he did… well, life would continue to be strange, cozy, and just a little fabulous.

End.