A Letter from the Past

It happened in the evening as I was walking in the garden with my fiancee, Eve. The roses and lavender were in full bloom. It was sunset, and the sun had bled the sky a fiery red crimson. We stood in awe and watched, holding hands and enjoying the moment together.

We walked back to the grand house, that red brick fortress of tranquility. The land had been in my family since the time of King George the 5th. It wasn't just a home - it was a heritage. The hard edge tiles of the slate grey roof was covered with paleolithic lichen. The front oak door still bears the marks the harsh scars of a Japanese soldier's rifle butt. Walking inside you'll first feel the sleek dark teak flooring cut from ancient mammoth trees in Borneo, then walk upon the Boukara Persian carpet given by a Prince from Mecca before gazing upon that fabulous Turquoise mosaic fresco that grandfather ordered from Jaipur.

And then I saw him, standing by the stained glass windows of the attic. The translucent teal colored glass almost hid him. But there he stood. Unmistakable. Arms akimbo - as imposing as Raffles' statue. Surprisingly, Eve saw him too. "Who is that? She whispered. I didn't know we were having guests."

"That's not a guest. Eve. ... That's my father."

"But I thought he was dead."

"Yes, he is. 10 years ago."

"Then...????" And Eve's eyes widen in disbelief and mild horror.

"Yes. Then." I replied. I'm not sure why. But I didn't seem surprised. Oh, he's back.

I quicken my pace and walked straight up to the attic. Eve, with a great deal of vocal trepidation, followed behind. She didn't want to go. I told her to wait downstairs - but she didn't want to be alone; she was terrified now of every little sound the old house made. I told her to make up her mind rather rudely.

She was about to launch into a lover's tantrum  but terror swallowed her wounded feelings as I raced upstairs. She gripped my hand tightly like a frighten child.

"I guess you don't want to be alone." I teased.

"Shutup." She snarled.

I wisely did.

The wooden staircase leading to the attic creaked and groaned like a grumbly old Cantonese amah woken up too early to do a morning chore. Dust from eons of neglect rose up to greet us. Here and there a frightful spider scampered.

I pushed aside the old European oil paintings (kept there because they disturbed my Grandfather's 2nd wife) - brushed away the cobwebs. Light from the dying sun gently glimmered against the stained glass windows where my father stood. But he was not there.

An unfathomable spasm of fear gripped me all of a sudden. Did it just get so cold??? It smothered my desire to call out to my father. What would happen if he actually appeared? Would he look like Obi-wan Kenobi and talk to me about some crazy secret like... "There is another Skywalker." Nutty thoughts were making a New York style traffic jam in my brain.

I walked deliberately and slowly to the window. And gingerly stood in the same place my father's ghost had stood. How bizarre. How utterly bizarre. Surely we weren't dreaming this up. I looked out. My God what a view. You could see the whole estate from here. The sun gleamed molten gold as it disappeared behind the horizon.

Now why? Why here?

Eve was the first to notice it. "Oh Look. A pretty wooden box", she said. Her eye for beautiful objects had overcame her misgivings at following me up this dark loft.

It was under the window, by the wall. It was very, very old. And it was sitting there. Waiting for me.

To be continued...
(This is a fictional story)