There was a letter.
The apartment was (as always) in complete disarray - paint was splattered wildly along miscellaneous objects, papers stacked in mountainous piles that threatened to fall from the countertops at any minute. A couple of cabinets were missing their doors, while those of others hung weakly on rusted hinges. Yet through the muck and murk of my disorganization the letter stood out like dirt on a white rug. The room was always a cluttered mess, yet everything had its place. I hadn’t put the letter there.
Grabbing the pale white envelope from its upright position against the bed’s headboard, my fingers numbly slit its throat and drew what was encased inside.
The piece of paper was smeared with faint pencil smudges,the letter's writer clearly having trouble writing what they needed to say. However, they must have found the words eventually, because some of the spidery letters remained bolder than the previously-written script. The handwriting was strange, old. Familiar. I found myself surprisingly afraid, my eyes slowly sinking into the print as I read, the world fading around me before shattering altogether.
Dear Alexandria R. Knight,
I have recently been informed that my days are unexpectedly numbered, and due to this fact I have an undying desire to meet you before I leave this world forever. Please understand that this is in your own best interest, and that my reason for this is quite urgent. I understand any anger or resentment you may feel towards me, and for that I apologize. I apologize for past mistakes, for abandoning your mother, for abandoning you. However, I implore that you allow me to redeem myself with a final warning.
With Sincere Regrets,
Your Grandfather, Douglas J. Peters
P.S., to contact me, please go to Palegrove Hospital, Room 9311
Though I must have read it a dozen times before finally setting it down, the words didn’t quite settle completely. Maybe it was the fact that I was jetlagged, that it was ever-nearing three eastern-standard time, that it was midnight here. I didn’t believe that this was the case, though, any weariness I’d previously felt now gone. My grandfather? Why? Ever since my mom had run off with my dad, he swore to never speak to her or, as time went on, any children that they had. I’d been my parents’ one and only, my dad passing away before I was even born. For years Mom wrote my grandfather nearly every month, begging him that he’d understand her decision and accept it, that he’d at least accept me. He’d never replied. Not once. Even when sending out my mom’s funeral invitation, I received nothing but an undying silence.
The truth was that, up until now, he seemed merely a myth. A legend etched in stone, living only in my mother’s distant rememberings. He was as much of a fable to me as Cinderella or Rumplestiltskin. This letter broke that wall of fantasy, my window of illusion. My grandfather was in fact very real. And alive.
I spent a few hours pacing the floor, a few more lying awake in bed staring at the circling ceiling fan as sleepless hours passed. The fact that I spent only a few weeks at my apartment at a time made it seem even more unsettling…after all, how long ago had the letter been put there? I’d been in New York for a month and a half. For all I knew he was dead by now. Another thing that bothered me was, how did he get the letter on my bed? After all, I’d left the door locked, I was on the second floor and in any case the windows didn’t open…a chill ran down my back at the thought. Had someone sent the letter as a trick? Had someone broken into my apartment and put the letter there in hopes of kidnapping me? Was this some scheme to have me go to the hospital, not to find my grandfather but instead a cold-blooded killer?
Get a grip, Alexa, I warned myself. You’re losing it. This isn’t one of those horror/mystery novels; no one’s out to get you. There is no crazy twisted plot, no murderous mastermind - this is the real world. You are completely fine.
Little did I know how wrong I was.
).
