The Last E-Mail by Ronald Hadrian

On my father’s 21st death anniversary, I was rummaging through some old stuff in the attic. My wife had gone on for a conference, and my children were promptly packed and sent to my in-laws’ house. I was enjoying a quiet afternoon with some hot coffee and watching the torrential rain outside, thinking about my dad.

Twenty years ago, my dad died, and over the years, his memory had faded. Only at important family events his memory lingered, with some sighing among family members about his untimely death. Even his anniversary had become another passing day. Promising myself to be resourceful, I started to clean the attic, imagining how my wife would be surprised.

My motivation dwindled as I saw the amount of work it would take to clean the god-forsaken room. I decided to waste time reading old editions of Readers Digest, but then I noticed an old green trunk. I knew my old journals and books were there, and I became curious to waste my time once again with them. I somehow got the trunk opened, and to my surprise, my journals were missing except for an old piece of paper with some sketching of a house plan. I wondered about the handwriting. They were clear, crisp, and educated, unlike mine, which was sloppy. I searched the journals and books, and all of a sudden I came across an old note from my dad. There was a user name and password scribbled on it.

I sat there and wondered for a few minutes. I was intrigued, as I did not really know my father much. The only way I communicated with him was through my mother, and I did not have deep father-son conversations with him. He didn’t allow such things, and he didn’t have time. The curiosity got the better of me—what was this man like? What was his ambition? What did he think about me?

I pondered and made my way to the computer. The e-mail service he used would probably not be working now, but still, I logged in, and to my surprise, there were not many mails. Newsletters did not exist back then. There were some official emails with bad grammar and around 4 unread mails. It was all from Ms. Lizzy. I read them, but nothing made sense; my dad probably deleted the old ones.

The last e-mail said,

“You have to complete it; otherwise, she would not survive. Please, please, please come, Fabian.”

Who was this lady who called my dad with such an air of authority? Did dad have secrets? I went through the mail and logged out. That night, I was troubled. The last email haunted me. What did the women want? Why was she begging?

The next day, I woke up early and quickly got the phone number using the email address of this Lizzy. I was a tech savy by the way.

“Hello, can I speak to Ms. Lizzy?”

“Who is this?” asked a grumpy voice.

“This is Freddy; I think my dad used to know Ms. Lizzy.”

“No, madam is not in good health.”

“Please, I have to ask her just one question.”

“No,” the line went blank.

I struggled a little, but I found her address. She was in the hills in a bungalow named “Little Wuthering Heights”. The next weekend, after telling my wife that I was going on a road trip with my friends, I went to see Ms. Lizzy. I was sure I was going to uncover a scandal, and I didn’t want my wife to know my family’s dirty little secret.

I reached the place on a fine, sunny day. The smell of roses and the silent breeze welcomed me to the hills. The gate was locked, and I had to honk three times before the watchman slowly emerged from the bushes. He looked suspiciously. “We are not interested in buying anything,” he grumbled.

“No, I want to meet Ms. Lizzy,” I replied.

He was taken aback. He stood there for a minute, pondering a reply.

“Wait here,” he finally said, and he walked into an old bungalow that looked hauntingly old.

The wait seemed forever. I imagined my dad coming to this bungalow in all its glory. The place seemed peculiar and lonely. The watchman came out, calling me in. I entered in and saw the old wallpaper peeling and the strong stink of ammonia drifting across the sitting room. After waiting there for ten minutes, an old grandmother entered, probably in her 80s, her neck wobbling without strength. The old lady strained to see my face, but once she saw me, her face lit up.

“Finally, you have come,” she smiled, her false teeth dangling inside her mouth.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

“Fabian, how can I forget your face?” She sat down on an old, broken sofa. “But I am afraid you have come a little late; only last year we buried her.”

I didn’t understand what she was saying. “I think you are mistaken; Fabian was my dad, and he died 21 years ago.”

The old lady’s face went blank. She did not speak for another 10 minutes. The watchman looked worried. He kept glancing at me angrily.

“I saw your last email,” I muttered. “You were desperately asking for help.”

“I was indeed,” she asked the watchman to make her sit out in the sun.

I patiently waited, wanting to know more. Who was this lady anyway? Did my mother know about her?

“Your father, for a short period, was a pastor,” she coughed.

I coughed too. I never knew my dad was a pastor.

“My daughter was, you know, occupied,” she hesitated.

“Occupied?”

“By some demons.”

“Demons?”

“Yes, so your dad came to exorcise her with his church friends.”

“Then what happened?” I was utterly curious by now.

“It wouldn’t leave; your father said the demon was too strong… He said he would come back.”

Silence.

“He never came back, did he?” I swallowed.

“No, for months I called him. He never came.”

I got up and stood under the tree. “I think he wanted to come back, but he died.”

“He gave us so much hope.”

Silence.

“And all these years your daughter suffered?”

“No, after a month since my last email to your father, she returned to normalcy. “

I was glad to hear that. I would have felt guilty if the girl had suffered all her life. I left them and I was puzzled and excited that I learned something new about my father. As I drove back home, the rain once again started pouring, and the road was hardly visible. I reached home by midnight, and my wife had come back without the children.

“Where did you go?” She asked sleepily.

“Long story; let me tell you tomorrow,” I pulled her closer.

Then her voice changed, and she whispered, “Shall I tell you why I left that little girl and took your dad?”.

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Copyrighted.

Note: This story was written for a Reedsy Prompt hope you like it. Follow me for more such stories.