A Mail From Home

The mail had just five lines. 

Five lines that completely changed Yolanda Hamilton's life from that moment. 

"I have to see you, Yolanda, before I die. 

My name is Gracie Hamilton, your grandmother. 

Something is about to happen. You have to come home quickly. 

I've attached my address to the mail. 

Please, come home, Yolanda. Whatever you do, you must not open The Red Door."

Yolanda swallowed hard. Something was not right. Her hands trembled as she took the phone. She dialled the first number that came to her mind and listened to the line ring. 

There was no response the first three times the phone rang. Her adrenaline shot up. There was no way this was true. If this was true, then she'd been lied to her whole life. 

Yolanda slammed the phone on her table after the fourth ring and held her head with both hands, as if to stop it from exploding. Her head was spinning in circles. She tried to lift her body but felt no strength in her limbs. The sick feeling that something bad was about to happen returned to her guts. No! It cannot be, she kept saying to himself. 

The sharp ringing of her cell phone on the table made her jolt up at once, bringing her back to himself. Yolanda looked at the caller ID. It was her father. He'd finally returned her calls. 

Yolanda took the phone to her ears at once and answered the call. 

"Yolanda," Her father's deep baritone voice called. "What's going on? You almost killed my battery. I was in class when you called."

Of course he was, Yolanda thought. Her father was a professor of symbology at a community college in the city. Professor Richard Hamilton was married to his job and sometimes, she could not help but wonder whether her father's strong devotion to his job was the reason she did not have any other siblings. 

"Dad, I need to talk to you. I'm afraid I can't do that over the phone. Can we meet?" She waited for an answer. 

"Are you okay?" Her father asked, sounding concerned. 

Yolanda tried to steady her voice. "We have to talk dad. It's urgent."

There was a brief pause on the line. Then, he heard her father's voice come on again. 

"I have a free period between 3 pm and 4 pm. If you can stop by my office by 3 pm, then we can talk."

"Thank you," Yolanda said quickly and hung off the call. 

The rest of the day slipped by slowly with a million thoughts racing through Yolanda's mind. At exactly fifteen minutes to 3 pm, Yolanda took her coat at once and shuffled through the stairs. In a moment, she was outside on the terrace of the police station. She strode across the street and boarded a taxi to downtown Washington DC. Five minutes later, Yolanda was outside the community college where her father lectured the students on ancient symbology. 

She jumped down from the taxi, paid her fare, and began to hurry down to her father's office. She made a sharp turn at the alley that led to the line of offices in the administrative building, racking her brain to find out which particular door it was. 

Then, she saw her father's name boldly inscribed on the last door by her left, she knew it was the one. Yolanda heaved a deep breath and waited, unsure of what action to take. She realized for the first time that he had not thought about what she was here to say. Her mind was clouded with too many questions that she was not sure where to begin from. 

The mail that had incited this visit was carefully tucked away behind her coat. If there was even the slightest chance that whoever had sent that email was real, Yolanda was bent on finding that out today. 

The thought of that spurred her to action. She laid a firm grip on the handle of the door and pushed it open. Professor Richard Hamilton was seated behind a long mahogany table, grading some students' scripts. Like his daughter, he was attractive with an erudite face and thick black hair which was turning grey with age. He looked up as his daughter entered and adjusted the thick-rimmed glasses that rested on his nose. 

"Have a seat, Yolanda," He said shuffling the scripts onto one side of his table. "What's going on?"

Yolanda took a seat wordlessly. She looked into his father's brown eyes and felt the betrayal in them cut through her throat like a blade. 

"Do you know a 'Gracie Hamilton', dad?"

The words stunned her father. She watched the color drain from his face as he tried to find the right words to say. 

"How__Who told you her name?"

Yolanda's eyes hardened. "So, you do know her."

Richard Hamilton's tone softened. "You don't understand, Yolanda. This is not what you think it is. I can explain what's happening but first, you have to tell me how you came about that name."

"This!" Yolanda said, flinging the mail she'd received before him. "This is proof that you lied to myself and mum that your parents are dead. How could you, dad? You denied me the love of my grandparents for what? Some selfish reason you cannot get off your chest?"

Richard Hamilton began to rise to his feet. He looked more terrified than remorseful. It only confused Yolanda the more. 

"Yolanda, I promise you, this is not what you think it is. You have to allow me to see what the mail says. It's the only way I can be able to tell you what's going on."

"What's The Red Door, dad? And what does it have to do with me?" Yolanda asked sharply. "I am not going to be led to believe that that too does not exist. Why is this woman who claims to be my grandmother warming me about The Red Door and why haven't you mentioned it to me before?"

His father stopped, a lost look clouding his face. "Whatever she asked of you, Yolanda, you must not answer. I can assure you that there is more to this than you know. So, please, just give me the mail she sent."

Yolanda was quiet for the next couple of moments, deeply immersed in her thoughts. The more she tried to ignore the gut feeling she had, the more it taunted her. Her father was concealing a secret from her, that was an established fact. There was only one way to know what that secret was.  

With a force that surprised even herself, Yolanda rose to her feet and gave her father a deadened stare. 

"I'm catching the next flight to Boston. Don't try to stop me."