The Old House - a short story

It happened in the evening as I was walking in the garden with my friend Sarah. 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 respectful silence and watched, 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 1930s. It wasn't just a home - it was an heirloom with soul. The hard edge tiles of the slate grey roof was covered with paleolithic lichen. The front teak door still bears the marks the harsh scars of a Japanese soldier's rifle. Walking inside you'll first feel the sleek dark hardwood 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, Sarah saw him too. "Who is that? She whispered. I didn't know we were having guests."
"That's not a guest.  ... That's my father."
"But I thought he was dead."
"Yes, he was. 10 years ago."
"Then...?????!!!!!????" Her brown eyes widen in disbelief and horror.
"Yes. Then." I replied. I'm not sure why. But I didn't seem surprised. Oh, he's back, the thought ran through my head.

I quicken my pace and walked straight up to the attic. Sarah, with a great deal of vocal trepidation, followed closely 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 with its teak flooring made. I told her to make up her mind without due care.
She was about to launch into a 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.
"Shudup." 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 upset my Grandfather's superstitious 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 Bangkok 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?
Sarah 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 had been sitting there waiting for me for the longest time.

(This is a fictional story)