The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn't order it.
I live in the good area of town, where people leave their doors unlocked, where children play outside without fear, and where snacks are often left on flat-topped mailboxes for interested passersby. This, however, didn't stop me from eyeing the package suspiciously or diminish the ominous aura it cast on my doorstep.
It wasn't long ago that our country held a mourning period for Dele Giwa, the journalist who was murdered by a letter bomb. It was a truly shocking event that happened in a well-to-do community like mine. I wasn't about to take any risks, but just as I was about to leave it as a problem for the trash disposal company, I saw the text underneath my name: "from your aunt Layla."
This caught my attention. Aunt Layla was my favorite aunt when I was young, always wearing flowing clothes and sporting beautiful, intricate tattoos on her arms. But one day, she just disappeared. When I asked my family about her, they refused to acknowledge her existence. It got to a point where I started to wonder if she was a figment of my imagination, a companion I had created to feel less lonely as a kid. But this package disproved that theory.
I picked it up from the doorstep and placed it on my kitchen island, immediately grabbing my box cutter in one swoop. As I was about to cut the box open, a wave of fear hit me squarely in the chest. Thoughts raced through my mind: "What if I'm not ready to learn more about her?" "What if she was a figment of my imagination all along?" "What if this is a prank?" Then I steeled myself with the mantra that no one has ever slain dragons by running away, and I tore the package open.
The contents looked harmless enough at first glance. The top layer contained framed magazine and publication clippings of me doing charity work, attending fundraisers, and helping at the orphanage during my free time. Getting this information about me wasn't hard - it was plastered all over the internet, and anyone who knows me knows that I like to help people, even at my own expense. I've been trying to work on this habit, but it is what it is.
As I dug deeper, I found images I didn't expect many people to have. Photos of me in my private places, photos of me where I didn't expect cameras, where I looked vulnerable - it all seemed a bit stalkerish. The next layer contained massage coupons, spa treatments, cruise ship tickets, and various care packages - someone really wanted me to take a vacation. At the bottom of the box was a letter from Aunt Layla.
"Hey darling. I know it's been a while, and I'm sorry I didn't communicate with you - I wasn't allowed to. But now that enough time has passed and you've come of the required age, I can reach out to tell you how much I've missed you and how very proud of you I am. Sorry about the private photos - I hired a private investigator to keep an eye on you and protect you. That's why I had some of those photos, so I'm sending them to you now so you can decide to keep or dispose of them - they're yours. The care items are all for you too. Please enjoy them to the fullest; they're all fully paid for. You deserve a vacation once in a while.
"Now, I know you're wondering what happened when I disappeared. To know that, you'll need to meet me at the address on the back of this letter. Our family holds secrets that I cannot discuss over mail. However, if you're not interested, you don't need to come - I'll understand and will continue watching over you from afar. I'm sorry if all this seems ominous, but I promise all will be clear soon... or not. It all depends if you want to meet me. Anyway, I'm starting to ramble. I love you, darling."
I sighed deeply. That letter was something, but at least it explained the stalkerish photos. I turned the letter over and saw the address:
"12 Never Gonna Be the Same Street
Opposite Character Development Avenue
Sofia, Bulgaria"
The address had some irony to it that I didn't find particularly funny right then. Before making a decision, I decided to call my mother. She picked up on the third ring.
"Hey baby, how are you doing?"
"I'm fine, Mom. Is everyone okay at home?"
"Yes, baby," she responded.
Then I dove right in. "Mom, I want to ask about Aunt Layla..."
She interrupted harshly, "Who?"
"Aunt Layla," I repeated.
Over the line, I could hear her breathing heavily. She took her time before responding, "We don't talk about her anymore. She's dead to this family."
That shocked me. When I was a child, questions about her were met with ignorance and dismissal, but this outward contempt was new.
"So there's nothing you can tell me about what happened?" I asked.
"No," was her response.
I didn't push further. The conversation diverted to other things before I made an excuse about work and ended the call.
I looked at the address again. Well, it looked like I was taking a trip.
I landed in Bulgaria three days after receiving the letter. Making arrangements to get off work was easy, as I was a partner and chose my own hours. When I arrived at the airport, there was a chauffeur holding a placard with my name - I assumed my aunt had arranged it. It was so convenient that I didn't bother questioning it.
When I reached my aunt's house (yes, I did check the address, and yes, it was the same), I was in awe. It gave off old money, Morticia Addams Gothic vibes. It was so beautiful that I almost forgot I was here for answers - almost being the key word.
The butler opened the front door, and there on the staircase beside the bannister stood my Aunt Layla. We rushed to hug each other. Because while she looked different now, and there might be a world of experience between us, she still had that same aura from so many years ago. She was still my favorite Aunt Layla.
She wore a white top and aso oke pants, a stark contrast to her house's decor. She caught me staring and just smiled. After the pleasantries and food, she decided it was time to get down to business.
She told me how our family wasn't exactly what they seemed to be. Walking to the window, her silhouette cast long shadows across the ornate Persian carpet. "We're guardians," she said simply, as if that explained everything. "Our family has been protecting ancient artifacts and knowledge for generations. But not everyone agreed with how we should use this power."
She turned to face me, her eyes carrying the weight of untold stories. "Your mother, my dear sister, believed we should lock everything away, preserve it in darkness. But knowledge that never sees the light might as well not exist at all." Her fingers traced patterns on the windowsill, and I noticed strange markings carved into the wood that seemed to shimmer in the fading light.
"Twenty years ago, I discovered something in our family vault - a manuscript that detailed how to help people on a scale we never imagined possible. Not just individual acts of kindness, but deep change." She smiled sadly. "You've inherited that same drive to help others; you have the mark. I've watched you all these years, seeing myself in every charitable act, every moment you put others before yourself."
The butler appeared silently with a tray of tea, the china clinking softly as he set it down. The tea leaves swirled in patterns that seemed almost deliberate, and I found myself transfixed by their movement.
"But your mother," Aunt Layla continued, "she believed the manuscript was too dangerous. That humanity wasn't ready. We had a terrible fight. The family took sides. In the end, I took the manuscript and ran. They declared me dead to them - it was easier than admitting the truth."
I sat there, processing everything. It explained the secrecy, the family's refusal to acknowledge her existence, the talisman that Aunt Layla gave me that glowed in the dark, how I always felt I was meant for more. However, something still didn't add up. "Why now?" I asked. "Why reach out after all these years?"
Aunt Layla's expression grew serious. "Because I'm not the only one who knows about the manuscript anymore. There are others searching for it, people who would use it for their own gain. I've protected it all these years, but I'm getting older. I reached out because it was time for you to protect your inheritance, if you wanted it. You've always been marked for this; I've known since you were young. The world needs someone like you."
I laughed nervously. "Me? I can barely manage my own life sometimes. I'm just trying to do my small part to help where I can."
"That's exactly why it has to be you," she said, moving to a large portrait on the wall. Behind it was a safe, which she opened with practiced ease. "You understand that helping others isn't about glory or power. It's about doing what's right, even when it costs you."
She pulled out an ancient-looking leather-bound book, its pages yellow with age. As she held it, I felt a strange vibration in the air, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. "But I need you to understand something crucial," she said, her voice taking on an urgent tone. "If you accept this responsibility, your life will never be the same. You'll have to learn things that can't be unlearned, see things that can't be unseen."
The grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight, its chimes echoing through the vast house. Through the windows, I could see storm clouds gathering, unusual for what had been a clear night just moments ago.
"There are people watching this house right now," she said calmly, too calmly. "They've been waiting for me to make contact with you. They knew I would eventually have to pass this on to someone. That's why I had you followed - not just to protect you, but to make sure you were ready."
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and in that brief moment, I saw shadows moving across the grounds outside. They weren't the natural shadows of trees or buildings - they moved with purpose, with intent.
"We don't have much time," Aunt Layla said, holding out the manuscript. "You have a choice to make, but you have to make it now. Take the manuscript and accept your role as a guardian, or walk away. Either way, after tonight, there's no going back."
I stared at the book, my heart pounding. All my life, I'd tried to help people in whatever small ways I could. But this was different. This was bigger than anything I'd ever imagined. The weight of the decision pressed down on me like a physical force.
Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The shadows outside were definitely moving closer to the house. I could hear the faint sound of footsteps on gravel.
"They're here," Aunt Layla whispered. She was still holding out the manuscript, her hand steady despite the tension in her voice. "What's your decision?"
I thought about my comfortable life back home, about my routine of helping at the orphanage, about my predictable days at work. I thought about the question that had haunted me for years: If I save everyone, who is going to save me?
The footsteps were at the door now. I could hear the metal of the lock being manipulated. Time had run out.
I reached for the manuscript, my fingers brushing its ancient leather cover. In that moment, the power went out, plunging the house into total darkness. The last thing I heard was Aunt Layla's voice, barely a whisper: "Welcome to the family business."
Then all hell broke loose.
The windows shattered, showering us with glass. Dark figures poured into the room. Aunt Layla moved with surprising speed, pulling me behind a heavy oak desk. "The manuscript," she hissed. "Keep it safe. No matter what happens, don't let them take it."
I clutched the book to my chest, its leather cover warm against my skin. Strange symbols began to glow faintly on its surface, casting an eerie blue light in the darkness. The shadows around us seemed to deepen, to move with a life of their own.
"Remember," Aunt Layla said, pressing something cold and metal into my hand - a key, ancient and ornate. "Sometimes saving others means first learning to save yourself."
She stood up suddenly, her white top now seeming to shine in the darkness. "Run," she commanded. "I'll hold them off. There's a passage behind the bookshelf in the study. The key will open it. Don't stop, don't look back."
I wanted to argue, to stay and help her, but the look in her eyes stopped me. This was what she'd been preparing for all along. This was why she'd watched over me all these years, why she'd waited until now to make contact.
As I ran from the room, I heard her begin to speak in strange incantations, words that made the very air vibrate and broke the atmosphere.
I found the study and the bookshelf. The key fit perfectly into a hidden lock. As the passage opened, I heard crashes and shouts from the main room, followed by a sound like thunder - but in pain, and angry.
The passage led down, down into darkness. Behind me, the noises of the fight began to fade, replaced by the sound of my own breathing and footsteps. The manuscript pulsed warmly in my arms, its glowing symbols providing just enough light to see by.
I ran until I couldn't run anymore, until the passage opened into what looked like an abandoned underground train station. A single black car waited on the tracks, its engine already running.
As I climbed in, I finally looked at the manuscript's cover properly. The symbols had arranged themselves into a traditional language that I could somehow read, and it translated to “you are the chosen one.”
The car began to move, carrying me away from everything I'd known and toward whatever destiny awaited. I thought about Aunt Layla, about my mother, about the choice I'd just made. About all the questions I still had, and all the answers I wasn't sure I was ready for.
The manuscript glowed brighter in my lap, and I realized this wasn't an ending at all.
It was just the beginning.
