Chapter 3: Day Two In Royal
The sun rose on day two in the forgotten town of Royal, its pale light filtering through the dusty windows of the abandoned house. The sunlight, weak but persistent, eventually found its way to where Ethan lay sprawled on the floor, stirring him from his uneasy slumber.
He awoke with a start, his body stiff and his head throbbing. He sat up slowly, stretching his cramped muscles and dusting the grime from his clothes. He looked around the familiar, yet still strange, interior of the house. Nothing had changed since the previous evening. The air hung heavy with the scent of dust and decay.
Ethan pushed himself to his feet and walked towards the back of the house. He passed through the silent, abandoned kitchen, its counters bare and its cabinet doors hanging crookedly. He stepped out onto the back porch, the weathered wood groaning softly under his weight.
His gaze fell upon a magnificent old oak tree that stood sentinel in the backyard, its sprawling branches casting a wide circle of shade over the house and the overgrown yard. A small, involuntary smile touched Ethan’s lips. He felt a strange sense of peace in the presence of the ancient tree. He ambled down the porch steps and headed towards it, the dry grass crunching beneath his shoes.
Reaching the base of the oak, Ethan relieved himself, the simple act a reminder of his basic needs. As he finished, a wave of thirst washed over him. He could really use a glass of water. He scanned the yard, his eyes searching for any sign of a water source. In the far corner, partially hidden by overgrown bushes, he spotted an old-fashioned hand-pump well.
Hope flickered within him. He made his way to the pump and gripped the rusty handle. It took considerable effort to even budge it. This pump hadn’t seen use in years, and the possibility of drawing water seemed remote. He pushed and pulled, his muscles straining, the only sound the squeak and groan of the aged mechanism. Just as his hope began to wane, a sputtering sound emerged from the pump, followed by a trickle, then a steady stream of water.
Ethan eagerly cupped his hands and drank deeply. The water was ice cold, biting at his teeth, but it tasted unbelievably good. He splashed some on his face, the shock of the cold water invigorating him.
Feeling somewhat refreshed, Ethan returned to the house and opened the cooler he had brought with him. He inventoried his remaining supplies: 4 sandwiches, 3 apples, a bag of raw carrots, a bag of celery sticks, and a few cans of pop. He then checked his backpack. Inside, he found half a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, a package of cookies, and a few candy bars. Calculating quickly, Ethan figured that if he rationed carefully, he would have enough food for about a week.
He ate a small bite of a sandwich, enough to quell his immediate hunger, before deciding to explore the house more thoroughly. He started in what appeared to be the living room. Books, magazines, and yellowed papers were scattered across the floor. He began picking them up, one by one, and placing them in a haphazard stack on a dusty coffee table.
Next, he righted an overturned couch and positioned it across from the large, stone fireplace. He placed the coffee table in front of it, creating a semblance of order. He moved a few stray chairs and end tables, and positioned a leaning floor lamp so that the room began to resemble a functional living space.
Ethan then went back to the kitchen and began to explore the cabinets, drawers, and a small pantry. He discovered some chipped plates, cloudy glasses, mismatched utensils, and a few dented pots and pans. Everything was old, worn, and coated in a layer of grime. Opening a pantry cabinet, he found an old straw broom and a rusty dustpan. In another drawer, amongst a jumble of forgotten items, he found a tin of farmer’s matches, a handful of dusty candlestick holders and candles. He gathered the broom, dustpan, matches, candles and candlestick holders and carried them into the makeshift living room.
With a determined sigh, Ethan began to sweep the living room floor, the brittle bristles of the old broom stirring up clouds of dust that had settled over years of neglect.
Once the room was somewhat cleaner, Ethan walked out the front door and stood on the porch. From this vantage point, he stared up and down the deserted street. He was still alone, physically isolated in the silent town. Yet, the feeling of being watched, a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, persisted. He was alone, but not truly alone.
He stepped off the porch and explored the immediate surroundings of the house. Behind a shed in the backyard, he found what remained of a pile of firewood, enough for a few small fires.
As dusk began to settle, casting long shadows across Royal, Ethan gathered some of the firewood and started a small fire in the fireplace. The warmth radiating from the flickering flames felt comforting, a small victory against the encroaching chill of the evening. He lit a few of the candles, their small flames dancing in the growing darkness, casting eerie shadows on the walls.
For dinner, Ethan enjoyed half a sandwich, a few of the packaged cookies, and a can of pop. As he finished eating, his eyes fell upon his violin case, leaning against the wall. He opened it and looked intently at his instrument, the polished wood gleaming in the candlelight. But the sight of it brought a familiar pang of sadness, a reminder of the music that had once filled his life and the pain that had become intertwined with it. With a sigh, he closed the case and pushed it away.
To distract himself, Ethan turned his attention to the stack of magazines, newspapers, and books he had placed on the coffee table. He picked up a thick, bound volume and began to leaf through its brittle pages. Beneath it, he found a city directory, its cover faded and worn. He thumbed through the pages, his fingers tracing the names and addresses of long-gone residents of Royal. He set the directory down, a sense of the town’s lost history settling over him.
It had been a long and emotionally draining day. The physical exertion and the lingering unease had taken their toll. With a weary sigh, Ethan lay back on the makeshift couch, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the ceiling. Soon, the warmth of the fire and the exhaustion of the day lulled him into a deep sleep.
As Ethan slept, the female spirit returned to the house. She moved silently through the shadows, her ethereal form barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the faint moonlight that filtered through the windows. She noticed Ethan asleep on the couch, a picture of vulnerable exhaustion. Her spectral hand reached out and gently found an old, forgotten blanket draped over a nearby chair. With a tender grace, she covered Ethan with it, her translucent form radiating a gentle warmth.
She looked down at him, her unseen eyes filled with a mixture of love and compassion. The flickering candlelight illuminated her partially obscured face, revealing a hint of sorrowful beauty. She moved closer, her silent footsteps unheard, and leaned over Ethan. Her breath, though intangible, seemed to carry a whisper of comfort.
“Until tomorrow,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the rustling of leaves, “pleasant dreams.”
Then, as silently and mysteriously as she had appeared, the female spirit vanished, leaving Ethan alone once more in the quiet darkness of the abandoned house.
To be continued …
