Red Berry Workshop

Chapter 5: The Resurrection of the Wind

The discovery of the windmill manual ignited a spark of focused energy within Ethan. The aimless wandering and the gnawing unease of Royal receded, replaced by a singular, compelling objective. The towering structure in the backyard, once an enigmatic silhouette against the sky, now held the promise of understanding, perhaps even a means of escape.

For the next several days, Ethan’s world narrowed to the rusted metal frame of the windmill. Armed with the hedge cutter from the shed, he waged a relentless war against the tenacious vines and stubborn weeds that had choked the structure for years. He climbed rung by precarious rung, the wind whispering through the decaying metal, snipping and pulling at the tangled vegetation. The work was arduous, the sun beating down on his back, the sharp edges of the metal biting at his hands even through the gloves he’d found in the shed.

Ethan also put the toolbox to good use. He tightened loose bolts with the wrenches, the rusted metal protesting with a groan. He replaced crumbling nuts and bolts with the extra nuts and bolts from the peanut butter jars, each small repair a tangible victory against the relentless decay. Slowly, painstakingly, the skeletal frame began to feel more solid beneath his feet.

Finally, after days of sweat and effort, Ethan reached the pinnacle of the windmill. The view from the top was breathtaking, a panorama of the silent town and the surrounding wilderness stretching to the horizon. But his focus was not on the scenery. The blades, thick with matted vines, and the tail, equally obscured, were the last vestiges of the obstruction. With renewed vigor, he cleared them away, the hedge cutter making quick work of the remaining growth.

Ethan stood on the narrow platform, the wind whipping around him, and grabbed one of the massive metal blades. He pulled downwards, expecting the entire bonnet to pivot, to turn the blades into the wind. But nothing happened. A stubborn resistance held the mechanism fast. A wave of dejection washed over him, a familiar companion in Ethan’s often-frustrating life.

Ethan reached into his back pocket and pulled out the worn windmill manual. Its pages, brittle with age, held diagrams of intricate gearwork and chains. Ethan studied them intently, tracing the lines with a dirt-stained finger, then looked back into the shadowy head of the windmill. Something was clearly jammed within the complex machinery.

Climbing a few rungs higher, Ethan peered down into the heart of the mechanism. There, wedged between the large gears and a thick chain, was the culprit: a broken tree branch, its jagged edges firmly lodged. He would need to climb up to the very top of the frame and reach down to dislodge it.

The task was precarious. Balancing on the narrow metal rung, Ethan reached down, his fingers grasping the rough bark of the branch. It was stubbornly stuck, refusing to budge. He moved it back and forth, applying steady pressure, the rusted gears groaning in protest. Time seemed to stretch, each failed attempt fueling his frustration. But Ethan persisted, his muscles aching, his determination fueled by the days of effort already invested. Finally, with a loud crack, the branch yielded.

Suddenly, without warning, the massive blades began to turn. The wind, now unimpeded, caught their broad surfaces, and they started to rotate with surprising speed. Ethan instinctively ducked, narrowly avoiding the sweeping arc of the tail fin, which would have sent him plummeting to the ground far below.

Ethan descended a few feet, his heart pounding in his chest, and looked up. The windmill was alive. The blades spun in a steady rhythm, the gearwork and chains groaning and clicking as they translated the wind’s energy. A loud yell of pure, unadulterated happiness erupted from Ethan’s throat, echoing across the silent town.

Ethan climbed down the rest of the frame, his legs shaky with adrenaline and elation. He took a few steps back, his gaze fixed on the magnificent sight above. The windmill, in all its forgotten glory, had been resurrected, turning freely in the breeze.

Ethan pulled the manual from his back pocket once more. “Ok,” he muttered to himself, a new focus sharpening his gaze. “The windmill is working. What about the generator?”

Ethan looked at the small, dilapidated shack standing next to the base of the windmill. A shaft protruding from the base of the windmill frame entered the shack through the side wall. A thick electrical cable ran from the shack to the house. Ethan tried to open the door to the shack, but it was firmly stuck, swollen and warped with age.

Returning to the shed, Ethan located a sturdy crowbar amongst the tools. With a grunt of effort, he wedged the crowbar into the gap between the shack door and the frame and forced it open. A rush of stale, musty air billowed out, causing Ethan to step back, his nose wrinkling at the smell of decay and years of disuse.

Ethan cautiously entered the shack. Spiderwebs clung to every surface, and a thick layer of dust and grime coated the generator and the surrounding equipment. Ethan wiped away the debris, his eyes scanning the generator and then the windmill manual, but there was no information about its operation.

Ethan looked around the shack, his mind racing, searching for any clue. The windmill was turning, the gears meshing, but a copper spindle in the center of what looked like a giant horseshoe magnet remained stubbornly still. Then he saw it. A broken broom handle was wedged tightly between the copper spindle and the spinning gear chain of the windmill. The chain was a blur of motion, but the jammed broom handle prevented the spindle from turning.

Ethan walked over to the obstruction and gripped the splintered wood. It was wedged in tight. He pulled with all his strength, the muscles in his arms straining. The broom handle creaked and groaned, but refused to budge. He shifted his grip and pulled again, and with a sudden lurch, it came free.

The copper spindle instantly began to spin, a high-pitched whine filling the small shack. The force of the sudden movement threw Ethan back against the shack wall with a thud. He looked up, dazed, and saw a shower of sparks flying from the generator.

Ethan pushed himself up and cautiously approached a panel filled with dials and switches, wiping away the thick layer of dust. The needles on the dials were fluctuating wildly as the spindle spun faster. His eyes scanned the control panel, finally locating a large, clearly labeled “Power” switch. It was set to “Off.”

Could this be the main power switch for the house? The thought sent a jolt of both excitement and trepidation through him. Would the old wiring still work after all these years of abandonment? Or would there be a short circuit, a surge of uncontrolled electricity that could ignite the dry, aged wood of the house and send it up in flames?

Ethan closed his eyes, took a deep, steadying breath, and then, with a surge of nervous energy, he flipped the power switch to “On.”

More dials on the control panel jumped and steadied. Then, a small light bulb hanging from the shack ceiling flickered to life, glowing dimly at first, then growing brighter as the generator whirred with increasing power. A wide smile spread across Ethan’s face.

Later that evening, as the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, Ethan carefully unscrewed the light bulb from the stairway ceiling fixture in the house. He carried it into the living room and screwed it into the socket of the floor lamp. He plugged the lamp into a wall outlet, his heart pounding with anticipation, and flipped the switch.

The lamp glowed brightly, casting a warm, inviting light that illuminated the dusty living room. Ethan sat down on the couch, picking up a stack of old magazines he had found earlier, their pages filled with the ghosts of a bygone era. But his gaze kept returning to the lamp, to the steady, unwavering light. “Let there be light,” Ethan murmured, a sense of profound satisfaction washing over him. “And there was light.”

Ethan leaned back against the dusty cushions, a wave of exhaustion and a strange sense of accomplishment settling over him. Ethan thought back on the last several days – the struggle, the grime, the frustration, and finally, this small but significant victory. An accomplishment. It was a feeling so rare in his life that it felt almost foreign.

But as quickly as the warmth of accomplishment had spread through Ethan, it began to dissipate, replaced by a gnawing feeling of unease. His gaze drifted towards the empty doorway, towards the encroaching darkness outside. The light was a comfort, but it also highlighted his isolation. The reality of his situation crashed down on him, cold and stark. The windmill was working, the house had light, but a far more pressing concern now overshadowed his triumph. 

Ethan was running out of food.

To be continued …

Chapter 4: Day 3 In Royal

Ethan awoke slowly, a sense of unfamiliar comfort enveloping him. He stretched, his muscles surprisingly relaxed, and his mind clearer than it had been since Bessie vanished. As his eyes fluttered open, he noticed a soft weight across his body. A blanket. A faded, slightly musty blanket lay draped over him. He stared at it, a furrow in his brow. He had no recollection of finding this blanket, let alone covering himself with it the night before.

A shiver of unease, a familiar companion in this strange town, prickled his skin. Yet, beneath the unease, there was a subtle warmth, a feeling of having slept soundly for the first time in what felt like an eternity. He sat up, the blanket sliding to his lap. He folded it carefully, the worn fabric feeling strangely familiar against his hands, and draped it over the back of the makeshift couch. This had been the first night of truly restful sleep since arriving in Royal. He felt… almost normal.

Ethan made his way into the dusty kitchen. He located the collection of old, mismatched pots and pans he had discovered the previous day. Selecting a dented pot, he carried it out to the hand-pump well in the backyard. The morning sun was bright, casting long shadows and promising a warmer day. He worked the pump handle, the familiar squeak and groan now less daunting than before. Cold, clear water gushed forth, filling the pot. He splashed some on his face, the icy shock waking him fully, and then cupped his hands for a long, satisfying drink. The sun felt good on his face, a small, simple pleasure in this desolate place.

Back inside, Ethan placed the pot of water on the kitchen counter. He retrieved his suitcase from the living room and opened it, pulling out his small travel bag. This bag held the everyday essentials he needed. Items that offered a semblance of normality in this bizarre reality. He took out a washcloth and gratefully washed his face with the cold water, scrubbing away the layers of dust and grime that had accumulated over the past few days. Next, he brushed his teeth and shaved. The familiar routine, the clean feeling, was a small but significant victory.

Leaving his travel bag in the kitchen, Ethan returned to the living room and put on a clean shirt. He opened his cooler and pulled out the remaining half of a sandwich and an apple. He ate slowly, savoring the simple meal, his gaze drifting towards the folded blanket on the couch. The question of how it had gotten there still lingered, a subtle disquiet in the otherwise peaceful morning. The blanket did look familiar, a faint echo from a distant memory. Looking at it evoked a strange sense of security, a fleeting feeling of being almost… home. Yet, the persistent feeling of not being entirely alone in this abandoned town continued to nag at him.

After breakfast, Ethan decided to continue his exploration of the house. He cautiously ascended the creaking stairs, each step groaning under his weight. It felt as though years had passed since anyone had ventured to the upper floor. Upstairs, he found three bedrooms and a small bathroom. The bedrooms were filled with dilapidated furniture, some with sagging mattresses. Dust lay thick on every surface, mingling with scattered books, yellowed papers, forgotten toys, and piles of musty clothes, pillows, and blankets. The air hung heavy with the smell of mold and decay, the stagnant atmosphere a testament to years of neglect.

The bathroom was in a similar state of disrepair. Rust stained the sink, bathtub, and shower. On a whim, Ethan turned one of the sink faucets. Nothing. He headed back downstairs, the silence of the house pressing in on him.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, his hand brushed against a light switch on the wall. A sudden spark startled him. He looked up and saw a light bulb in the ceiling fixture flicker, emitting a faint, yellowish glow. Ethan stood frozen, amazement washing over him. Electrical power? Here? But where was the source? Just as quickly as it had appeared, the dim light extinguished. He flipped the switch repeatedly, but the light remained stubbornly dark.

Intrigued, Ethan went out the back door. He scanned the yard, his eyes searching for any sign of electrical utility poles. He didn’t see any. However, he did notice a thick electrical wire running from the house towards a tall, overgrown structure in the distance, almost completely obscured by vines and weeds. Curiosity piqued, Ethan ventured closer. He began pulling at the dense tangle of greenery, his fingers struggling against the stubborn tendrils. Beneath the vines, he encountered something solid and metallic. It felt like a tower of some kind, its true form hidden beneath years of unchecked growth.

Realizing he needed more than just his bare hands, Ethan retreated back to the house, his mind now focused on finding tools. He remembered the shed in the backyard. He made his way towards it and pulled open the door. Sunlight flooded the interior, causing a few startled mice to scurry into the shadows. The shed had two small windows, one in the back and one on the side. The air inside was dusty but dry.

Ethan’s eyes scanned the contents. A pegboard hung on one wall, adorned with a faded calendar from 1959 and a few surprisingly well-preserved pictures of Playboy playmates from 1957. A few basic tools hung haphazardly nearby. On a sturdy workbench, he spotted a toolbox. He opened it to find a hammer, pliers, wrenches, and a selection of screwdrivers. Several peanut butter jars filled with nails, screws, and various nuts and bolts sat neatly arranged. Shelves lined one wall, crammed with an assortment of forgotten items.

Ethan rummaged through the shelves, his fingers brushing against dusty objects, until he found what he was looking for: Hedge cutters. Perfect! He reached for them, and as he did, a small stack of booklets slid off the shelf and fell to the floor. He placed the hedge cutters on the workbench and picked up the booklets. He glanced at the covers. One was for an electric water heater, another for an electrical heating system. There were smaller booklets for a stove, a refrigerator, and a radio. But one booklet caught his eye. Its cover depicted a simple, yet elegant structure against a clear sky: a windmill electrical generator system. Ethan’s eyes widened. A windmill. Could that be the source of the fleeting power he had witnessed? A spark of hope, brighter than the brief flicker of the light bulb, ignited within him.

To be continued …

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 …

Chapter 2: The Vanishing Cougar

The silence of Royal deepened as Ethan drifted into a restless sleep. The encounter with the spectral woman had left him unsettled, his mind racing with unanswered questions. He tossed and turned, his dreams a confusing jumble of shadowy figures and whispering voices.

Meanwhile, a different kind of activity stirred in the stillness of the night. From the edges of town, spectral figures began to coalesce, their forms shimmering in the moonlight. They were the ghosts of Royal, drawn together by an unseen force. Their eyes, though filled with an ethereal light, held a sense of purpose.

They glided towards the outskirts of town, their translucent forms barely disturbing the dust on the deserted road. There, bathed in the pale glow of the moon, sat Bessie, Ethan’s faithful Mercury Cougar. The car, a symbol of the outside world, stood in stark contrast to the timeless stillness of Royal.

The ghosts moved with a coordinated grace, their spectral hands passing through the metal of the car as they lifted it with surprising ease. It was as if they were moving an illusion, yet the weight of Bessie was undeniably real. They carried her through the silent streets of Royal, their forms glowing faintly as they moved.

Their destination was an old, deserted gas station just off Main Street. The building stood as a relic of a bygone era, its pumps rusted and its windows dark and empty. The ghosts glided through the walls as if they weren’t there, their forms illuminating the interior with a spiritual  light.

They carefully maneuvered Bessie into the garage stall, their movements precise and deliberate. Once the car was safely inside, they closed the garage door, sealing Bessie within. A final, bright glow pulsed through the windows of the garage, then faded away, leaving the gas station in darkness once more. The ghosts vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving behind only the silent mystery of their actions.

The morning dawned with a clear, bright sky, casting a warm light over the town of Royal. Ethan awoke with a start, his head still foggy from the previous night’s unsettling encounter. He decided to get his belongings out of Bessie and figure out his next move.

He walked out of the abandoned house and headed towards the spot where he had left Bessie. He expected to see his car, his only connection to the outside world, waiting for him. But the spot was empty.

Ethan’s heart skipped a beat. He scanned the area, his eyes searching for any sign of his car. There was nothing. Bessie was gone.

A wave of panic washed over him. His car, his lifeline, had vanished without a trace. “Bessie?” Ethan called out, his voice echoing through the forest.

He ran along the side of the road and looked for tire tracks. Nothing. No broken glass, no signs of a tow truck, no indication of how his car could have been moved. It was as if it had simply disappeared.

Ethan felt a surge of anger and frustration. He kicked at a loose stone on the road, his emotions threatening to boil over. He wanted to lash out, to break something, to vent his frustration. He ran back to town. He ran up to the window of the first building he saw. He picked up a rock and threw it at the window. The rock went right through the glass as if it wasn’t there. He tried again. It was the same thing. Ethan tried another window and the same thing happened.

He felt a wave of despair wash over him. He slumped to the ground, his head in his hands. He felt utterly alone, lost in a town that seemed to exist outside of reality.

“I’m never going to get out of here,” he muttered to himself, his voice choked with emotion. “No one even knows where I am.”

He felt a deep sense of self-pity. Everything he owned, all his possessions, all his hopes and dreams, were tied to Bessie. Now, they are gone.

He stood up and aimlessly wandered back to the house where he had spent the night. He felt a deep sense of unease. He started rummaging through the house. He opened a cabinet door and found an open bottle of whiskey. He picked it up and took a swig. It was still good.

Ethan was feeling really sorry for himself, so he decided he was going to get drunk. He spent the day and night wandering through the town aimlessly. He looked through the windows of the buildings, his mind a jumble of confusion and despair. Ethan’s life was in that car. Everything that he had done in college, all his ambitions, all his dreams and aspirations were in the car and now the car is gone. He doesn’t even know how that car could’ve been stolen. There were no tracks, no nothing. There was nothing to show that somebody actually got in the car, got it to start and drove off.

Ethan was in a drunken stupor. Late in the evening, he stumbled into an entryway of a local business. He was crying, his body shaking with sobs. He took another swig of whiskey, the burning liquid doing little to soothe the ache in his heart. He slumped down onto the sidewalk in the doorway, his body giving way to exhaustion. He passed out, his tears drying on his face.

The ghost that Ethan had seen the night before materialized once again. Her form shimmered in the dim light, her presence a silent vigil. She sat down next to him, her spectral form radiating a gentle warmth. She laid next to him, her radiance illuminated the entryway, casting a soft, celestial glow. She stayed there throughout the night, her silent presence keeping Ethan warm in his drunken slumber.

The next morning, Ethan awoke with a groan. His head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and his stomach churned with nausea. He was hung over, the effects of the previous night’s drunken binge weighing heavily on him. He didn’t feel well. He saw the empty whiskey bottle and realized what he had done.

He slowly stood up, his body aching, and got his balance and bearings. The sun was shining brightly, its rays piercing through the gloom of his hangover. He felt a wave of shame wash over him as he remembered his drunken despair.

He decided to head back to the house that he stayed at the night before. He needed to get himself together and figure out what to do next. When he arrived, he was startled by what he saw on the porch by the front door. It was his suitcase, backpack, cooler, and his violin.

Ethan was dumbstruck by all this. Who put this on the porch? He cautiously approached the porch, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of movement. There was none.

He carefully picked up his suitcase, then his backpack, cooler, and finally, his violin. What’s happening here? He carried his belongings into the house and closed the door behind him, his mind reeling with confusion and a flicker of hope.

To be continued …