The lecture hall is old, the kind with tiered seating and creaky wooden desks. A flickering fluorescent light casts a sickly yellow glow. Students trickle in, a mix of bell-bottoms and flannel shirts. JEFF’S (V.O.) voice, dry and slightly world-weary, begins.
JEFF (V.O.) Nineteen seventy-seven. Disco was king, though nobody I knew actually liked it. Disillusionment was the prevailing intellectual fashion, even amongst those of us who hadn’t yet accomplished anything to be disillusioned about. And in the hallowed, or perhaps just humid, halls of the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee, a new kind of delusion was brewing: the belief that we could make movies.
PROFESSOR SHELDON SILVERMAN (50s, tweed jacket, perpetually distracted) stands at the front, adjusting his notes. He clears his throat.
PROFESSOR SILVERMAN Alright, settle down, settle down. Welcome to Film History 101. A journey, if you will, through the celluloid dreams that have… well, that have been projected onto screens for the better part of a century.
LEONARD (20, hunched, thick glasses perpetually sliding down his nose) shuffles in, followed by STANLEY (20, slicked-back hair, wearing a too-tight leisure suit).
STANLEY (Whispering loudly) Film History. Sounds… epic. Like the history of empires, but with more close-ups.
LEONARD (Adjusting his glasses) More likely a litany of forgotten filmmakers and the socio-political subtext of early nitrate stock. Riveting.
MARVIN (20, longish hair, wearing a band t-shirt two sizes too big) ambles in, a look of profound boredom etched on his face. DEBORAH (20, bright-eyed, carrying a stack of film theory books) enters next, trying to appear organized. CYNTHIA (20, pale, perpetually inhaling and exhaling, though no cigarette is visible) trails behind.
They find seats in the middle, clustering together almost instinctively.
PROFESSOR SILVERMAN (Continuing) Today, we begin with the Lumière brothers. Pioneers! Thinkers! Men with a… a vision for capturing reality. Though their reality, I suspect, was considerably less… anxiety-ridden than our own.
LEONARD (Muttering) Try dealing with existential dread and a faulty camera, Professor. Then talk to me about anxiety.
STANLEY (Scoffs) The Lumières? Amateurs. They were making glorified home movies. Where’s the glamour? The sweeping scores? The love triangles?
MARVIN (Deadpan) Maybe the love triangle was between the camera, the tripod, and the roll of film.
Cynthia lets out a dry, silent laugh, a puff of imaginary smoke escaping her lips. Deborah nudges Stanley.
DEBORAH Stanley, be serious. This is foundational stuff. We need to understand the basics before we can, you know… revolutionize cinema.
STANLEY Revolutionize? Debbie, darling, we’re going to Hollywoodize cinema! Think big! Think spectacle! Think… my agent calling Spielberg!
A hand shoots up in the front row.
STUDENT 1 Professor Silverman, will we be discussing the Marxist interpretations of The Great Train Robbery?
Leonard groans softly.
LEONARD Oh, God. Here we go.
MARVIN (Under his breath) I’d rather discuss the actual robbery of a great train. At least that has some narrative drive.
PROFESSOR SILVERMAN (Adjusting his tie) Well, yes, we can certainly touch upon the… socio-economic implications of early narrative film. Though I find the lens of Freudian analysis equally… perplexing.
Another hand goes up.
STUDENT 2 Will there be extra credit opportunities? I’m already feeling a bit overwhelmed by the syllabus.
CYNTHIA (To herself, exhaling) Overwhelmed? Honey, you haven’t even lived yet. Try a lifetime of vague disappointment. That’s overwhelming.
Leonard snorts, trying to stifle a laugh. Stanley beams, sensing an audience.
STANLEY Extra credit? The only extra credit in this business is when your film makes a billion dollars! Then everyone wants a piece of your… genius.
Deborah sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.
DEBORAH Can we just focus on the lecture? Please?
Professor Silverman drones on, oblivious to the miniature theatre of the absurd unfolding in the middle of the hall. Leonard catches Cynthia’s eye, a small smile playing on his lips. Marvin subtly nods in agreement with one of Leonard’s muttered sarcastic remarks. A shared sense of bewildered amusement begins to weave its way through the group.
The loud RING of the class bell echoes through the hall. Students begin to pack their bags.
PROFESSOR SILVERMAN Alright, that’s all for today. Next week, we delve into the groundbreaking… uh… techniques of D.W. Griffith. Don’t forget the reading! It’s… illuminating. In a dusty sort of way.
The five hapless souls rise, their movements still slightly awkward and uncertain, but a subtle shift has occurred.
DEBORAH: So, anyone want to grab some coffee? The Union should be… less depressing than this.
STANLEY Coffee? Excellent! We can discuss my ideas for a gritty, neo-realist musical set in a Milwaukee brewery! It’s got… passion. And polka.
LEONARD (Dryly) Sounds… plausible.
MARVIN As long as the coffee is strong enough to erase the last fifty minutes from my memory, I’m in.
Cynthia nods in agreement, taking a long, satisfying drag on her invisible cigarette. They walk out of the lecture hall together, a budding, unlikely camaraderie forming in the stale air.
JEFF (V.O.) And so it began. Five strangers, united by a shared delusion and a profound lack of direction. Little did they know, their journey into the world of filmmaking would be less about glamorous premieres and artistic triumphs, and more about lukewarm coffee, endless arguments, and the persistent feeling that they were all in way over their heads. But for now, there was coffee. And the faint, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t quite so alone in their haplessness.
EXT. UNIVERSITY HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS
The group walks down the crowded hallway, their voices blending with the general student noise.
In the quiet, dusty basement of the long-abandoned radio station WRYL, a remarkable discovery was made: a weathered wooden box containing a collection of unproduced screenplays. Penned in pencil on looseleaf paper, these scripts date back to the late 1970s, offering a fascinating glimpse into a creative mind from a bygone era.
The identity of the author remains a mystery. It’s believed these screenplays were written by a young college student who found himself stranded in the deserted town of Royal. This individual’s sudden and unexplained disappearance is still an open case with local authorities, adding another layer of intrigue to the collection.
“The Lost Screenplays” presents these rediscovered works, some incomplete or damaged by the passage of time. This ongoing effort aims to preserve and showcase the imaginative spirit of the mysterious traveler who, for a brief period, called Royal home.
Dear Jadja, My boyfriend is going to be 20 years old next month. I’d like to give him something nice for his birthday. What do you think he’d like? Linda
Dear Linda, Nevermind what he’d like, give him a tie. Jadja
Pastor Dzef takes you into a language adventure. Learn Polish and sing along with the Lupinska sisters at the Royal VFW. Use these words in your English conversations and eventually you will become bi-lingual. Practice along with the Royal community. Watch for upcoming Polish language summer camps, Polish story time at the Royal Library and the Kielbasa eating contest at the Lunch Box Cafe
The summer of ’77 hung heavy and humid over Madison, Wisconsin. For Ethan, the sweltering air was a familiar blanket, much like the worn denim jacket he favored. He’d just wrapped up his sophomore year at the University of Wisconsin, his mind a vibrant canvas splashed with the hues of musical scores, theatrical sets, and the flickering images of potential screenplays. Living off-campus with Peggy and a couple of other art-minded souls, Ethan felt a contentment that hummed beneath the surface of his days. His part-time gig as a security guard at a quiet warehouse provided just enough cash for rent, records, and the occasional late-night pizza run. He was happy, genuinely so, his future a bright melody waiting to be played.
His parents, however, conducted a different symphony – one of disapproval and dire predictions. They saw his artistic pursuits as frivolous indulgences, a costly detour on the road to a “real” career. In their eyes, the security guard uniform was a prophetic glimpse into his stagnant future. His friends, with their long hair and talk of revolution and free love, were deemed a bad influence, Peggy bearing the brunt of their disdain. Her “hippie lifestyle,” as they called it with a sneer, was blamed for his supposed deviation from their narrow path. Every phone call, every visit home, was a battleground where Ethan found himself constantly defending Peggy and his choices, the chasm between him and his parents widening with each strained word.
A fragile truce existed in the form of his grandfather. The old man, a silent observer in the family drama, harbored a secret kinship with Ethan. He too had once dreamed in melodies and brushstrokes, a musician and artist in his youth. But the harsh realities of the Depression had silenced his own artistic aspirations, forcing him into a string of practical, soul-numbing jobs. His wife, Ethan’s grandmother, a pragmatist forged in the crucible of hardship, had instilled in their son the unwavering belief that money was the sole measure of success and happiness. This mantra had been relentlessly drilled into Ethan’s father, who now echoed it with fervor, seeing only poverty and disappointment in his son’s chosen path.
The air in his parents’ meticulously kept suburban home always felt thick with unspoken judgment. One stifling afternoon, while Ethan was begrudgingly visiting, the shrill ring of the phone sliced through the tense silence. His mother answered, her voice clipped and unwelcoming. “It’s Peggy,” she announced, her tone laced with disapproval before barking, “Ethan, get the kitchen phone.”
Ethan hurried into the linoleum-floored kitchen, unaware that his mother hadn’t hung up the phone in the bedroom. Peggy’s voice, usually bright and cheerful, was bubbling with an almost frantic excitement. “Ethan! Oh, Ethan, you won’t believe it! Our lives are going to change in a few months!”
Confusion furrowed Ethan’s brow. “What are you talking about, Peg?”
“I was going to wait until you got back home tomorrow,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “but I just can’t keep it in any longer…” A small pause hung in the air. “Ethan…We’re expecting.”
That’s when Ethan heard it – a distinct click as the receiver on the other line was abruptly hung up. He shrugged it off.
A wave of disbelief washed over him. “Expecting what?”
“A litter!” Peggy exclaimed, her joy palpable. “Chloe’s pregnant! Our little Chloe is going to be a mama!”
Ethan, his mind already racing with questions about impending kittenhood. “Wow, that’s… wow! When do you think they’ll arrive? Do we need to get a little box ready? More food?” He was rambling, a nervous energy bubbling inside him.
His mother walked past him, her face a mask of shock and a cold fury he’d never witnessed before. She didn’t utter a single word, her eyes boring into him.
“Hey, Peg,” Ethan said into the phone, trying to ignore the palpable tension, “I need to grab a few things from home. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, okay?” He said goodbye, hung up, and turned to face the living room, where his mother stood frozen, her gaze unwavering and hostile. He simply shrugged, a gesture of bewildered resignation, and headed downstairs to the laundry room.
The dryer was still whirring, so Ethan wandered over to the dusty shelves lining the basement walls. A cardboard box caught his eye, labeled in faded marker: “Family Photos.” He pulled it down and lifted the lid, revealing stacks of old albums. He picked one at random and began to leaf through the brittle pages. Black and white images of his grandparents stared back at him, young and almost unfamiliar. Ethan didn’t see any children in the early photos, leading him to believe they were from before or just after their marriage.
Then he found a series of snapshots taken at a rustic lakeside cabin. His grandfather’s smile in these pictures was radiant, a stark contrast to the stoic expression he usually wore. Ethan’s curiosity deepened. He kept turning the pages, discovering more glimpses into a past he never knew existed. There were photos of his grandfather playing an accordion, his fingers dancing across the keys. Another showed him holding a violin, his head tilted in concentration. One particular photograph snagged his attention – his grandfather singing a duet with a woman Ethan didn’t recognize. It wasn’t his grandmother.
Further on, there were images of a quaint park in the center of a small town. A gazebo stood proudly in the middle, and in one photo, his grandfather was part of a small band playing within it. A sign hung next to the gazebo, but the photo was taken from a distance, the lettering blurred and illegible.
Intrigued, Ethan carried the album over to his father’s cluttered workbench. A magnifying glass lay amongst the tools. He carefully positioned it over the sign in the photograph, adjusting the focus until the blurry shapes resolved into words: “Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds.”
Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds? His grandfather, a musician in a band? Why had he never mentioned this? Why the silence, especially now, when Ethan was facing the same parental disapproval his grandfather must have known?
He turned the page, hoping for more clues and a clearer image of the woman in the duet. A folded piece of paper slipped out of the album and fluttered to the concrete floor. Ethan picked it up. It was an advertisement, faded and creased, for the “Royal Art Festival” in Central Park, Royal. Beneath the bold title, a list of featured entertainment included “Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds.”
Ethan’s heart quickened. Royal? He scanned the rest of the advertisement. It was sponsored by Anderson’s General Store, Sven’s Mortuary and Cold Storage (a peculiar combination, he thought), and The Lunchbox Cafe. The bottom of the paper was torn and discolored, but he could just make out “County Road JJ” and what looked like “Silver Lake.” That had to be the lake in the photos!
A sudden urgency gripped Ethan. He needed to know more. He went to the basement phone and dialed his grandparents’ number. His grandmother answered, her voice pleasant but guarded. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she handed the phone to his grandfather.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Ethan began, his voice tight with anticipation. “Tommy Melk and the Melk Duds?”
A long, heavy silence stretched across the line. Then, his grandfather’s voice, low and strained, finally broke it. “Not now,” he said abruptly, and the line went dead.
Ethan stared at the receiver, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. Why the sudden hang-up? Ethan considered calling back but decided against it. He tucked the advertisement and a few of the photos into a thick textbook in his backpack for safekeeping, then retrieved his laundry from the dryer, folded it and packed it into his suitcase. He carried it upstairs, the silence in the house amplifying the unease he felt but couldn’t quite place.
Later, the three of them sat around the kitchen table for dinner, an unnerving stillness hanging in the air. Finally, his father cleared his throat. “Your mother and I were talking before dinner,” he began, his voice flat, “and I have just one question for you.”
“What’s the question, Dad?” Ethan replied, bracing himself.
His father looked directly at him, his eyes hard. “Did you knock Peggy up?”
The question hit Ethan like a physical blow. The click on the phone… his mother had been listening. A surge of anger coursed through him. He turned to his mother, his voice rising. “How dare you eavesdrop on my conversations! You have no right!”
“I have every right to know what’s going on in this house!” she retorted, her voice sharp.
Ethan shot back, a smugness coloring his tone, “Well, it didn’t happen in this house,” and his mother’s face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes.
His father slammed his hand on the table. “I demand to know! Did you get Peggy pregnant?”
Ethan turned to him, his own anger now burning hot. “What if I did? What business is it of yours? This is my concern, not yours.” With that, he stood up, grabbed his suitcase, his violin case, and his backpack from his room, and stormed out of the house.
Ethan shoved everything into the backseat of Bessie, his beat-up but beloved Mercury Cougar. As he slammed the car door and walked around to the driver’s side, his parents emerged from the house, their faces etched with a mixture of fury and disbelief.
“Where do you think you’re going?” his father demanded.
“What’s it to you?” Ethan shot back, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and hurt. “Why should you care? It’s always about you and Mom. It’s always about how my actions affect your precious social circle. Well, forget it. I’m out of here. And one last thing,” Ethan added, his voice thick with bitterness, “you two could never be grandparents.”
Ethan slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, backed out of the driveway, and drove away, never once looking back.
Miles blurred into a hazy stream of asphalt. Ethan’s anger, initially a raging fire, began to simmer down to a dull ache. He needed to clear his head. He pulled into the deserted parking lot of a roadside grocery store, killed the engine, and sat in the sudden silence.
Reaching into the backseat, Ethan grabbed his backpack and pulled out the textbook containing the photos and the festival advertisement. He opened the glove compartment and retrieved a tattered roadmap. Ethan scanned the map, searching for County Road JJ or Silver Lake, whichever appeared first. He found County Road JJ and traced it with his finger, following its winding path north. Then he located Silver Lake. But Royal… Royal wasn’t marked on the map.
Ethan knew it existed. He held the proof in his hands. Maybe if he drove up to the general area, he could find it, or at least find out what had happened to it. The thought was impulsive, reckless even. He’d lose his job, possibly his friends. And Peggy… the thought of leaving Peggy twisted in his gut.
But a persistent whisper, a feeling deep within him, urged him onward. The answers he sought weren’t here, in the familiar streets of Madison. They lay somewhere up north, shrouded in the silence of a forgotten town.
Ethan pulled out his wallet, counting the meager bills inside. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough to get him there and back, hopefully. He started Bessie, the engine sputtering to life, and pulled out of the parking lot. He stopped at a gas station convenience store, filling the tank and grabbing some groceries, soda, snacks, and a bag of ice. Ethan stopped at the payphone inside the convience store. Ethan tried calling Peggy but the line was busy. He waited a couple of minutes and tried again but the line was still busy. Ethan left the store, packed the cooler he got from the trunk of his car and put it in the passenger seat. Ethan looked at the roadmap, and traced the highways going north.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. It was going to be a long drive, and Ethan had no idea what he would find at the end of it. But as Bessie rumbled steadily northward, a strange sense of anticipation, tinged with a nervous excitement, began to bloom in his chest. He was leaving one life behind, driven by a faded advertisement and the ghost of a melody he’d never heard.
Chapter 6: Unexpected Bounty and Lingering Mysteries
Ethan awoke the next morning to the familiar quiet of the old house. His morning routine was simple: a quick wash with the remaining water in his bucket, a meager portion of peanut butter on a cracker, and a survey of his dwindling food supply. The reality was stark. Despite his careful rationing, the peanut butter and crackers were nearing their end. Two, maybe three days at most. He needed to find another source of sustenance, and soon.
Before venturing outside, Ethan decided to explore the house’s electrical system more thoroughly. The living room lamp was a beacon of hope, but he needed to know if the rest of the house was similarly functional. He rummaged through the kitchen drawers and cabinets, hoping to find spare light bulbs. His search yielded two. He tested them in the floor lamp – both worked. Tucked away in a pantry, he also discovered a small metal step ladder, surprisingly sturdy despite its age.
Armed with a bulb and the ladder, Ethan ascended the creaking stairs to the second floor. He tested the ceiling lights in the bedrooms, the bathroom, and the hallway. To his relief, the switches and fixtures all worked, casting pools of light in the dusty rooms. However, the light in the hallway closet remained stubbornly dark. The switch did nothing. The closet door stood slightly ajar, and Ethan felt a faint breeze emanating from within. Curiosity tugged at him, but the impenetrable darkness deterred him. Without a working light, venturing into the unknown depths of the closet seemed foolish. He closed the door and moved on.
In one of the bedrooms, he found a table lamp. He tested it, along with the wall outlets in each of the upstairs rooms. Most were functional. Satisfied with his initial assessment of the electricity, Ethan located some yellowed paper and a stubby pencil in a desk drawer. He sharpened the pencil with his pocketknife and began to sketch a diagram of the upper floor, meticulously noting which lights, switches, and outlets were working and which were not.
As he made his way back downstairs, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck. Ethan paused on the landing, listening intently. Faint footsteps, like someone walking softly through the house, drifted up from the main level. He could also hear hushed whispers, too indistinct to understand. Ethan’s heart pounded. Has someone else entered the house? He hurried down the remaining stairs and searched every room on the main floor, his senses on high alert. But he found no one. Ethan checked outside, peering around the front and back of the house. The silent town remained undisturbed.
The only anomaly was the persistent aroma that permeated the air – the unmistakable scent of freshly baked apple pie. It lingered in every room, growing stronger as Ethan moved through the house.
Ethan continued his inspection of the main level’s electrical system, drawing another diagram and noting his findings. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a stark reminder of his dwindling supplies. He went out back to the pump, washed his face and hands in the icy water, and filled his bucket for drinking.
As dusk began to paint the sky, Ethan plugged in the living room lamp, its warm glow a comforting presence against the encroaching darkness. He sat down and slowly ate half of his last peanut butter sandwich, washing it down with a glass of the cold water. The sweet, tantalizing smell of apple pie was becoming almost unbearable, amplifying his hunger.
Where was it coming from? Ethan wandered through the main floor, trying to pinpoint the source. The aroma grew stronger as he approached the kitchen. He moved slowly around the room, his nose twitching, until he reached the basement door. The smell was significantly more potent here.
Ethan remembered the oppressive darkness that had greeted him the last time he had tentatively opened the door. Now, the lure of the apple pie was a powerful draw. Ethan opened the door and reached for the light switch at the top of the basement stairs and flipped it. A brief spark flared, and then a dim light illuminated the stairwell.
Ethan could now see the steep wooden steps descending into the gloom. He cautiously stepped onto the first tread. It creaked under his weight. The air grew cooler, carrying a stronger whiff of cinnamon and baked apples. Ethan descended slowly, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The basement was larger than he had imagined, with rough brick foundation walls.
To his left, a sturdy workbench was cluttered with tools, an assortment of nuts, bolts, and nails scattered across its surface. Nearby, shelves were stacked high with cardboard boxes labeled with faded markers: “Christmas Decorations,” “Winter Gear,” “Towels,” “Toys,” “Clothes” and more. Ethan made a mental note of their contents. “What an adventure this will be,” he murmured to himself.
In the opposite corner, he spotted a hot water tank. Its switch was flipped to “Off”. Next to it stood a water pump, remarkably similar to the one at his grandparents’ old cabin. Its switch was in the “Off” position. Ethan flipped it on. Nothing. The pump remained silent.
His gaze then fell upon a large, gray fuse box mounted on the wall. Most of the fuses looked intact, but two were clearly blown. Ethan carefully unscrewed the damaged fuses and returned to the workbench, sifting through various small containers until he found a few spares that matched. He carefully screwed the new fuses into the fuse box.
Ethan returned to the water pump and flipped the switch again. This time, a low hum filled the air, lasting for a few seconds before the familiar chugging sound of a working pump began. He could actually hear water filling the pipes overhead. Next to the pump, there was an old-fashioned washtub. Ethan cautiously turned on the cold water tap. The pipes rattled and groaned as air escaped, followed by a few sputtering bursts before a steady stream of cold water flowed into the tub. Ethan’s eyes widened in disbelief. Running water. Indoor plumbing.
Ethan moved over to the hot water tank. He could hear the faint sound of water filling the tank. Ethan remembered his grandfather’s warning: never turn on a hot water tank until it’s full. That would have to wait.
Then, Ethan noticed a door tucked away behind the staircase. Curiosity piqued, he opened it. A rush of cool, earthy air escaped. He found a light switch inside and flipped it on, revealing a root cellar. Rows upon rows of glass jars lined the shelves, filled with preserved food. Pickles, peaches, applesauce – the labels were faded but legible. He even saw jars of what looked like canned chicken stew and various soups, the dates on the labels ranging from 1956 to 1961. Ethan was astounded. He carefully selected a jar of pickles and a jar of peaches. The seals were intact, the lids not bulging. He turned off the light and closed the root cellar door, a sense of relief washing over him.
He was about to head back upstairs when he remembered the hot water tank. He turned on the washtub’s hot water tap. After the initial rattling and sputtering, a steady stream of water flowed. He turned off the hot water tap and then turned on the hot water tank. A wave of anticipation filled Ethan’s mind. Hot water. The thought was almost luxurious.
Clutching the jars of pickles and peaches, Ethan made his way back upstairs, turning off the basement light and closing the door behind him. He placed the jars in his cooler in the living room. Just as he did, a loud buzzer went off in the kitchen, making him jump.
He rushed into the kitchen to find the stove’s timer buzzing away. The oven was on, radiating heat. He quickly turned off the timer and then the oven. On a whim, he tried the burners. They all worked. The smell of apple pie was still strong, almost mocking him.
“There’s nothing in the oven, is there?” Ethan muttered to himself, a sense of unease creeping in. Slowly, hesitantly, he opened the oven door. A wave of warm, sweet apple pie aroma filled the kitchen. And there it was. A freshly baked apple pie, golden brown and steaming gently.
Ethan stared at it in disbelief. He grabbed his towel from the living room, carefully removed the hot pie from the oven, and placed it on the stovetop. Ethan stood there, gazing at the unexpected bounty, his mind reeling.
Then, a low hum filled the kitchen, and the refrigerator came to life. Ethan froze, unsure whether to open the refrigerator door. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled the refrigerator door open. A rush of cold air escaped, as if it had been running continuously. Ethan opened his eyes and saw a single glass bottle of milk on the top shelf. He took it out. It was ice cold, the seal intact. A knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach. This was beyond coincidence.
Ethan carefully peeled off the seal and cautiously sniffed the milk. It wasn’t sour. Taking another deep breath, he took a small sip. It was incredible – rich, creamy, and tasted like it had come straight from a farm. He set the bottle down, a mixture of relief and bewilderment swirling within him.
Ethan rummaged through the kitchen drawers and cabinets until he found a knife, fork, and plate. He wiped them clean with his towel, then carefully cut a slice of the warm apple pie and placed it on the plate. The fork slid easily through the flaky crust. He took a bite. It was heavenly. Ethan closed his eyes, a wave of nostalgia washing over him as he remembered his grandmother’s apple pie and a cold glass of milk from his childhood. The taste and smell transported him back to simpler times.
Later that evening, after savoring every last bite of the pie and the refreshing milk, Ethan lay on the couch, wrapped in the thin blanket, the soft glow of the lamp casting long shadows on the dusty walls. He reflected on the day’s unbelievable discoveries – running water, a hidden pantry of preserved food, and now, a freshly baked pie and cold milk appearing out of nowhere. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and he drifted off to sleep.
Later that night, a faint shimmer materialized in the living room. The ethereal figure of the woman floated silently towards the sleeping Ethan. She gazed down at him, a soft, almost sorrowful expression on her face. She gently placed several small, antique-looking items on the dusty coffee table. She turned off the lamp. Then, she leaned down and pressed a spectral kiss to his cheek. “I love you, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, before fading back into the stillness of the night.
The story of the Church of Saint Helga in Royal is a testament to the transformative power of community, faith, and acceptance. Its journey from a humble beginning as a Lutheran church to a beacon of interfaith unity is a unique chapter in the history of Royal.
The Early Years: A Lutheran Foundation (1885-1902)
The year 1885 marked the genesis of the Church of Saint Helga. Founded as a Lutheran church, it held the distinction of being the first and only church in the small community of Royal. Under the guidance of its first pastor, Sven Jorgeson, Saint Helga’s served not only the residents of Royal but also families from the surrounding outlying areas who would gather every Sunday for services.
The church itself was a simple one-room log cabin, reflecting the pioneer spirit of the time. Initially heated by a fireplace, a donated wood stove later provided warmth during the colder months. The religious practices were strictly Lutheran, and those of other denominations who wished to participate were expected to either convert or simply attend the established services.
The Fire and a Period of Transition (1902-1908)
Tragedy struck in 1902 when the original log cabin church was destroyed by fire. This event, however, did not extinguish the community’s desire for spiritual gathering. For the next several years, services were held in an empty storefront located on Main Street, a temporary space that would unknowingly become the crucible for a profound transformation.
During this interim period, the town of Royal began to experience a significant shift in its demographics. It gradually attracted a diverse influx of artists, musicians, philosophers, writers, and actors from across the United States and even the world, evolving into a burgeoning artists’ colony. This new population brought with it a wide spectrum of beliefs, practices, and rituals, encompassing various religious faiths alongside agnosticism and atheism.
This created a unique and potentially volatile situation for the small town. How could a community as intimate as Royal maintain its cohesion amidst such diverse world views? What could have easily devolved into conflict instead blossomed into what many in Royal would later consider one of the most uplifting spiritual miracles in its history.
Rebuilding and Redefining Faith (1908-1909)
Throughout the years of holding services in the storefront, Pastor Sven Jorgeson diligently worked to raise funds for a new church building. His efforts, which included donations, raffles, church dinners, and a remarkable talent for shrewdly investing in emerging local businesses, proved successful. In April 1908, construction began on a new Saint Helga’s. This structure would be built of brick and feature a steeple and bell, a more permanent and prominent place of worship. Yet, in its design, it remained a plain and simple church.
Sadly, Pastor Sven Jorgeson passed away on July 7, 1908, and would not witness the completion of his vision. The new church was finished in September 1908, but the community now faced the challenge of finding a new spiritual leader.
Shortly after the church’s completion, a pivotal community meeting was held to determine its future. Recognizing the town’s newfound diversity, a groundbreaking decision was made: the Church of Saint Helga would become an all-inclusive church. It would stand independent of any specific denomination, embracing all faiths and beliefs. From this resolution emerged the Church of Saint Helga – The Church of Unconditional Love.
To solidify this new direction, a committee was formed, comprising a representative from every religious faith present in Royal. This diverse group embarked on the task of reviewing the practices, ceremonies, holidays, seasons, and aesthetics of all the represented beliefs. After much thoughtful deliberation and prayer, a Mission Statement was drafted and unanimously approved, laying the foundation for the Church of Saint Helga’s unique identity. This was followed by the creation of two more foundational documents: the Core Beliefs and Values of the Church of Saint Helga, and the Ethics and Morality of the Church of Saint Helga. These three documents became, and remain, the cornerstones of the church’s guiding principles.
William Brandenburg, who had served as the chairman of the Church Committee, was elected as the first Pastor of the newly envisioned church. Another committee was established to design the interior of the church, a particularly complex undertaking given the multitude of religious practices to consider. Throughout this period of planning and transformation, church services continued to be held in the familiar empty storefront, with different family members from various faiths taking turns leading the gatherings.
A New Beginning: The Church of Unconditional Love (1909-1949)
Sunday, January 3, 1909, marked a momentous occasion as the first Sunday service was held in the new Church of Saint Helga. The atmosphere was described as filled with an overwhelming sense of love and inclusion. Over the following months, the church services underwent further evolution, and the interior gradually took shape, reflecting the diverse spiritual landscape of the community.
Under the leadership of Pastor Brandenburg, the Church of Saint Helga and the town of Royal lived up to the ideals enshrined in their three core documents. Unconditional love was not merely a Sunday sermon topic but a lived reality, manifesting in acts of mercy and kindness that extended throughout Royal and its surrounding communities. For the next four decades, the church flourished, gaining recognition both nationally and internationally as a unique model of interfaith harmony.
A New Shepherd and a Quiet Closure (1949-1962)
In 1949, after forty years of dedicated service, Pastor Brandenburg retired. The church community began the search for a new spiritual leader. Their search led them to Pastor Dzef. During a family reunion held in Royal in the summer of 1949, Pastor Dzef attended a service at Saint Helga’s. He was deeply moved by the sense of peace and the inclusive nature of the service, where families from different backgrounds actively participated.
Following a conversation with Pastor Brandenburg and the church committee, Pastor Dzef was offered the position of Pastor, which he gratefully accepted and was ordained a few weeks later. Given the church’s financial situation, the position was unpaid, and Pastor Dzef sought employment and lodging within the community. He found a job at a local restaurant called “The Lunch Box Cafe,” working both at the counter and in the kitchen. This provided him with a unique opportunity to connect with families from Royal and neighboring towns. He rented a small apartment above the restaurant, which became the place where he penned his “Epistle to the People of Royal,” further solidifying his connection with the community.
Pastor Dzef remained a guiding presence at Saint Helga’s until the church ultimately closed its doors in 1962. While the reasons for its closure are not explicitly detailed, the legacy of the Church of Saint Helga as a testament to the power of unconditional love and interfaith unity in the face of diversity remains a significant and inspiring part of Royal’s history. The story of Saint Helga’s serves as a poignant reminder of the potential for harmony and understanding when communities embrace inclusivity and prioritize love above all else.
