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.
To be continued…
