The abandoned house
It was snowing. Again. Vincent sat on the wooden chair at the dining table and looked out of the window. It was almost completely dark outside but he couldn’t tell whether it was because of the thick clouds or because it was getting late already. He reached for his phone to check the time — only to find that it had run out of battery.
“Oh, damn it!”, he shouted and could only just restrain himself from throwing his phone against the wall. It was the third day of a power outage, which meant no electrical light, no heating and now his phone had died as well.
With a sigh he closed the book in front of him. He wasn’t able to read it because he didn’t understand the language. But he had tried to pass his time by looking at the botanical drawings that decorated some of the pages. As he looked into the trembling flame of the tea light on the table he couldn’t help thinking of the past summer.
He had arrived eight or nine weeks ago. A travel guide for backpackers had listed the abandoned house as a safe and cheap place to spend the night. Vincent wasn’t a backpacker — or maybe he was because all the belongings he had left fit into a backpack. But he had never intended to travel. He had, however, been in dire need of a safe and cheap place to spend the night.
At first, he had hated the place. He was a city guy who loved the energy that you only found in the best club of town on a Friday night. The booming sound of the bass and the sweet mix of perfume and alcohol in the air made him feel alive. It was safe to say that he wouldn’t have come here had he had a choice.
But much to his own surprise, he had acquired a liking for the place over the weeks. He had enjoyed the solitude and his long daily walks along the beach or in the mountains. He had got used to the his weekly bicycle tour to the next supermarket, which was a two hour ride away from the house. Eventually, he had even pictured himself finding the owner and buying the house once everything else had been sorted out.
His thoughts wandered to his first morning here.
He had been standing behind the house looking down at the fjord when a young man had approached him. “Excuse me, sir”, he had said, “is this your house? I’m just asking because it’s listed as an abandoned farm in my travel guide”.
Vincent had laughed and replied: “No, I don’t own this place. In fact, I think we may have the same travel guide. Feel free to stay the night. There’s more than enough space for the two of us.”
Later that day they had prepared dinner together. The stranger — whose name was John or James or something like that — had seemed to have the culinary equipment of a gourmet restaurant in his backpack. And so they had had the finest goulash Vincent had ever tasted.
“Where did you get the meat from?”, Vincent had asked in an attempt to start a conversation.
“That farm back there”, the stranger had replied and pointed somewhere north. The only farm nearby that Vincent had known of was a horse farm that offered riding tours for tourists, but he hadn’t wasted another thought on it.
After they had enjoyed their meals silently for a while, the stranger had asked: “So, have you seen him yet? Has he forgiven you?”. Vincent hadn’t been sure what the stranger was talking about, but his new friend had insisted: “I know it’s a very personal question, I’m sorry. I’m just so excited. I’ve never met anyone in real life who’s seeking his forgiveness, too. So, what do you think?”. “Well”, Vincent had answered hesitantly. Since he hated to disappoint people, he had added: “Let me just say this — nothing’s impossible”. At that moment, the stranger had leaped to his feet, fallen down on his knees in front of Vincent and with a trembling voice had said: “Oh may he bless you for all your generosity”.
They hadn’t talked much after this and when Vincent had woken up the next morning, the stranger had already been gone. And so Vincent had never found out who or what the stranger had been looking for.
On his weekly bicycle tours to the supermarket, Vincent had also met some of the locals. They had never asked any questions and Vincent had liked that for he didn’t have any answers. Their main concern had been the changing seasons. The earlier the sun had set at night the more they had talked about the imminent winter.
“Where will you spend the winter?”, Gunni had asked one day.
“Ah well, it depends…”, Vincent had answered.
“Good”, had been Gunni’s reply, “I was starting to fear that you wanted to spend the winter in the abandoned house in the fjord”.
“Talking about the house…”, Vincent had changed the subject, “Do you know who owns it? I’m starting to like it here and was wondering if I could buy it. I mean, it’s been abandoned for a while anyway….”
“Ah, good old Snorri”, Gunni had replied and paused for a moment before adding: “He came down with a cold one day and never recovered from it…”
“You mean he passed away?”, Vincent had inquired.
“Not immediately”, Gunni had answered slowly, “Each time someone went to check on him, he was still alive”
“I don’t think I understand…”
Gunni had laughed: “He eventually must have passed away after a few decades. But don’t worry. If he didn’t kick you out yet, he obviously doesn’t mind you. Just make sure not to stay the winter”.
After this conversation, Vincent had gone back to the abandoned house and searched every corner of it. He had found a few old clothes and books that he couldn’t read — but judging by the illustrations they seemed to contain a lot of medical information. He had also found a bunch of what must once have been dried herbs. Each time he had opened another closet he had done so very slowly — unsure whether he would have preferred to find someone dead or alive in there.
He didn’t find anyone. Probably a cultural misunderstanding, he had thought and laughed at his own foolish fears. English had neither been his nor Gunni’s first language after all.
The following weeks had been peaceful and rather uneventful. But then it had started to snow. It had been a beautiful sight: looking out of the window, Vincent had watched the landscape turn into a white fairy-tale. In the beginning, he had gone out for walks in the snow as often as possible. But soon he had realised that the road never got ploughed and after a short while it had become impossible to tell where the street had once been. This, of course, made it impossible to ride his bike to the supermarket. At first, he had laughed it off. Surely the snow would soon melt and the streets be open again. After two weeks, however, the snow had still been there and he had almost run out of food.
Vincent had just been opening the last tin of beans when someone had knocked on the door. For a moment he had considered pretending not to be there. What if it was a robber or murderer? He had already visualised himself standing there in the dimly-lit hallway, a gun pointed at him: “Hands up or I’ll shoot!”. But then he had remembered that he didn’t even have a key to the front door. And a murderer would probably not have knocked on the door politely. It could only have been a poor soul who had got lost in the snow and was now looking for shelter. Still, Vincent’s heart had been racing as he had slowly opened the door.
For a few moments, Vincent had stared at the figure in front of the door, unable to say anything. In front of him had stood an old man in his pyjamas. He had looked at Vincent disapprovingly, dropped a basket full of food in front of the door step, turned around and without saying a word, he had vanished again in the blowing snow.
“Thank you!”, Vincent had shouted into the whiteness after he had recollected himself. But the person had long been gone by then. Vincent had taken the basket inside: it had been full of fresh vegetables and tinned food. He had also found a little note saying: “You need it. Ration it well”.
A wind gust made the house shake and jolted Vincent out of his daydreams. The candle had burned down and it was pitch-dark in the room. He tried to feel for his phone with his hands. Maybe the battery had recovered a litte so that he could use the dim light of the screen to find the light switch and see if the electricity was working again.
“Ouch!”, he yelled, as his left hand touched the remaining wax of the tea light, which was still hot. As he pulled his hand back, he knocked an empty tin of baked beans off the table with his elbow. “Argh, damn it!”, he cried. He got up, tried to find the light switch without his phone but eventually gave up and made his way to the bed. “I’m leaving tomorrow”, he whispered to himself.
He could barely sleep that night. Leaving the hut in these weather conditions would be his certain death. Staying, however, wasn’t going to be any better: he had three tins of food left. And two tea lights. The days were still getting shorter, it was only October after all, and winter was anything but over.
As he way lying in bed waiting for the sun to rise, he noticed how cold his hands were. The house had been relatively warm all this time. But now after three days without any heating, the temperature had suddenly dropped. He pulled the duvet higher up to cover his nose since he was starting to get a sore throat from breathing in the cold air. But he hadn’t been able to change the sheets for a couple of weeks and the damp and sweaty smell made him feel sick.
He must have fallen asleep eventually. Because when he woke up, the sun was shining.
He jumped out of bed, whistling a tune to himself. Yes, the weather finally had some mercy with him. Last night, he had still doubted whether it was a good idea to leave the house today. But with the sun smiling at him this morning, all his doubts were gone. He quickly packed his backpack and got ready to leave. As he still didn’t know who had brought him the life-saving food, he decided to leave a thank-you note:
“Dear stranger who gave me food when I was stuck here in the snow:
a heartfelt thank-you!
I will return in summer and repay the favour.
Until then,
Vincent”
He put on his boots and jackets and headed to the door. He wanted to open the door, but it didn’t move an inch. “Why?”, he said quietly to himself, feeling all the energy leave his body for a moment. He rattled at the door but it didn’t help. Then he realised that the snow was probably blocking the door and so he decided to climb out of the kitchen window.
The fjord looked stunning. Everything was covered in the purest white he had ever seen. The snow crystals sparkled in the sun, the sky was light blue and completely cloudless. Vincent took a deep breath in. His muscles relaxed, a smile appeared on his face. It was the perfect day to leave. He would easily make it to the supermarket before the sun would set.
“Wait a moment”.
Vincent whipped round, his heart pounding.
“Don’t go now. I’ll show you how to find food.”
Vincent looked around, trying to find where the voice was coming from but couldn’t see anyone. All he could see was endless, glittering snow.
“It’s up to you. But I like you. I don’t want you to die today”.
Vincent’s body started to tremble. He thought of the stranger — James or John or whatever his name had been — who had been looking for someone to forgive him here. Gunni, who had told him the story of the owner of the house. And of course the guy in pyjamas who had brought him food not too long ago.
“No”, Vincent said more to himself than to the voice, “I really shouldn’t stay. I’m going crazy in this solitude. I’m starting to hear voices! It’s time to leave, it really is”. He looked at the house and his heart felt heavier than he would have liked to admit when he said his goodbye: “Thank you, dear house. Thanks for everything. I’ll see you in a couple of months”
Then he started walking away from the house.
“No one will find you out there. I don’t want you to die today”, Vincent heard the voice again.
He took a deep breath in and continued walking where he thought the road must have been in summer. It wasn’t easy to walk on the snow. With each step, he sank a little deeper into the snow. It took all his willpower to pull one foot out of the snow and set it in front of the other. He was crawling rather than walking through the white desert. Soon, his clothes were wet and hung heavily on his freezing, shivering body. Not even the constant struggle forward could warm him up. But he continued on. Step by step, eating snow to quench his thirst every now and then. After some time — he must have been walking for a good while already, he looked back to the house. It had hardly got any smaller. One of the windows was open. A man in pyjamas looked out of it and waved at him with a white handkerchief in his hand.
That was when Vincent decided not to look back anymore and to only focus on his steps. All day he continued on. And also as the sky turned orange and a wind got up that brought clouds full of snow, he kept crawling through the snow. Step by step.
