Chapter 3: Just a Normal Day (Sort of)

"It's the great mystery of human life that old grief passes gradually into quiet, tender joy."

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Chapter 3: Just a Normal Day (Sort of)

If there was one thing Sam could control, it was cleanliness.

Ghosts? Out of his control. Strange messages in guestbooks? Unfortunate. But dust? Dirt? Stains? Those were problems he could actually fix.

He started in the guesthouse kitchen, rolling up his sleeves like he was about to perform surgery. The counters had accumulated a fine layer of dust, the sink had a suspicious water stain, and the fridge… well, the fridge smelled like something had died in there. A dramatic thought, sure, but considering recent events, it wasn't totally unwarranted.

He emptied the fridge first, holding his breath as he tossed out expired containers he didn't remember buying. Scrubbing the shelves down, he muttered under his breath, "Not haunted, just gross. Not haunted, just gross."

Next was the dining area. He wiped the old wooden table, polished the chairs, and swept the floors, occasionally glaring at the guestbook sitting on the sideboard like it had personally wronged him.

Then came the real battle—the floors.

Sam attacked them with a mop like a man possessed. He worked methodically, from the guesthouse entrance to the back hallway, every swish of the mop turning his nerves into something productive. The rhythmic movement helped. Scrubbing, rinsing, wringing out the cloth—it gave him the illusion of control.

By the time he was done, the entire house smelled like lemon cleaner and soap. The air felt… lighter. Like maybe if he just kept cleaning, he could scrub away whatever unsettling feeling lingered in the corners of this place.

But he wasn't done yet.

Stepping outside, he took a deep breath and eyed the front porch. The wood was old and worn, some of the paint chipping, but it still had potential. If the house looked welcoming, people would want to stay. People would leave good reviews. People would come and go, making it less of an empty, weirdly eerie house with a questionable history.

That was the goal.

Sam grabbed a broom and started sweeping. Leaves, dust, and dirt collected into neat little piles. He wiped down the porch railings, making mental notes of where the wood needed fixing. Then, with a bucket of soapy water, he scrubbed the porch floor, the repetitive motions grounding him.

Everything was going fine—until a few minutes later, footsteps crunched against the gravel driveway.

Sam looked up to see an old man making his way toward him. White hair, sturdy build, wearing a thick brown jacket despite the fact that the weather didn't call for it. He had the casual, unhurried walk of someone who had lived in the area for a long time.

"Morning, kid," the man greeted.

Sam straightened. "Morning."

The old man stopped at the bottom of the porch steps, watching him work. "Didn't think I'd see someone cleaning this place again."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Again?"

The man gave a small smile. "That man was the same way. Kept this house in perfect shape. Always out here fixing things up."

Sam hesitated, shifting his grip on the broom. "You knew my uncle?"

"Oh yeah." The man nodded, glancing up at the house. "Good man. Well-liked. This place—back when he ran it—it was the place to stay. Always full. Got nothing but praise." He chuckled. "I even stayed here myself, back when I was new to town."

Sam's stomach did something weird. His uncle had never talked much about the guesthouse. Never talked much at all, really.

"What was he like?" he asked.

The old man smiled fondly but then just shrugged. "Ah, nothing much to say. He was just… a good guy."

Something about the way he said it sounded off. Like there was something to say, but he wasn't saying it.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You said he helped you with something back then."

The old man scratched the back of his head, then waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, that's a story for another time."

Sam opened his mouth to press further, but the old man had already turned slightly, looking toward the street.

"Well," he said, "it's good to see this place up and running again. Hope you're settling in alright."

Sam forced a nod. "Yeah. So far, so good."

"Good, good," the man said, giving the house one last glance before stepping away. "Let me know if you need anything."

Then he walked off down the street, leaving Sam standing there, the broom still in his hands, feeling like he had more questions now than before.

He looked up at the guesthouse. The windows stared back, empty and still.

His uncle had been well-liked. People had loved staying here. The place had been warm, welcoming.

So what the hell had changed?

And why did it feel like the house was waiting for him to figure it out?

---END.