The Royal’s Whisper: A Serial Novel

Typewriter

Disclaimer: The Royal's Whisper: A Serial Novel is a work of fiction. Any reference to real people or places in this story are purely coincidental.

Part 1: Call of the Ancestors

 Rain fell softly against the window of the apartment. Miles Rowan could hear the faint rolling of distant thunder as he stared at his computer screen. The words did not come easy on this night. Miles searched desperately for the reason he was here, a way to make his family proud. Tonight, all he found was a blank screen and an incessantly blinking cursor that sought to drive him mad.

Despite the encroaching storm, the streets below the apartment bustled with activity. This only added to Miles’ sense of not belonging here, a Midwestern American accent that sounded even more nasal in a city where every vowel out of a local’s mouth sounded like a poem. As the sounds of thunder grew closer and lightning flashed, the walls of this apartment seemed to inch forward, closing in around him like a vice. 

The faint scent of the rain creeping through the slightly cracked window offered no comfort, though it reminded him vaguely of home. The smell of rain, something only Midwesterners seemed to notice in the States,took him back to the gently rolling hills of Wisconsin. 

He closed his eyes and imagined a summer storm rumbling over the corn and bean fields of his childhood farm as the smell of wet earth tickled his nostrils and cicadas hummed in the distance. Here, the rain was stale, heavy, like it carried the weight of stories he wasn’t meant to hear. 

The cursor gave one more taunting blink before Miles decided he’d had enough. He let out a sharp breath and closed the laptop.

He needed air.

***

The chill bit into Miles as soon as he stepped outside. It was a damp,briny cold that he felt bone deep. Belfast after a rain had a smell Miles couldn’t quite pin down. Peat and pavement? Or was it smoke and sea? It tugged at him, something he couldn’t quite express yet. 

With his laptop slung over his left shoulder, Miles started walking, hoping he might find a quiet place to get some words down, and if he was lucky, maybe a cup of coffee. At the very least, he was out of that prison he called an apartment. 

The rustic cobblestone walk was slick with rain, the street lamps giving it an odd sheen. As he rounded the next corner, Miles looked to his left and something caught his eye. A worn sign hung above an old, quiet-looking cafe that appeared to have been renovated recently.

“Brew & Byte,” Miles said to himself, huffing out a small laugh. “Cute. Perhaps I can get some work done here. I could use a cup of coffee.”

The door opened inward, causing a soft chime to emanate from just above Miles’ head. The odor of roasted coffee and burning peat hit him straight away. The warmth in this place was a stark contrast to the damp cold outside. 

The cozy atmosphere was a surprise at first. Jazz instrumental music played from speakers along the walls. The mismatched chairs gave the place a casual charm. A crackling fireplace occupied the far corner to his left, several cozy-looking chairs positioned in front of it. The renovation gave the place a modern edge, but Miles could almost hear the echoes of the past in the walls. He guessed many stories had been told here. Still more lingered in the walls and floorboards.

Miles found a booth tucked away in the corner opposite the fireplace and sat. He was just setting up his laptop when he heard a soft but cheerful voice beside him.

“What can I get ya?” A fair-skinned waitress had appeared, long red hair in loose braids. “Gemma” was written on the name tag on the left side of her chest.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty. Pretty enough to make him nervous, young enough to make him feel guilty for noticing.

“Medium roast. Black,” Miles said.

No raised eyebrow, no judgment. Just a soft smile and a nod before she sauntered away. Perhaps there was hope for this place after all.

The atmosphere at Brew and Byte was exactly what he needed. Not too quiet but not excessively loud either. The air was not stifling despite the roaring fire just feet away. Peat smoke wafted in the air, mixing with the roasting coffee to create a sense of calm he hadn’t felt since arriving in Belfast a few days prior. As he sat in this booth, surrounded by chattering patrons and waitstaff milling about, he thought he might get some writing done.

Miles toyed with the idea of putting earbuds in his ears, but opted to let the low hum of conversation, clinking cups, and the crackling fire fill his senses instead. The sensory blend that resulted was oddly soothing. A soft smile played on his lips as he opened his laptop, fingers hovering just above the keyboard.

That’s when he noticed the man.

A few tables away, there sat an Irishman who looked to be in his fifties. A newsboy cap covered his thinning dark hair. Miles caught him glancing his way from time to time. He held something in his hand, but Miles couldn’t see from a distance what it was.

This is how a lot of true crime documentaries start, he thought.

After nearly an hour of coffee, keyboard tapping, and uneasy glances, Miles saw the Irishman stand. He tensed as the man approached. 

“Top of the mornin’ to ye,” Miles said in his best attempt at an Irish brogue.

The Irishman smiled, a sheaf of papers now clearly visible lightly clenched in his right hand. He ignored Miles’ greeting entirely and slid into the booth across from him.

“Hope ye don’t mind if I sit,” he said. “You’re an American writer, are ye not?”

Miles nodded. “I am. Miles Rowan,” he said, extending his right hand.

The Irishman shook briskly with him. “Rowan,” he said. “Is yer da’ a Scotsman?”

“More or less,” Miles said. “My grandfather was born here in Belfast. I came here to write my next book. Some of it takes place in a coffee shop like this one.”

The man nodded. “My name is Michael O’Rourke,” he said. “Friends call me Mick or Mickey. You may as well if ye like.”

Miles nodded, a small smile creeping across his face. 

“Alright, Mickey,” he said, “What can I do for you?” He gestured to the papers. “What have you got there?” 

Mickey hesitated, looking at the stack of papers as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “Oh this? I was wonderin’ if you could help me make sense o’ it. Found it near my typewriter, but I haven’t used that thing in years.”

Miles took the papers, their weight oddly familiar in his hands. The lettering was old, uneven, the kind produced from machines with more history than precision. 

“Looks like an old Royal typeface,” Miles said, scanning the pages.

“Aye,” Mickey said, “Royal 10 I believe.”

Miles skimmed the pages again. The words made his arms break out in goosebumps. Ominous, urgent, written with a desperation that felt almost…alive.

“And you’re sure you don’t remember writing this?”

Mickey shook his head, looking down at his arthritic fingers. “I couldn’t work those keys anymore if I wanted to.”

Miles nodded. Hesitation tinged his voice as he pressed forward. “Forgive my boldness, Mickey, but do you mind showing me exactly what’s going on?”

Mickey smiled and nodded. “I don’t mind at all. It’s just up the road a little to my house. I’ll show you everything.”

Miles followed Mickey outside the coffee shop. There was a chill in the air now, heavy with something neither of them understood. As they drove toward Mickey’s house, a strange feeling hung in the air between them, part fear, part excitement, and something different, older.

When they stepped inside, Miles felt a presence immediately.

“There’s definitely something here, Mickey,” he said finally. 

As he looked at the old Royal, Miles knew without fully understanding why, that whatever was here had been waiting for him. 

What’s in Mickey’s typewriter? What does it mean for Miles and his journey in Belfast? Tune in next time to find out.