The Artist And The Spectre

Chapter 2

Not a handful of minutes had passed (or so it had seemed) that the small girl heard herself being cooed and fretted over as a big woman (her aunt) popped out of a door.
Her uncle, a sinewy, long-limbed fellow followed suit; emerging with groceries in hand from behind a corner. He looked at her up and down and patted her back before asking how her trip had gone.

The young artist was cut short before she could respond to any of it: out of nowhere she was scooped up like a frightened kitten and found herself in her aunt's stout, pudgy arms.

Rowan forced air through her stubborn lungs and stretched her mouth into a thin semblance of a smile despite the adrenaline flooding her system. The tight embrace sent her heart into a crazed gallop; her neurons flaring, screaming to get away by any means necessary.
She wrestled her body into a rigid stillness, feeling the sketchbook's paper starting to crumple from how hard her bleached fingertips were gripping the page.

Panic.
She was in a living room rancid with the stench of alcohol. Heavy footsteps boomed up the stairs. And a voice, low and slurred, bellowing after her.
She imperceptibly shook her head, chasing the memories away.

With the closest approximation of nonchalance manageable she pried herself from the hug to exchange pleasantries with her relatives. She assured them she had been safe, that train rides had gone smoothly, and that indeed she had eaten a hearty breakfast and lunch.
(Her uncle seemed skeptical at the last statement, and professed that regardless "youngsters ought to have some meat on their bones, dammit!" and that she'd be more than welcome to have a piece of cake once they got home. His wife gently shut him up with a hand on his hairy arm.)

Finally they led her to their car, a weathered little red van perched on a patch of grass just outside the station gates.
"I know she's not a looker, but she's as reliable as they come," her uncle assured as he revved the engine; Her aunt rolled her eyes in mock exasperation and winked. Taken aback, Rowan closed an eye in a way she could only hope was playful rather than jerky and nervous.

She sunk back into the torn plush seats, then paused. A-ha!
The duffel bag was unzipped and rummaged through until the small artist triumphantly pulled out a heavy schoolbook.
She plopped the tome on her lap and pretended to be engrossed in its contents, satisfied at having now managed to ward herself from well-meaning conversation attempts without being rude to her hosts.

A smell of salt and wildflowers blew through the open slit in the window as the van lurched forward. Rowan leaned back and let herself be lulled into a daze by the lively banter of her uncles and the beautiful scenery unfurling around her.