When I was younger, my father said/Wear a smile, show respect/When I was younger, you never said/When I was older, I'd feel helpless
-When We Were Younger, You Me at Six
Peter Grace’s house was beautiful. It was very near the graveyard; the old vicarage no less. Figures. I stared up at the towering building, once again angry at the Vicars of a bygone time exploiting the money of the desperate peasants. It was a stunning house, all turrets and stone and arched windows. I stared through my thick framed glasses at the towering house. It was beautiful, yes, but I found almost... overbearing. Like it was too rigid and formal. Though from what I’d just heard about Peter’s family, the house seemed a perfect representation of them. I reached out to knock, but the sound of Peter’s explosive laughter came from behind me. He couldn’t hide how uncomfortable he was being here, and his laughter felt too forced to my ears. I turned anyway.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re dead, Wendy. Just walk on through.” To illustrate his point, he stepped past me and through the door. Through the physical, closed, door. Shrugging (Gawd, this boy was wearing off on me very quickly), I followed. It was an odd feeling walking through something solid. I expected to feel something, but it was nothing. I was only an image after all. The thought was vaguely depressing, but I shook it off. I was trying not to dwell on things, because if I was going to be like this forever, then contemplating the possibility of my existence was going to be hell. No pun intended.
The hall was just as grand as the exterior, all marble floor and grand wooden staircase. A giant mirror was on the far wall and a risked a glance. No reflection. I didn’t expect anything else to be honest, but it still scared me a little. I looked at Peter again, and he looked like he wanted to be sick. I thanked the stars that ghosts couldn’t because I didn’t know how to deal with it. He shut his eyes and shook his head.
“Peter, are you okay?” I asked.
“I haven’t been here in three years.” He replied quietly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Ghosts can’t, so count yourself lucky. Do you think anyone’s home?” Just as I said it, one of the many doors off the hall opened and a short balding man came into the hall. From Peter’s look of fear and sick hatred, I could tell this was his father. Funny, they looked nothing alike. While Peter was tall, blond, lean and pale, his father was short, overweight and practically bald. Though I could see flecks of Peter’s green in his eyes, though his father’s were turning milky behind the thin half moon glasses.
“MARIA!” The man bellowed, “MARIA, WHERE ARE YOU?”
“I’m in the living room, dear!” A woman’s voice called back from behind a different door. Peter’s father nodded and walked into the room from which his wife called, Peter and I following.
It was obviously his mother that gave Peter his looks. She was tall, with long, blonde hair piled up on top of her head and pale blue eyes. She was younger than I imagined; he husband looked almost seventy while she looked barely fifty. She was sitting on a chaise long with a book (a bible), light streaming in from the enormous window looking over the immaculate garden. The living room was set in varying shades of beige and gold, and looked relatively classy, although I hated to admit it. Something I quickly noticed was that there were no pictures of Peter. There were ones of a little girl with both parents at various ages, doing different things in each one. Scattered in between all of these were paintings and art of Jesus and scenes from the bible. It made me sick that they’d all but forgotten about their son. Or maybe they had forgotten him; I had no way of knowing. The man leaned down to Maria and kissed her gently on the cheek.
