The Ghost of Winn Peterson

5. Vicar

Vicar held the journal in his hands and watched the pages flutter slightly as he trembled. It was no tremble of fear; he'd simply been without food for just a little too long. Food, however, was downstairs. He would suffer through his shaking just a little longer, and besides, this peculiar journal posed far too many questions to be ignored for something as petty as sustenance.

Who on Earth was Winn Peterson, and why was her journal in the attic of his brother's house? As far as Vicar knew, the Andrews' residence was not located on a cliff in Dorset, but a multi-tiered townhouse crammed between a hundred others on a crowded street in the much farther north-east of Cambridge. Granted, most of the other houses were empty, but that was the way the Andrews' had always liked it - isolated and nearly excommunicated from the rest of the people. There was absolutely no reason an American's diary from a sea town should have been in this attic; yet, there it was, almost breathing in Vicar's hands. He took a deep breath and set the book down for a moment, wondering if it could have been fiction. Nobody in the family had ever written anything fantastical, even with Gaston's predisposition to telling stories to Vicar, so that was primarily unbelievable. Nevermind if an Andrews wrote it, what Vicar found most curious about it all was the American bit. What a curious coincidence, that he should have made his secondary home across the sea in the Land of the Brave, as he often heard in the confusingly patriotic country, and upon reuniting with his homeland, he invariably meet with someone in the exact opposite situation.

"What did you think of our humble land?" he asked the journal, stroking the hard leather cover with a finger. "Will you leave it as I did, or revel in the mysteries we pretend hide in the very soil?" He wanted very much to continue reading (already, he was thoroughly invested in whether or not this eager little Winn succeeded in maintaining a garden, or even a housemate), but the footsteps of before sounded at the attic door and a voice soon followed.

Vicar held his breath and stared in horror at the crack of the attic door. How he wished there were a ladder, to better dissuade visitors, or something he could perhaps kick in the way. Would willing it hard enough to stay shut work?

"It's nearly suppertime, Vicar. You must come down and eat!" The voice was kind and understanding, but in the way one's words are when they feel sorry for the subject of conversation. Pitying. Vicar shuddered in disgust, though the mention of food almost broke him. Pity was for people without purpose and Vicar had plenty to do in the twilight hours of his brother's funeral.

"I won't!" he called, forgetting to ask how they knew he was up there.

"You are not some child! You must come and face this. At least eat something, please!" Holding his breath, Vicar refused to answer again. If they wanted him so badly to reenter society, they would have to break down the door, answer the mystery of Winn's fate, or bring his brother back to life and he was entirely certain none would happen. He only had to wait a few moments longer before a heavy and prolonged sigh sounded at the door, and then faded away down the hall. The presence of the living gave Vicar a scare, reminding him unconsciously that he was wrapped up in the inconsequential life of someone no longer on the Earth. Caught in the web of his brother's past, all haphazardly jumbled up in these forgotten boxes, Vicar began to wonder if he would forget how to live himself. Well, almost thought. As soon as the words began to form in his distressed and easily distracted mind, he caught the faintest glimpse of a glittering box across the attic from the window. Amber shimmered on the corner of it, illuminated only by the briefest moment possible as the sun shifted just a little lower on the horizon beyond the Andrews house.

Curiousity piqued at once, Vicar stood and made his way over the sheets and lamps guarding the path to the mysterious object. Upon picking it up, he realised he was holding a pen case, and within was a handsome fountain pen, quite old looking and worn around the base, despite the care obviously bestowed upon it. Something was scrawled on the box, barely legible even to Vicar, who had made a career (well, it had been a career, but he shook his head at that) out of deciphering old text from even older sources. Straining his eyes was more of a task than he would have liked, so he shifted over to the stained glass window and lifted the box aloft.