The Ghost of Winn Peterson

9. Vicar

The sound of a growl sounded in the darkness and startled Vicar so severely that he fell from his perch on the chest where he had made his seat. After a long, fearful moment, suspecting the rain to crash through the attic, he realised there was no rain to be had, and there was nothing in the room with him, rather the sound of his own belly crying for sustenance. The complete consumption that journal had on his mind was so intense that as simple a sound as his hunger had felt to him like a continuation of Winn Peterson's records! Vicar chuckled to himself, marvelling at the strength of Winn's writing. An author she wished to be, and an author she was. He wondered what her story was like, this vaguely-explained ghost story of, what had she called it, "isolation and strangers and untrustworthy men?" If a journal was half as well-written and a quarter as refined as a novel, then the mystery of Ms. Peterson's imagination would have been a timeless classic. Was the draft of such a novel in this attic, as well?

Another growl, fierce and insistent, sounded out from the floor. Heaving a sigh and prying his foot loose from the sheet it'd been tangled it, Vicar stood, stretched his cramped limbs. The dull glint of the vampiric pen, the Giaour, rested on the seat in front of him, mocking him. He had tried to forget it as he read for the last few hours, tried to ignore the box when he'd lit a candle rolling around on the floor, but always did the box sparkle in the corner of his eye. Even now, as he made his way toward the attic door, the pen seemed to demand his attention. Whatever the wood was made of, it appeared to glow red, pulsing with some lifeforce Vicar wasn't sure was really there. Perhaps he hadn't eaten in so long that his mind was failing him. Maybe being lost in the world of fantasy and fear had gifted him with some rare insight into the truer nature of things.

Whatever the case, it was likely grief, he knew that. Unresolved hurt and a reluctance to face the death of the last person dear to his heart.

He grunted and approached the door. Had they left food for him? He prayed desperately that he would not have to descend into the mourning part of the Andrews home for sustenance. There would be no question as to his decision - starvation was preferable. Fortunately for his trembling limbs, a small plate of food had been left on a stool outside of the door. Peeking down the stairs to ensure that nobody was waiting in ambush to drag him to his duties, Vicar snatched the plate and withdrew once more.

As he attacked his bread with fervour, Vicar began to wander, lifting things with his foot as he passed, halfway curious if something other than coincidental pens showed themselves under the waste. When nothing stood out, his wanderings turned back to musings, and before long, he found himself back in his days the university, some weeks after those strange Latin students had revealed their decidedly un-Latin discussion.

"Are you still reading Byron?" He'd been late going home for a few days, a combination of fixing texts in need of a French commentary for the international delegation of students, and an unacknowledged curiousity to see the students once more. After Vicar's third night, his latter motives were answered with success, and he found himself approaching the table of the six friends with more than admonishments for silence this time. The one with the glasses had looked up from the book they were arguing over today, sniffed down his smudged nose.

"Goodness, no," he replied, much to the embarrassment of his fellow debaters. "I meant... no, no longer. Byron's secrets proved... farcical, aspects of only parlour-trick interest."

"You sound like an idiot," he was told by the elven woman, who smiled up at me once she'd sufficiently shamed the other with a stare. One of the students I was unfamiliar with leaned forward and offered an answer.

"Today, we study the thrills of Emily Brontë, or as she was better known, Ellis Bell."

"Whatever for," I countered, confused about the relationship between the vampiric lyrics penned by Lord Byron and the decidedly more... normal interests of Ms. Brönte. I also wondered, not for the first time, what these particular people were doing, discussing those unrelated to their class. Granted, exclusive interest in one subject wasn't a requirement for intelligent youth, but Vicar found it nevertheless strange that they were suddenly so passionate about these stories and authors. Perhaps it was only an extended class project, but he doubted that, as much as they whispered in the dark and private library.