Ghostwriter: Part 2

The old shepherd was sitting quietly in his rustic kitchen sipping on his glass of sheep’s milk. His only son, Orson walked into the kitchen with sweat matting his long sleeve to his chest. Orson was in his late-twenties, thin, dark brown hair, wide ears, and a bit lanky.

The old shepherd looked at his boy. “Son,” his voice was weak and hard to hear. “Once you have sheered the sheep, take Lady with you to let them graze, will you?”

“Sure, Pop,” said Orson. Orson walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of cold water. He leaned against the counter and caught his breath. He looked at his father – Orson studied him and the setting. He was trying to understand when this story took place and to what relevance this shepherd was to Vivian or the man chasing her, Ethan. The house he was in was quaint and well maintained but it felt antiquated. Perhaps this was a period piece? He wasn’t sure. Orson took another sip of his water.

The old shepherd, now his father, feebly pointed towards Orson. “Son, what’s that book you have there by your side?” Orson looked to his left and next to him was The Great Case of Vivian Myers. He set down his glass and picked it up. There was a click pen shoved in the middle of the pages. Orson opened it to that page and saw the right page was completely blank but the left was half written. He saw closer that the page continued from where he last wrote.

The old shepherd looked at his boy. “Son,” his voice was weak and hard to hear. “Once you have sheered the sheep, take Lady with you to let them graze, will you?”

“Sure, Pop,” said Orson. Orson walked into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of cold water.

The events were happening in real time and being recorded in the book. Orson realized that now that he was part of the story, what he said was being written, becoming canon.

“It’s just a story, Pop,” Orson replied.

“What’s it about?” the shepherd asked innocently.

“I don’t know. I’m not very far into it.” The shepherd nodded and took a slow sip of sheep’s milk. Orson looked back at the pages and saw their dialogue was now in the book, too. “Hey, Pops,” he said aloud while he watched those very words appear in text in the book – he shut it and looked up at the old man.

“Yes, son?”

“We’re not expecting any company are we?”

“We are, yes.”

“Who?”

“Ethan’s coming. Should be here any moment.” The shepherd sat still in his grey, wooden chair.

“Why is he coming?” Orson pressed.

“Son…” the shepherd started. There was a knock on the door. Orson and the shepherd looked towards it. The shepherd looked back weakly at his son in hopes he would answer it for him. Orson walked across the kitchen, past his father sitting at the table, and to the front door.

Orson opened the door and saw a tall, stout man with a square jaw and piercing eyes staring back at him. His collar bones protruded from his body like cable wires. The man had short black hair in a comb-over and a quite modern buttoned-up shirt. It surprised Orson how stark the contrast was between his own wool clothing and this man’s modern look – of course only Orson knew it was modern.

The man opened his mouth slowly to speak, seemingly surprised to see Orson. “Hello, is Old Connor home?” He peered inside and saw the shepherd sitting humbly at the dining table. The man asserted himself inside the home. “Connor!”

The man walked in with a warm smile and went right up to the shepherd – Orson knew now his father’s name was Connor – and shook his hand excitedly. “Hello, Ethan, it’s good to see you.” Ethan smiled greatly.

Ethan sat down at the dining table and across from old Connor. He looked back up at Orson, who was shutting the door, and stared at him. Orson saw that above Ethan’s polite and joyous smile was a sinister look in his eyes; something devious lived in his soul.

Ethan broke his gaze on Orson and returned eye contact with Connor. “How’s the farm, Old Connor?”

“Going alright. Son’s helping me lots.” He gestured to his right at Orson.

Ethan’s expression dropped and he locked eyes with Orson. “Your son?” he said in a low voice.

“That’s right, he keeps up with the sheep in my old age.” Connor looked back proudly at Orson. “Won’t be long ‘fore you’re looking after this farm once I’m too weak to even get up, eh?”

“It’ll be some time still, Pop. You’re stronger than you think.” Orson stayed in character.

Ethan gently tapped the table, rolling his fingers from pinky to index repeatedly. “I came here to ask you something.”

“Go ahead,” Connor replied kindly.

“When was the last time you saw Vivian?” Ethan asked slowly. Orson then looked at his feet and saw the floorboards he was standing on. He suddenly remembered that somewhere underneath them was Vivian hiding for her life. Orson watched Connor, remembering that in the book – which was sitting on the kitchen counter still – Connor agreed to hide her.

“Oh… a long while,” Connor spoke plainly.

“Really?” Ethan questioned.

“Can’t say I know exactly.”

Ethan nodded up and down though he disapproved. “So, uncle, you haven’t seen Vivian at all today?” Uncle? A cold chill passed through Orson like ice. He began to understand why Ethan eyed him so cautiously. “Because I heard that Vivian came to your farm last night.”

Connor didn’t break. He looked dead ahead at his nephew. “Don’t know where you heard that from, Ethan.”

Ethan leaned forward. “Where is my wife?”

Orson lost his breath. Vivian’s chase was more complicated than he thought. He decided to interject. “Like he said, we haven’t seen her.”

Ethan slowly turned his head towards Orson and glared. He paused and held the room in a burning silence that terrified Orson. “Who… are you?”

Orson froze. It was easy to say Connor’s son but something about that answer scared him. “What do you mean?”

Ethan placed his elbow on the table and pointed across it at Connor. “This man. Connor. Raised me. I don’t remember… ever seeing you in my life.”

Orson swallowed hard. “What kind of nonsense are you talking about?” Connor suddenly shouted, sparing Orson from answering. “The two of you grew up together. Played with a sheep bladder, tossed it back and forth like a balloon as youngsters.”

Orson carefully moved from the front door and walked towards the kitchen. Ethan watched him anxiously, like he was about to explode. Orson took a sip from his room temperature glass of water and placed both hands on the counter and leaned on it, facing away from them.

Ethan stood up. “What’s your name?”

“Why that’s, Orson, Ethan,” Connor answered for him once again. “What’s gotten into you? You hit your head on something?”

Ethan began to slowly walk towards Orson. He heard a light click sound as Orson leaned down on the counter. Ethan paused. “What is that?” Ethan asked. “What is that in front of you?” Orson leaned up and spun around to face Ethan.

Suddenly, they heard faint baaing from outside; growing louder until it was right outside the house. The baaing surrounded them, like a riot waiting to barge.

“What in the—” Connor looked around the room? “What in tarnation?” Orson smirked at Ethan. “Orson!” Connor shouted as forcefully as he could with his weak voice. “Go take a look at what is going on out there.”

Orson turned around and grabbed the book on the counter. He spun back towards Ethan and shouldered into him as he ran by. Ethan slammed against a cupboard. “Hey!” Ethan ran after him.

Orson sprinted past Connor and to the front door. He flung it opened and revealed a massive herd of sheep trotting outside the door. A sheep snuck inside between Orson’s legs, and then they all began to follow. Orson quickly leapt over a sheep and escaped outside.

The room filled with white wool as the herd flocked in the house mindlessly, baaing incessantly. Connor was being dragged around as the sheep knocked his chair every which way. Ethan was cornered in the kitchen, trapped far from the exit. He tried pushing through but the sheep wouldn’t budge, closing in around him and filling every open space. They heard a playful barking outside. Connor looked out the door and saw a border collie jumping sporadically outside with a smile on its face and its tongue flopping out of its mouth. “Lady!!” Connor cried angrily.

Orson hurried to the back of the house and saw a small hole tunneled under the base of the home. He got on all fours and looked in the dank hiding area. “Come on!” he called out, though he couldn’t see anything. In the midst of the obnoxious baaing, he heard quick shuffling and small grunts. A woman crawled out in muddy clothes and emerged from the hideaway under the floorboards. Orson helped her stand up and looked at her dirtied face.

“Vivian Myers?” Orson asked.

“Yes, who are you?” she replied.

“I’m Orson. I wrote to you on the checkout card.”

She exhaled quickly; a rush of hope filled her. “Orson,” she repeated. “Follow me.” She grabbed him by the arm and ran away into the pasture, with straggling sheep making their way into the house behind them.