The Mystery of Winchester Manor

Introduction

Before he knew it, dawn had begun to creep from over the rolling plains far off in the distance. The tree line to his right, about half of a mile away, began to show signs that the little creatures that inhabited the trees were awakening. Arthur Winchester sat on the roof of his house, writing the last few lines of his final journal entry. The quill pen, which he had designed to hold a respectable amount of ink, scribbled across the parchment as a devious smile grew on his young face. It was a shot in the dark, the ending he wrote; maybe he would be wrong. But he knew that all great stories must come to an end in some way, and as bizarre as his ending was, the truth was not far off.

Tearing the last page from the diary, he slipped the paper into a hidden sleeve he had cut with his pocketknife on the back inside cover. Yes, he thought to himself. This will do perfectly, he sneered as the sun’s young rays blinded his vision. Arthur stuffed the diary into his pocket and put the quill pen between his teeth as he carefully lowered himself from the roof of the mansion to the second floor balcony of his adopted sister’s room. Shame, for she was such a sweetheart, Arthur frowned. It was a shame that she was killed. He quite liked his sister.

The curtains, sticky and stained, billowed in the wind as Arthur’s shoes made a squishing sound beneath him, working his way out of the room and away from the stench. The tall, grand hallway was one of the few places he actually liked about the house. Arthur recalled memories of when the family hadn’t beaten and pushed him around. The only days when they didn’t through him around were Sundays, for it was on those mornings that a fresh shipment of bacon and chicken eggs would be delivered from town the night before (by Arthur, of course). The family would then sit down and thank Arthur in their unique way before stuffing their mouths with fresh food.

The sweet smell of bread always filled the dining hall after breakfast because Arthur’s mother, the lazy cook that she was, would take it upon herself to thank Arthur personally by making a delicious loaf of bread that would make any man collapse to his knees. Though Arthur was only allowed two small pieces (every one else could eat all they wanted), he still enjoyed the bread. He closed his eyes and started the tedious task of dragging the girl behind him, her blood staining the carpets and hardwood of the corridor. Arthur staggered down the staircase, the thumping noise filling his eardrums. He was disappointed to find that stuffing the girl into a sheet didn’t help the process of moving her.

When Arthur reached the bottom he walked straight into the main sitting room and placed the girl in front of the fireplace. Only her arm was visible, dangling from under the sheet, limp and cold.

“Damn it’s cold in here,” he whispered, the fumes from his hot breath becoming visible in the air. Arthur took the matchbox from the mantle and struck a match, throwing it onto the dry wood. It lit without trouble, and Arthur took a glance at the room. All the furniture; the two sitting chairs for his parents, the small table where they rested their alcohol, the books that they read and burned like their hopes and dreams, and even their serene paintings, rested on the wall to his right, stacked high. The tall windows were boarded up beside them; his parents said that it provided more privacy. Arthur just laughed. How could anyone not achieve privacy when they build a house in the middle of a field that rests in the middle of nowhere? The only neighbors they had were within a six-mile radius, in town.

It was all right though. Everything had changed. Nothing was the same as it was the night before. Besides the wall of stacked with furniture, there wasn’t much to see on the dark and musty hardwood floors…except for the body that lay under a white sheet, stained in red, the girl’s hand decorated with scratches and her wrist slit clean open. Sticky purple still flowed from her delicate wrist in tiny puddles, which Arthur scoffed at.

“She was a good sister,” he muttered. “But dumb. Stupid, just like the rest of you bastards. And soon, I’ll get them too. As they say, those who are dead are not really dead. Wouldn’t you say so, Annalise?” Arthur stared down at the lifeless girl’s body and was startled to see that her finger twitched. As if it were a normal instinct, Arthur threw the sheet from over his sister to see her looking angrily up at him, the words catching in her bloody teeth.

“JESUS CHRIST, ANNALISE! You scared the shit out of me. Here, I know what will make you feel bet-“ The words caught as he heard Annalise’s message: “I solved the mystery. Rest in peace, mother fucker.”

A second later, Annalise pulled her father’s pistol from under her sticky clothing and raised the gun to Arthur’s head. With her last bit of strength, she pulled the trigger and blew her adopted brother’s brains into the giant fireplace behind him, the fire eating the flesh, craving more. Arthur’s stare of utter shock and amazement was frozen on his face as he stumbled back and fell into the fire, consumed by the roaring inferno.

Annalise, lowered her arm and head so that she could finally rest, knowing she had won. Keeping true to her intentions of always hiding behind a curtain, she dragged the white sheet over her body and let her good arm stick out, the only part of her that wasn’t ugly after the long night. Annalise Winchester died on that cold, hard floor. She may not have stopped Arthur from going through with his plan, but she had solved the mystery, which is what Arthur would have wanted.

He was not a killer. He was not insane. Arthur was a vigilante, or so he wanted to be known. No one would know, though, because his story burned with the rest of him. It was thought that nothing would be left of Arthur Winchester. Not him, or his diary. But as he always said, all great stories must come to an end. And his was far from finished.