The Grimm Dossier

Chapter 1 / Prologue - The Tower

England - West Coast 
Dartmoor, Newton Abbot
St. George, Chapel of St. George
06 October 1898, 6:11 pm

The twilight provided only moderate brightness through the stained glass windows set into antique wooden frames and masonry, enveloping the sacristy at the side of the imposing building, particularly in a dim gloom. The light from the few lit candles broke on a silver decanter and climbed over the worn wooden beads of a rosary to settle on the silver threads of a gown. A dozen Bibles and hymn books leaned against each other on a shelf of polished wood while neatly folded corporals of white linen rested in the chambers of a wall shelf. The rest of the sacristy was sparsely furnished - only a few holy pictures and a small table found their place in the tiny room.

Next to burnt-down candle stubs on their iron holders, a man's robed figure bent there over the yellowed pages of a book. The irregular scratching accompanied the circular movements of his fingers as the quill left new, curved letters on the small stack of parchment. Father Ewans had already come so close to the paper over time that the blackness of the texts could be seen reflected in the half-moon-shaped glasses of the pince-nez on his knobbly nose. The smell of ink, polished wood, and old parchment tickled the nose of its author. It wouldn't have taken much for the tip of it to be blackened in addition to his fingers.

"Alan! Come with the matches at once!" the man's rasping voice croaked impatiently as his bony fingers slid to the garment. Rustling softly, they loosened the white priest ribbon but did not pull it entirely from the grip of the stiff collar. Silver-grey hair carefully combed adorned the head of the soul shepherd, whose eyes were noticeably more strained with every passing minute due to the fading daylight.

The fingertips of his left hand drummed on the wood of the imposing desk in a much faster rhythm. At that moment, a harsh gust of wind unexpectedly drove into the vestry. One after another, it wiped aside the book's pages, and the remaining sparse light was abruptly extinguished.

"Damn!"

Following the clatter of the pen, the priest's flat hand came down abruptly on the old wood, which groaned under the harsh impact. The dull thud caused the small inkpot to clink softly before the shrill, wooden scraping of the chair's legs echoed off the chamber walls like a cry of protest.

"ALAN!"

This time the quivering voice already carried the angry sound of a thread of patience stretched to the breaking point while rumbling footsteps led the way to the shallow side dresser.

"I've told you at least a thousand times to close the damn windows!" the old man clamored, "You know how much I hate it when it pulls at my neck!"

His fingers reached into the darkness, groping over leather covers and rough spines with inset letters. Something fell over, and a soft curse spilled muffled into the darkness. It took a few moments for the priest to leave the scanning path that led along the books. He turned downwards and followed the side edge to finally feel the desk drawer's metallic handles. It took a little more strength to pull the jammed drawer open amid the audible creaking of the old, warped oak. In the oppressive silence, even this tiny sound was reflected from the walls like a too-loud clearing of the throat amid devotion.

"Why only, O Lord, do you punish me with such an incompetent, useless altar boy?" the man complained, full of self-pity, as he finally pulled out the rectangular case of stiff paper from among all sorts of other trinkets. Only a little content, however, rattled inside. The fleeting feeling of success at having found matches was only able to please him briefly. Impatiently, he pulled the dented box and the small wood out of its container to pull it restlessly over the roughened surface with a short jerk.