Of course, he did more than simply watch specters; he had taken it upon himself to rid the world of those ghosts who were wont to cause mayhem. He had no conventional occupation, and therefore hardly a penny to his name, but having no qualms about begging for victuals he managed to carry out a somewhat ignored existence. He was a lean, tall fellow, whose head seemed to perpetually lean to one side and whose lips ever bore a faint smile of pure cunning. When he had made Victor's hometown his own temporary haunt, he kept to the bridge when he was not seeking food; there he could lean out over the water in a manner that reminded those who noticed him of a vulture, motionless and yet causing one to think that he spied something no one else could possibly observe, or care to.

It was to this person that poor Victor Van Dort hastened, desperate for aid. Christmas had been a grim affair for him; not only had Victoria refused to look at the present he had purchased for her, thus rendering it necessary for him to avoid the gift she had for him, but she hadn't spoken a word to him. It had been terrible for near everyone, save the couple's parents—they seemed to think such behavior more than natural. After all, they hadn't bought each other presents.

Victor could not sleep a wink that awful night; so, instead of remaining in bed feeling quite wretched, he fled the house and sought Pastor Galswells. The pastor had been more than helpful, drowsily recommending the assistance of the town's only "Ghost Watcher," by name Whim Peelding.

"Mr. Peelding?" Victor swallowed with some unease as he stood at the edge of the bridge. "Mr. Peelding? May I speak with you, sir?"

Mr. Peelding jerked his head towards Victor but seemed unwilling to leave his post. "What do you want?" he hissed.

"I—are you not a ghost w-watcher, sir?"

"Ghost watcher?" Mr. Peelding gave a small, bitter laugh. "I daresay."

Victor squared his shoulders. "Please," he said with a smidgen of boldness, "I need your help, sir. Ghosts, you know. That sort of thing."

"That sort of thing?" Peelding's interest became somewhat more noticeable. "What do you know of ghosts?"

"Enough," Victor said. He sighed deeply. "I lived with them for ever so long...a while back, you know."

"Ah." Peelding came near him then, though hesitantly. "You lived here with them?"

Victor was becoming quite nervous. "Well, I...we...they...I was in the Land of the Dead then, sir..."

"The Land of the..." Peelding sucked in his breath and grasped Victor's hands. "Say you're lying," he rasped.

"I'm lying!" Victor cried, badly frightened, and he attempted to free himself of the madman's firm hold.

"Wait," Peelding cried as his would-be employer broke free and made a desperate dash for home. When Victor paused he approached him with long, quick steps, saying as he did so, "You require my assistance; that much is clear to me. And I will do all I can for you if you will, in return, tell me all you know of the land you speak of."

A little taken aback by this proposition, Victor eased his way backwards as he said, "Why would you like me to tell you about it? Has it something to do with your occupation?"

Peelding watched Victor's slow progress as that person retreated from him and a look of utter panic crossed his face for an instant. "Sir," he said, attempting politeness for the first time, "it does."

There was something in Peelding's keen gaze that caused Victor to doubt his honesty very much indeed. "I'm afraid..." he ventured as he tried to think up some excuse for not imparting the desired information.

Peelding took a few steps towards Victor and dropped to his knees. "I don't mean the dead any harm," he said, sounding still more mad than he had previously. "And what of your problem? How will you rid yourself of your ghosts without me, hmm?"

Peelding had a good point; Victor's heart sank as he realized that, if he wished to clear things up in his home, he himself had no choice at all.