2020-08-20 - Raccoons Are My Tribe

Not many sounds are as soothing as that of the surf gently lapping across the rocky shore, waves breaking on the sand and slowly sliding back to sea, leaving a belt of seaweed and shells in their wake. Seagulls hop about there, looking for the inevitable unfortunate mollusc or starfish swept ashore, and when they do not, they circle overhead, calling out to each other on the salty breeze. The sky is open and wide and a bright shade of blue; it is the kind of morning that prompts the yachters to take their catamarans and sail boats to sea while the weather lasts -- the kind of morning that will, inevitably, lead to a full house at the Platinum Cabaret later, because tourists will arrive on yachts of their own. Tourists who arrive on boats are almost guaranteed to be either older, married couples who enjoy a quiet evening on the deck with a bottle of wine, or young, well-off white men out to make trouble and play pirates in their daddies' yacht. It's the latter sort that tend to find their way, somehow, to the kind of entertainment they won't be sending snap chats from to their girlfriends back in Seattle or Olympia.

But that's tonight. This is now, and the morning is beautiful.

This beach is not one of those white sandy affairs you see in a California surfer movie. Consequently, it is home to a lot of wildlife that wears fur, rather than shades and bermuda shorts. It is not uncommon to see the occasional red fox or raccoon prowling along in the quiet hours. Neither fishes in the ocean but both are very much aware that tourists are absolute pigs, often leaving candy wrappers, sandwich wrappers, half-eaten paper plates of fries or onion rings and the likes behind on some convenient rock because clearly, finding a trash bin requires effort. Thus, nature's little clean-up crew disposes of the evidence.

Nature's clean-up crew seems a little confused, however, about a cardboard box that sits on a bench overlooking the sea. A couple of raccoons sit below the bench, staring up at the cardboard box in question as if they're wondering what exactly to do with it. That, in itself, is a little odd because raccoons, while adorbs in their little robber masks, possess a surprising amount of very sharp clawness, and they're certainly capable of tearing open any cardboard Amazon box that they suspect of containing food. They don't usually let humans watch them quite so closely, either -- to a great deal of people, raccoons are potentially rabies-infected balls of rage and hatred, existing only to overturn trash bins, wreck garden ponds, and make the lives of suburbian home owners miserable.

The box moves a little. There's something inside it, shuffling about. And on the outside, a couple of quite confused raccoons.

It had been a rough Summer for Dahlia so far. She didn't often get exposed to Dreams but when she did, apparently they were set to try and kill her. But that was months ago and she'd improved quite a bit. Nearly back to normal again. Walking along the beach in the mornings had become a favorite thing for her to do. A way to decompress off an extra late shift or mentally prepare for the day ahead. Enjoying a bit of peace before the tourists started to crowd the area.

Dahlia takes pause in her walking when she sees the racoons staring at a box. First, because it wasn't often she saw much of the wildlife up close and personal. Second, because why were they staring at a box instead of poking around inside it? Her head tilted a touch and she drew closer, seeing movement in the box. There was a beat of hesitation from her and then she shrugged. Might as well see what could possibly be inside it! Maybe someone abandoned some animals?

She peers at the box for a few seconds long and then carefully starts to open it up.

Experience has taught many a raccoon that there are two kinds of human beings. One will call Pest Control, flail, get out a shotgun, and generally flip their lid at the sight of them. The other kind is almost as bad -- that kind of human will try to pick you up and chew on your rascally little face. The raccoons, demonstrating some of the cleverness for which the species is famous, sidle off to the side to watch. Maybe sandwiches will fall out of pockets. You never know.

It seems unlikely that anyone would just leave an Amazon box sitting here on a bench on the beach -- unless, perhaps, it was stolen and they had to get rid of it in a hurry. But then it'd make a lot more sense to dump it off somewhere not quite so visible. Peeling through the brown tape is no major feat; the one curious thing about it, really, is that usually, there'll be some white envelope or paper on an Amazon box, indicating its intended address of delivery. There is one here too -- the box bears the name and street address of one Mr Samuel Thompson who lives in the Sycamore area of town.

Mew, goes the box. Mew. Mew.

Three little blue-eyed, stumpy-tailed kittens peer up at the waitress slash dancer. One does not need to be a veterinarian or even a cat lover to see that they are very, very young.

Dahlia watches the raccoons run off and then looks back to the box. It is weird that there's just a box randomly sitting on the bench. Even weirder that it's an Amazon box. And that it was taped down. Also there was no address AND there was mewing. Did Amazon start up some weird pet store service? Even if they had, surely they wouldn't tape them up in boxes with no airholes?

Dahlia stared down at the kittens as the trio looked back to her. She felt conflicted. Because she was not an animal person...but on the other hand they were sorta cute. They couldn't stay here at least. Maybe she could bring them to the local shelter She resisted the urge to reach down and pet them but did start to lift the box up carefully. "Who left you cuties here?" She asked softly.

"Mew, the kittens reply. It is not a very informative word as far as cat words go. It might mean anything. We're hungry or we are cold are the most likely bets. The raccoons watch from safety near the trees, some distance away. Do raccoons eat kittens? It's entirely possible; raccoons are said to eat anything. They don't look particularly hungry, though. Inside the box, the kittens squabble, snuffling around. Mew. Mew. Mew, mew.

And there it is; stuck on the other side of the box, hidden until now by the bench itself. The white address paper sealed in transparent plastic -- testimony that a plasma TV was delivered to one Mr Samuel Thompson who happens to reside on a small street near Sycamore Street. Would a man be stupid enough to leave his name and address on a box full of dumped kittens? If he is, then perhaps he ought to be fined not only for animal cruelty but also for being bloody stupid.

At least the box is not too soggy to carry. The kittens have not done anything in it to soak it -- yet. Fortunately, because wet cardboard is not resistant to the claws of even very young kittens.

The raccoons sidle closer. Watching. Curious.

Dahlia pauses, sees the address slip, shifting things carefully so she could read it. Huh. Sycamore wasn't that far from here. She gives the raccoons a bit of a side eye to make sure they aren't going to try anything. Then she looks back down at the kittens with a sigh. Maybe it was just a box this Thompson person had discarded and someone else used? But if so - why was it all taped up. "Alright. Guess we're going on an adventure." She double checked the address and then adjusted the box in her hands accordingly so she could start walking in the direction of Sycamore street. If this didn't pan out - then she'd go to the shelter.

Mew, the kittens say as the box is picked up and the woman begins to walk.

The raccoons do not say anything. They watch. And they follow, but at safe distance, trailing after in a fashion that somehow brings to mind a couple of spectators at a sporting event. Do raccoons place wagers? And if they do, what do they offer up? Scavenging rights behind the Twofer, best trash can on the beach, the kids never clean their plates of tater tots? Following, however, is not doing something. Is it?

And then there is something, indeed, under that overturned little dhingy over there; a child's little boat, dragged ashore lest the tide carry it away. Unseen as of yet, but not unfelt; a rustle, something pawing at the gravel of the beach, watching. This is the sort of a sensation a girl will have running up and down her spine when she knows that someone followed her home from the club; someone who may just want to ask her for her number and will totally take 'no' for an answer, but every now and then, there's someone who will not, and every now and then, there's someone who's drunk and wants to get physical, and sometimes, things get tense. Not all men, indeed, but it takes only one.

It's not a drunk tourist under the boat, though. It's a cat.

Not a kitten, this one. A skinny black cat with burning yellow-green eyes. Staring right at the woman, and for a moment, the cat seems a hundred times larger, as if she may be a small thing but her shadow is that of a very large, very ancient great hunting cat, long extinct on this continent.

It's definitely not an ordinary cat.

Dahlia could feel the tingling in her spine, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as she started to walk with the kittens. It sort of crept up on her and she had a strange feeling like maybe she was being followed but...there was no one there. Well. Except the raccoons. Which was weird. Weren't raccoons vegetarians or something? Surely they didn't want to eat the kittens. Dahlia wasn't quite sure how to go about scaring them off with her arms full of box so she figured it was okay to let them follow for now at least.

Though, she can still feel like she's being watched and it's not a pleasant sort of feeling. Those bright green eyes cast a look around and at first they gloss over the dinghy. But then they snap back. Emerald green meeting burning yellow. Dahlia feels her heart leap into her throat. All kinds of alarm bells going off in her head. She needs to get out of here. Her grip tightens on the box some and she tears her gaze away from the not-ordinary-cat and quickens her steps.

They're not real.

Memories. Human-think. What to do with cats.

The voice is whispery like the dark velvet of a cat's fur; it slips in through the window of the mind like a stray that's spotted half a pizza lying abandoned on a kitchen counter. It is a quiet voice, but somehow, it manages to convey the presence of a much larger feline -- or whatever it is that's currently trying to pass for feline here.

No more. Cats fight back now.

Whatever that thing is. It looks like a cat, and maybe it even thinks it is a cat. But no lap hopping, tuna eating, warm spot in the sun-hogging cat ever talked like that. Largely because generally, cats do not talk. Gray Harbor must be working its ominous magic again.

The raccoons, at least, do not give pursuit. They watch, still in the fashion of a couple of old geezers at a tennis match, but they stay put. Maybe they too realise that there are things and creatures in the mists that are better not interfered with. Maybe the raccoons are simply regular raccoons who are smart enough to stay out of the way of something that is definitely not a regular cat. Maybe not -- but as they are staying where they are, at least they are not a major concern at the moment.

Go on, human. I will not hurt you. You are the message.

Dahlia spins on her heels again to stare at the not-cat. Was it talking? To her. It had to be but...cats couldn't talk. Then again...this wasn't a cat. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was something that slipped over from the Veil or a Dream? She looked down to the kittens in the box. So cute and tiny. Were they also not cats?

She looks back towards the creature and concentrated for a moment, trying to reach out to it. She could feel a soft, tell tale tingle that her powers were at work but nothing was happening. Maybe her fears were still getting in the way. She drew in a soft breath and tried again, closing her eyes and trying to focus. Dahlia was going to have a killer headache later, but for now? She feel that power working again. Her mind reaching out towards the creatures.

What are you?

The not-cat, the uncat returns Dahlia's gaze evenly, yellow-green eyes glowing in a fashion that seems a little too bright. Veil creature? Dream escapee? Both options feel disturbingly legit at the moment. Cats, regular cats, do indeed not talk.

The uncat clearly does. At the woman's attempt to reach out mentally, images drift from one to the other. The sensation of power is unsettling; whatever that little black creature is, it's something that's really quite too big for such a small frame.

The rowdyness of courtship; he is a heavy mackerel tabby and he comes down on her with all his weight. Together, they make music.

The heaviness of pregnancy; she feels life stirring inside her, small bodies floating inside her body, causing her to beg harder, dig into more dumpsters, knock over more trash bins, and steal more fries from tourists. The small bodies need sustenance.

Birth. It's a mess. She picks a good place for her kittens; at the bottom of a bathroom cabinet, atop the soft, warm towels.

Hands that pick up her babies one by one.

The arguing. Female voice, unkind, upset. Male voice, forgiving but as always, yielding. She does not understand human social mechanics; she only knows that the female is the dominant one among the two. The male is kinder but weak. She'd never mate with a tomcat that was such a push-over. Toms need to know their place but this one, the human tom, is a servant.

The shelter. The human tom brought her home from there when she was just a kitten herself, wobbly but old enough to leave her mother. The shelter is not a bad place -- the humans there will feed you and keep you warm and give you toys. But it is not a good place either -- you have no freedom to roam, no choice of what company to keep. Most cats there smell wrong; they are neither toms or not. Many of them do nothing but eat and sleep to allieviate their boredom.

She doesn't want to go back. They will take care of her babies there -- she knows this because they once took care of her. But she cannot go back to jail, cannot lose her freedom. When the car door opens, she bolts.

It's the human female's fault that she lost her babies. Humans, interrupting nature, thinking that it's up to them to decide when a cat can breed or fight or play. Humans who have an entire house to nest in, begrudging her one silly stack of towels. Complaining about the food she eats, the hair she sheds on the furniture, the dirty paw prints on the floor.

The three little mackerel tabbies in the box mew. One of them yawns up at the woman. It has teeth. Lots of teeth. Entirely too many teeth.

Dahlia stood still as a statue as the images washed over her mind. She could feel the way the mother felt. The pain, the anger, the desire to remain free. As the flood of images ended, she tore her gaze from the uncat and back to the box. Were these the kittens then? They had to be right? But....those teeth. There was no way these were regular cats. Could they be the result of a real cat and a...Veil creature? The shadow cat? Dahlia's gaze shifts back to the uncat. Quiet. Contemplating. She still wasn't full sure of the answers but...she had a place to start.

I will keep them safe. The thought is a fleeting one, but it's directed towards the uncat as well. And then Dahlia's mind is pulling back. Away from everything and back into the safety of her own head. She turns on her heels one more time and continues on the path towards Sycamore. Maybe this Thompson guy might have some answers. Or maybe just going to the address would reveal more of this semi-mystery.

The uncat -- and that really is a very fitting term for something that looks just like a cat and very obviously is not a cat at all -- watches the woman go; it does not try to stop her, and neither does the little audience of curious raccoons. Are they unraccoons? That may remain one of life's little mysteries, although it is safe to say that the way they were behaving is not quite -- raccoony. Raccoons generally don't sit and watch an argument like two old men at a tennis match, either.

Whatever they are, they are not pursuing. One might officially classify this, at least, as a Good Thing.

The address is not too far a walk although carrying a cardboard box with three occasionally scrabbling and mewing kittens doesn't make it a pleasant walk. Such are life's little bumps and bruises. Sycamore Street winds its way through the quieter parts of town -- and they are certainly quiet now, in the dawning of the day, because all good people are either still asleep or sitting sleepily in their kitchens debating whether the milk or the cereal goes in the bowl first. This is a sleepy suburbian area where properties sit on large lawns; two carport houses with porches that face the street -- an architectural style that worships a little at the feet of older victoriana, takes a wistful look to warmer climates where Grampa might indeed sit on that porch all day with sweet tea, and then decides that actually, this is almost Cape Cod. The house to which the Amazon box was originally delivered is not unpleasant to look at (unless you happen to be an architectural aesthetic, in which case, shuddering in despair is entirely legit). It is a lived-in house, one that wishes it was just a little nicer, perhaps, but not at all unpleasant. The house of someone with a low-end white-collar job, perhaps, solidly lower middle class.

A white 2019 Mazda Miata Sport occupies one carport; the other is empty at this time. It's a pretentious car, in the fashion of someone who desperately wishes they could afford a proper sports car, a Corvette perhaps. It's a familiar car; Dahlia has seen it on occasion at the Cabaret though she never did catch the name of its owner. He is a slightly chubby guy who frequents the strip club whenever his wife is out of town, and like his car, he's a pretentious white thing that tends to disappoint in the long run. He likes to pat waitresses on the butt and then tell them it's all part of the job honey if they complain about it.

There are no lights on in the windows; either the house's occupants are sleeping in or no one is at home. It is entirely possible that Mr Thompson is a man who works at odd hours, or one who is in a position to turn up at work well after most regular folks are expected to be present, awake, and earning their pay. If this is true, however, then he either lives alone or his wife and possibly kids don't need to get up, either.

The kittens mew. For all the fact that they seem very ... toothy ... at least the sounds they make seem normal for very young cats.

Dahlia knew absolutely nothing of architecture, though Declan might have a thing or two to say about the house that was stuck in the middle of being just a little too average. The quiet was nice, and at least it wasn't Elm. Sure, Dahlia cavorted with the seedier element in town because business would dictate it as such but she'd rather not go there unless she needed to. She was very much convinced that these kittens were unkittens. Or maybe half-kittens. They were certainly not normal kittens.

Dahlia lingers in the driveway for a few moments longer before deciding to approach. It should be easy enough right? Knock on the door, ask if he misplaced his kittens and then...what? Surely he would see the kittens were strange right? Would he deny ownership and then she would be stuck with these uncats? And a pair of yellow eyes haunting her if something terrible happened to the kittens? And what of the mother? She ran off. Was she in the Forest maybe? Or slinking around downtown? Or even the Boardwalk? Did she know her kittens were no longer in the shelter?

Dahlia shook herself from her reverie and walked up to the front door. Three knocks in quick succession. Hopefully someone was home.

The doorbell plays a chirpy little jingle, the sort of which is entirely too cheerful and bright and happy for Gray Harbor.

The house stays quiet. Silent. Dark. There's not even the faint flutter of a curtain of someone looking out and deciding to pretend that they're not at home.

After a few moments, though, something else makes a flop-flop noise in the driveway. 'Something' turns out to be a middle-aged white woman in her pyjamas, night robe wrapped soundly around her, newspaper and mail in one hand -- obviously a neighbour. The noise originates from the bright pink crocs on her feet.

"They're not in there," she calls out in a voice that's almost bordering on gleeful. "Mr Thompson had to go away. Police came for him yesterday! They say he killed his wife! What's that you've got there, dearie?"

Well, isn't she a gossipy ball of sunshine.

"Killed his wife?" Dahlia turned to look at the neighbor. "Why'd he do that?"

She looks down at the box with the kittens and their too-toothy mouths. Then back to the woman. "Kittens. This box had Mr. Thompson's name on it. So I figured I would try to come by here first. The box was closed up? I don't know. I might...just keep them. Or take them to the shelter." She doesn't move the box in a way that would allow the woman to see the kittens though.

It's not for lack of trying. The older woman sidles up and quite unabashedly tries to sneak several peeks. Maybe she doesn't quite believe that whatever the younger woman is carrying is something as mundane as kittens. Maybe she just wants to see if they're valuable kittens. Perhaps flashing a bright smile at the younger woman while holding up the newspaper will help? There is a headline, although nowhere near the top of the page, reading something about a woman's body found in a dumpster. Mary-Anne Thompson, thirty-nine, homicide.

"They came for him yesterday," the woman reiterates with absolute delight; one could get the impression that she was not at all fond of sports car driving Mr Thompson or his wife. "And they were always such a happy couple to look at! That man, he doted on her hand and foot, let me tell you. Mary Anne, she was a bit bossy, though she always baked wonderful brownies for bake sales, she was far too good for old Sam, that's what I think, spending all his time on that silly car." The Miata earns itself a scornful look to which it is probably quite indifferent.

The neighbour shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearly trying to place Dahlia in this very complex puzzle of suburbian drama, and failing. There's not a trace of shine, sparkle, light, song or gift -- whatever one's preferred term might be -- about her; just endless amounts of ambition to be the one woman in the neighbourhood whom everyone fears because she's got dirt on them. A petty little mind, in pink crocs.

"Who are you, dearie? A relative? Oh, that's such a shame, coming all the way here from Seattle to see your family and then this happens. Have you got a place to stay? I suppose you could join me for breakfast if you like, dearie, maybe there'll be news from the police station in an hour or two. Poor girl, having travelled all this way..."

Sometimes, people try to buy you a drink or otherwise presume on your time because they think they've seen you in a movie, somewhere. Sometimes, they actually have -- even if your name was not on the poster. But far more often, something really bizarre goes down in this town and everyone who does indeed not have that shine, sparkle, light, song, gift, and so on just don't get it. They see the unbelievable happen, and for them, reality rewrites itself to match. Dahlia is from Seattle and she's there to visit her relatives, and there are absolutely, definitely not three unkittens purring in a cardboard box.

Dahlia blinked a bit as the old lady rattled on, managing to shield the kittens from her view. She wondered how the woman died. If he doted on her, why would he kill her? Then again. It was Gray Harbor.

"Oh. Uh no. I just found the box and was delivering it. I live here in town." Dahlia took a few steps back in order to walk around the lady. "I'll just bring them to the shelter. You have a good day." Better to slip away from crazy than continue to engage it. As she walked back down the drive, Dahlia looked to the box again. Maybe the unkittens killed her. But there wasn't any blood...maybe it was the uncat? Was Mary the woman from the visions? Simon the man?

Dahlia decided to walk back towards the beach. Partially to see if the uncat was still there. Partially because it was also the direction of home. She could contemplate on if she was keeping these strange creatures or loosing them upon the shelter.

What to do with three plaintive, occasionally mewing kittens with too many teeth? They certainly sound and act like kittens -- except, indeed, when they yawn. Little adorbs blue-eyed mackerel tabbies do not normally have quite that many razor sharp teeth. When these little suckers grow up -- assuming that they keep up the pretence of being cats -- they are no doubt going to be the existential little terrors that leave the neighbourhood dogs whimpering in the night. The bane, indeed, of jingly balls, kitty treats, and careless fingers everywhere.

Dahlia's arms are probably starting to smart a little from lugging that big Amazon box around as she heads back towards the beach. At least she's in good shape and not in seven-inch heels -- gotta make the small things count, right?

The beach is not so quiet now. The yachters are emerging from their ocean caves -- some are having breakfast in the sun on their decks, while others are already preparing to head out for the day. Some will be returning in the afternoon or evening; others are passing through, enroute to Olympia or Seattle, or wherever else their fancy might take them. Tourist season is in full swing and while Gray Harbor is hardly an international port of call, it's a pleasant seaside town near a national park of some repute. Children play on the rocky beach, hoping that their parents will buy them something stickysweet and gross, whether from the Twofer or any of the other oceanside bars and shops doesn't matter.

The raccoons, wise to the ways of man, are completely out of sight. For every human who might toss a chocolate bar to an adorable little rascal face, there are nine who'd call pest control. And indeed, the closest thing there is to the ominous black stray is a small, black cat sitting on a bench. It looks quite like Dahlia remembers -- except for that whole sense of presence, of something larger than a cat, something uncat. This one just looks skinny, a stray who's found a nice warm spot in the sun.

Dahlia feels a tiny bit disappointed when the uncat doesn't seem to be present any longer. And her arms are getting a bit sore. She finds a different bench to set the box down on to give her arms a break. She peers down at the kittens. Unkittens. What did unkittens even eat? She frowned a touch and then finally, cautiously, put her hand in the box so the kittens could sniff at her. If they tried to seriously bite her, she would withdraw her hand. But if not, she would let them sniff her and then carefully pick one of them up. Further examination required.

Unkitties purr. This one pours quite loudly in fact, and presses its little nose against her hand. Whatever its origins, it is a friendly little thing. A helpless little thing who wants its mum but a warm hand is a better substitute than nothing. Mew, it says. Mew?

The examined kitten is in every form and fashion imagineable a kitten -- a cute little blue-eyed mackerel tabby, and a boy from the looks of, well, under his stumpy tail. He has exactly the prescribed number of tails, legs, claws, and eyes. Could fool anyone, at least until he yawns. Then, there's no fooling anyone. All those sharp little teeth. Probably best not adopted into any families with young children. Or hamsters. Or small dogs.

The black cat on the bench twitches an ear. Then, with a look of scorn, it hops off its bench and lands on the ground, sauntering off towards the piers.

Here's the thing.

Dahlia never had a pet growing up. Never wanted one, never thought twice about it. Other people having pets was fine and dandy. She didn't have the desire, or the patience. Even now she was barely a pet person. Jason's dog, Caleb, took a while for her to warm up to even. She didn't want pets.

But she also didn't want the guilt that was going to come along with hearing about what these unkittens got up to when they tried to destroy the damn town or something. Maybe they could be put back in the Veil? Except that Dahlia didn't know if they came from the Veil. She carefully put the unkitten back down in the box and sighed. It's early, but Declan and Jason are both up. Declan hates this kind of stuff but...well even he was going to see they had too many teeth. Ugh.

She opts to just text Justin first. Text sent, she looks back towards the litter. "Okay...I guess I'm stuck with you for now..." She makes a mental note to look further into that dead body of Mrs. Thompson. Dahlia is going to likely have some regrets about keeping these kitties when she actually gets around to reading the newspaper article.