2020-12-12 - Three Kinds of People

An unusual sight in the little house on Elm; Alexander has opened up his murder room - which he hardly ever does when Isabella isn't thoroughly distracted by something else - and has brought several boxes of his filed papers into the living room. As an explanation, he's offered to Isabella, "Ravn is coming over. He wants to look at some of my files. Even though they're murder." It cannot be understated how happy the investigator is at the news, even if the murder room gets locked right back up again after he brings out the files. "It'll be fun. Might find out something relevant to your searches, too, maybe. It's not all murder. There's other crime, too." One of his hands is in a splint, but he's adapted pretty quickly, and moves around one-handed, sorting boxes by decade, then moving into the kitchen to make some sandwiches.

She had come across this configuration after a run, emerging from the rainy dregs of a Pacific Northwest winter in a weatherproofed hoodie, thermal leggings and running shoes, long dark hair in a ponytail and green, gold-flecked eyes brightened by the exercise. Sunkissed complexion dewy and luminous with perspiration, she's busily wiping off her face when she takes the few steps that lead from the hallway and towards the murder room where Alexander is busy at work excavating the relevant files, brows lifting upwards in silent inquiry until the explanation is given. She's heard of the European folklorist many times, usually from Alexander himself, though some from August also, fellow field researcher and all around Everyone's Dad.

Isabella seems used to hearing the words 'murder' and 'fun' in the same sentence now, though.

"Which cases? And do you want some coffee?" she asks. It's the one thing in the kitchen that she can reliably make, turfing her running shoes and meandering with socked toes over to the doorway leading into it, finding the grinder and setting out a few mugs. Some of her belongings have managed to migrate into Alexander's home, the most prominent of these being her collection of mugs with their pithy collection of comedic slogans. There's an owl, and a plain blue mug, but the one that's hers is clearly hers by what it says in front: GOOD MORNING. I SEE THE ASSASSINS HAVE FAILED.

Five minutes early. Not five minutes late, because that would be rude. Not ten minutes early, because that would be just as rude. And definitely not on time, because that'd probably the most rude option. The Danish approach to appointments and the timing thereof is a complicated dance, one which the Danes themselves frequently screw up, with all the neighbour feuds that you'd expect to result from that. Wearing his usual simple black jeans and turtleneck outfit under a ditto windbreaker, Ravn Abildgaard knocks on the door right on time.

Well, five minutes before time. Because Danes gotta Danish.

He looks at the house curiously as he stands there on the porch. It's somehow very much what he'd expect from Alexander Clayton -- homeless hobo that the man likes to present himself as -- and at the same time, not at all. Like many other locales in Gray Harbor he's come across, there is a strange, defiant feeling to it all. As if on some level, long-time residents might as well put up signs reading I get knocked down, but I get back up and other questionable song lyrics. He thinks of Joey Kelly's house just over there -- same deal. And Vic Grey's -- once it stops deluding itself that it is the most fashionable murder site of the 1970s, anyhow.

Alexander doesn't say something like it's open, because it's not. It's Elm, after all. He rises to his feet eagerly, and calls out, "Coming!" He moves to Isabella, and drops a kiss on her temple. "All cases. I mean. Not all. But I just chose a variety to see what he likes. And I haven't looked through some of these boxes in a while, so it'll be fun seeing what's in there. I don't remember all of them. It'll be a survey of materials. It'll be fun." A beat. "And of course, coffee. All the coffee." He throws her a bright, sunny grin.

Then he turns and answers the door, checking it first, before opening the door. "Ravn! Hello! Come on in." This is the closest Alexander gets to ebullient.

She's about to bring up that point about all cases, but is halted mid-effort by the kiss pressed against the side of her head. There's a small smile, and waits for the man to vacate the kitchen to greet his guest with that expression on his face. It's almost like watching children on a playdate, except they're grown men, and they're going to end up talking about the macabre.

Isabella uses the blue french press that she had gifted Alexander over a year ago, before arranging the mugs in a tray and moving towards the living room where she situates it on the low coffee table. She's not the most domestic person - being an archaeologist necessitates, more often than not, living out of a suitcase. The curse of determining from an early age to somehow become a professional adventurer once she hits adulthood, but so far, she isn't regretting a bloody thing. She proceeds to shift over and gather up her other research materials - underwater photographs taken in the wide, turquoise expanse somewhere off the coast of modern-day Alexandria, as well as a few archaeological journals. This is how both men find her, eventually, returning them to a designated pile.

She's young - much younger than Alexander, slender and active and no older than her late twenties. Her smile is bright enough to blind the unwary, honed with the wicked edge of something mischievous when she extends a hand towards Ravn. "Dr. Abildgaard, I presume?"

"Guilty as charged, even if this is not the Tanganyika, Dr. Reed," the Dane replies with a small, lopsided smile. At a guesstimate, he's around thirty, and on the tall side. His handshake is firm, though not in the finger crushing way of establishing dominance, and for some reason or other he wears black kidskin gloves. "I usually just go by Ravn, though. I am told that you are an archeologist?"

Maybe it's the journals and the photographs; maybe it's the Gray Harbor jungle drums. Maybe it's just that word gets around in a small town and people have a habit of going 'Oh, you're a historian? You should talk to ...' at him. There aren't a lot of local historians in this small community. It pretty much comes down to Isabella Reed, Hyacinth Addington, Atli Addington, and himself as far as Ravn is aware -- and he's still a newcomer.

"Clayton proposed taking a look at his files. That, of course, is like dangling a fat worm in front of a hungry trout where someone like me is concerned. I'm a folklorist -- I collect stories." He smiles lightly again -- one could get the impression that he's a little awkward at times.

Alexander walks Ravn the few paces to the inside of the home. It's rigorously neat, aside from the boxes and Isabella's research materials. There's a bright green bird in a cage in the corner, who whistles angrily at Ravn, before turning its back and ringing a bell to show its displeasure. A few bare family photos are on the wall, but the place is minimalist on furniture - even the dining nook has been turned into a small indoor garden of herbs and small, flowering plants. The scent of greenery and coffee mingle, overriding the underlying smell of must that the house, well cared for but shoddily constructed, can't quite escape. "You can have part of the couch," he assures the man, before beaming at both as they shake hands. "Isabella is also a member of the Gray Harbor Historical Society."

He settles on the floor near the tray of coffee. "Ravn's good people," he says, with a nod to Isabella. "Also has a houseboat. Or lives on a boat. Is there a difference between the two?"

Dr. Reede grins faintly at the new arrival and acquaintance. "Call me Isabella. And yes, archaeologist of the amphibious variety," she quips. "And professional toucher-of-questionable-things, though I'm starting to think I ought to take a page from your book, at least, if I'm going to insist upon doing it." She taps a finger on the black kidskin glove in her grip before easing it away. "But if it's stories you want, this place has plenty." There's something wry and halfway exasperated in her features as she says the words, however; the indication that she may have been part of said stories plucks at the surrounding air currents like errant violin strings.

"There's coffee, if you want it," she tells Ravn, easing into one end of the couch and gesturing to the tray with the steaming mugs. Alexander's addendum regarding the society prompts a wink towards both men. "I only joined up because I heard from Mrs. Robbins that it had a treasure trove of old journals and materials donated by some of the oldest families in the city," she explains. "This way I have access to them. Most are mundane accounts, but in a few investigations, keeping a bead on those records have been tremendously helpful." She reaches out for her Assassins mug, cradling it between her fingers.

"The Vagabond isn't large enough to qualify for a house boat, I think -- and I have to drydock her in the winter months. I'm wintering in Huckleberry as it happens." Ravn smiles lightly; he clearly doesn't think it's a big deal to live alone in a trailer park just a few lots away from a recent fire that apparently was set in order to burn down somebody's drug stash. Maybe he's just oblivious.

"Coffee would be delightful -- if I can have it black. I haven't quite managed to adapt to the local custom of adding half the spice shelf, most of the milk, and all of the pumpkins. It's an on-going argument of mine, with the barristas downtown." He looks around before settling on the couch corner as indicated. Then he raises an eyebrow slightly. "Sounds like I should perhaps consider applying for membership some day. So far, my digging has mostly involved talking to people -- to my field, it's not always as important what actually happened, as how it is being remembered. If you don't mind my asking though -- what does a marine archeologist do here? You can't be working here."

Alexander looks a bit guilty at the you can't be working here from Ravn; that's always been one of his fears, that Isabella's career will suffer the longer she stays here, but when she reaches for her mug, he lets his fingertips trail over her hand before reaching for his own, less exciting, coffee delivery vessel. "The Historical Society has a great archive, honestly. I helped to organize a bit of it, and it helped explain a ghost for a job, too."

He nods to his boxes. "My own collection is, uh, more specialized. Crime, mostly. Disappearances, murders, particularly interesting thefts. Things like that. But I've reached out over the years to retired cops, coroners, MEs...you'd be surprised how many people keep stuff they technically shouldn't. Especially if it's pre-80s."

There's a small laugh. "The only coffee available in 13 Elm is black," Isabella reassures their guest, handing the man his own steaming mug. "So no worries there." With that dispensed with, she nurses her own mug, peering out at the two of them with that sharp, inquisitive stare - the sort of gaze that, despite its vibrant color, hardly ever misses a thing. "And I don't mind, that's one of the first questions people tend to ask me within the first meeting. When I first returned to Gray Harbor, I was looking for a ship that was last spotted here - I'd explain it further, but I'm unfortunately bound by a non-disclosure agreement with the exploration company I'm consulting with, along with my mentor back in Oxford. He's the one who sent me here, remembering that I was a local." Amusement glitters within the amber shares of her stare. "Not that I don't think I could ever be considered a townie anymore considering I was gone for over ten years, but this city has very long memories. So while I'm in that project, I'm consulting remotely in others - a few colleagues think they've managed to find Cleopatra's tomb, but it's presently submerged underwater - and there are a few weeks at a time when I do leave the city in order to take the dive, myself. I might have to fly to Alexandria at some point, if said colleagues won't stop driving me crazy." There's an inquiring tilt of her head. "Have you ever been diving, Ravn?"

If she catches the guilty expression on Alexander's face, it doesn't show - it's an old fear, and an argument just as old, but her thumb absently rolls a circle over the knuckle of his when he reaches for her.

"I've found a surprisingly large part of my book collection back home in the kind of second hand shops that empty out houses when people die, on the condition that they can sell the loot on for charity." Ravn nods at Alexander. "Letters, diaries, old photo albums, collections of old folks' tales and stories collected in the late 19th century -- we had a bit of a cultural revival after losing northern Schleswig to Germany in 1864. I found a leather bound, six volume copy of the defining treatise on mundane life in the 16th century, from 1870, sitting in a bin about to be tossed in the trash, copperplate prints and hand written margin notes and all."

He pauses. "And I tend to go off on tangents too. Sorry. No, not really -- I did go to the Red Sea to scuba dive once, but only as a tourist snorkelling in shallow waters. I'm afraid that I'm more of your traditional academic -- prone to sitting with my nose in a book somewhere. Or I was -- I'm taking an interest in Gray Harbor's story now more as a resident than as a researcher. It's hard to live here and not be affected by its rather unique take on narrative, after all."

Not that the man's got a lot of shine. Maybe just enough to not have his memories rewritten by the Veil regularly. Certainly not much more than that.

Alexander nods to Ravn, perking up even more. "Yeah. Estate sales are where I get a lot of my stuff. It's usually worth checking them out, or going to auctions. Sometimes you have to buy more than you wanted, then comb through it and try to sell on what wasn't relevant, but I like it. It's...interesting, touching so much of what existed in the past. I like when I can find things that have happy memories with them. I try to make sure they find good places to move on to." A glance at the boxes. "But the relevant data, I keep. Someone should."

He can't help but chuckle at the unique take on narrative. "After meeting the Revisionist, I've wondered how much of this stuff is even true. And how much of it has been changed over the years." Then his gaze shifts back to Isabella at the mention of the ship. "You never know when we might find something that relates to it. Even if only tangentially. But Cleopatra's tomb is more interesting," he admits.

She digests Ravn's tangent with the keen interest of an academic who tends to live, more often than not, neck-deep in historical documents and there's a visible appreciation on Isabella's features there. "Still sounds like fascinating reading - and Alexander's right about estate sales. Not that I can fault the logic, if anyone's ever seen Antiques Roadshow." There's a teasing wink towards the investigator there, before she takes a pull of her coffee.

"A recreational diver can submerge in thirty to forty feet without requiring a certification," she tells Ravn. "Miracles of miracles, I managed to convince Alexander to try it once and he enjoyed it. It takes some acclimatization using a regulator, but it's easy. And yeah, that - honestly I didn't even know the narrative was being actively manipulated until I met the Revisionist." There's a visible frown there, unable to help it. Much of her work touches on history, time frozen in amber - the fact that it's malleable here doesn't sit well with her.

Alexander's note about ships and tombs prompts another broader smile. "I find most things interesting, but it's an exercise in adaptation..." And survival. "...when you live here."

"The Revisionist convinced people that I grew up with in Denmark that I'm Swedish and lived in Sweden most of my life. And now she's convinced people that I train combat crustaceans. I wouldn't be surprised if Gray Harbor's history rewrites itself every time someone on the other side gets bored." Ravn chuckles lightly and sips his coffee with the obvious appreciation of a man who wants coffee -- beans and water. Not sugar, syrups, cream, pumpkin spice, hazelnuts, almonds, sprinkles, chocolate, or any of the other bizarre things that Americans add to their paper cup desserts.

He shakes his head lightly. "At least, lobster fighting league is silly -- but it doesn't hurt anyone who isn't about to become dinner anyhow. And I've made a couple of friends among the mill workers and foresters. Celebrity chef was pretty bad -- paparazzi kept running with stories about me breaking up other people's relationships. I am not at all sorry that that narrative changed. I never intended to stay in town for more than a few days, a week a most, but that was four months ago and now I'm sort of considering finding a more permanent residence. So I guess that I do indeed live here now."

Alexander shares Isabella's frown. He has his own reasons for wanting to be able to trust his memories and perceptions. He shakes his head, slowly. "I don't think it's that. Or not just that. Boredom, I mean." Two fingers on his good hand nervously pick at his sleeve. "The Revisionist gets her orders from the -ors, and she said something about needing to do it to keep things...even? From going sideways? Something like that. So I don't know that it's done on a whim. But I don't know what she meant, either. And I wish her stories didn't hurt people, sometimes."

Then he takes a breath. "But, without trying to make another appointment with her, I don't know that we'll know." He takes a sip of his coffee, and then reaches for a box. "Gray Harbor's crime history is interesting. It's very entwined with the labor movement. This area was one of the main bastions of organized labor in the Pacific Northwest, at one time, you know? So there was a lot of tension, and skullduggery."

"Maybe I can set an appointment with the Revisionist to try and convince her to spread the story that Joe Cavanaugh is a lobster," Isabella mutters under her breath; something alive and seething underneath the words. It sounds ridiculous, but if there was a way, she would do it. "Add some butter and lemon..."

Look, she's consumed Veil soup already. She knows what it was made of (after the fact, but still). This is just keeping with the present narrative.

"We do know one thing about the Revisionist," Ravn points out. "She's not malicious. Several people have approached her to have their stories changed that I know of, and all came away satisfied -- or at least not as unhappy as they were. Me -- I'm no longer a celebrity who can't keep his hands to himself according to the rumour mill. Vyvyan Vydal whose shop is no longer in danger of being shut down by the health authorities. I'm sure I've heard of at least one more case, but it eludes me at the moment. It seems to indicate that she is trying, in her own alien fashion, to do right by us. But maybe she doesn't understand us very well."

The Dane quirks an eyebrow at that muttered remark, though. "Not a friend of my neighbour on the piers, it sounds like. I think he might be a little big for my fighting league. Most of his opponents would be in the one kilo range."

"Isabella," Alexander's voice is quiet, but warning. Which, mind, doesn't stop him from trying to take her hand in his good one and kiss it, lightly, giving it a squeeze before releasing it. "She's not malicious," he agrees with Ravn. "I think that she did just want to give people interesting and exciting stories. Not bad ones. But, yeah, none of them understand us very well. Which is weird, because according to the Exorcist, they are us. People who died in the Veil, and the -ors kept them around." He pulls the lid off of one of the cardboard boxes, and offers some files to Ravn. "The Bentley Killings of 1936 are interesting. Joshua Bentley started out as an enforcer - a strike buster, really. But he liked the taste of blood, so he started not just roughing up the strikers and wobblies, but killing them. Then them and their families, until he was shot by the police in September."

"Maybe baked in his own shell," Isabella continues, though at Alexander's quiet warning, her stubborn face returns - it mollifies somewhat when he takes her hand and kisses it. With Ravn's remark, however, she sniffs. "Mmhm. Owner of the other Surprise. My father's houseboat is named the same, and we're neighbors over the summer." Even if she spends most of her time living with Alexander anyway, and paying her father regular visits.

She seems to be in agreement of the Revisionist's nature, but her skepticism on that end is for other reasons - both men can see it plainly on her expressive, sunkissed mien. Namely, for some deeply personal reasons, she doesn't trust anything on the other side - especially the beings that run its confounded bureaucracy - and she's met almost all of the ones they know of.

When Alexander starts walking through his files, though, she falls silent, listening and taking sips of her coffee.

"I don't actually know Cavanaugh very well," Ravn nods to Isabella. "He came by for a drink every once in a while, while I worked at the Two if By Sea. I meet him in passing on the marina now and then. Never actually sat down for a heart to heart -- I was a barback, not the kind of bartender that men sit down to pour their little hearts out to."

He leans forward to see the clippings that Alexander is putting on display. His interest in the American labour organisation disputes may not be immense -- but his interest in local stories is. To the folklorist, what matters is both the documentation of historical fact and the way that this historical fact passes into, well, folklore. The grandkids of the college kids who invented the Slenderman may very well grow up believing that he is real.

And then, because this is Gray Harbor, there are other concerns. "Someone like Bentley -- what are the odds of running into him over there? A man like that, with a strong latent sadism -- he seems like an obvious target for the Veil, whether to torture him, or to make him torture others."

Alexander nudges Isabella with his elbow, but grins, just a little, at the idea of baked Joe. But he says, "Cavanaugh's fine. Interesting man to get to know." He considers, then shakes his head. "I don't know. He died over here, so he shouldn't be there. But you might run into a memory of him? Or his ghost. And those can be dangerous." His voice is flat. Then he considers Isabella. "An interesting question, though - the -ist that came closest to homicidal was probably the Vivisectionist, right? She killed people, although she didn't quite murder people, didn't she? I wonder if they try not to select truly murderous people for their proxies."

A thoughtful pause. "But the Doctor didn't seem to have any problem with killing." The files are incomplete, clearly cobbled together from a dozen different sources, but include excerpts from a cop who worked the case's diary, autopsies on the criminal and his victims, crime scene photos...it's gory, but well organized.

Cavanaugh is fine. There's a soft, but blatant sniff there, but thankfully nothing else.

"She didn't quite murder anyone because I killed her first before she could kill Lilith and myself," Isabella replies, a tart edge bleeding through her evocative tone, narrowing her eyes in remembrance and a glance towards her exploration hatchet with a hot pink handle hanging by the door, a permanent fixture to her standard gear whenever she has to brave the other side for a strange expedition or another. "But she was definitely homicidal. So was the Doctor." Who also would have killed her after he correctly identified her as the person who killed his assistant. If she's balking at the idea of having been placed somewhere in a logic-defying god-like entity's shit list (or Biological Things To Explode With His Mind), she doesn't show it.

Ravn steeples his fingers under his chin and looks from one to the other. He's not surprised that there are stories and references he doesn't recognise -- no one who'd lived in his native Vejle for just four months would be able to keep up with a couple of natives either, and Vejle is about as exciting as navel lint as far as the supernatural goes. What he latches on to is the way in which they discuss their beliefs. "I get the impression that there are a number of interests on the other side," he says at length. "That just like on our side, they're not working together towards a shared goal. Just like us, they've all got their own little agendas."

He glances back to Alexander a moment. "I talked to a local here -- Olivia Kincaid? Criminal psychologist with the precinct. She warned me that the Veil here will very much create any ghosts you might fear. Or otherwise bring back your dead, to torture you. I am thinking someone like Bentley may be an obvious candidate for something like that, but maybe it only really applies if there is a strong emotional impact? A personal connection?"

Alexander smiles at Isabella, looking mildly besotted, like his girlfriend talking about murdering an undead Veil creature is the sexiest thing he's heard all day. He clears his throat, though, and says, "I suppose I meant...malicious. Even the Vivisectionalist didn't seem to be primarily concerned with causing pain. She just didn't care if she did, in her research. Passive homicidal nature rather than active." He takes a sip of coffee, and nods to Ravn. "There seem to be three main...people? In charge? The Doctor, the Collector, and the Director. According to the Vivisectionalist, they're also the source of our abilities. And they appoint or create various -ists to do...things. But yeah, I think it seems reasonable to say that they're not united. I don't know if they're enemies, either. Just maybe with different...goals? Duties?"

A nod. "I've met Dr. Kincaid. She's very nice. And that makes sense. I doubt that Bentley would show up now - most people don't even know he existed. But maybe at the time, he might have talked a lot of nightmares. Real nightmares, and Dream ones."

"All of that's valid," Isabella muses, quietly going back to her own harrowing experiences in the Veil. "Alexander had a theory that you bring what you do in the Dream, at least, and it fills up with what you carry within yourself. I haven't seen anything that would discredit that observation." She pauses for a moment as she thinks. "I've grown to believe there's a difference between the Veil and the space people occupy when people are pulled into a Dream, judging from what I've seen here versus what I've seen in other places outside of Gray Harbor." Because of course she would. Of course she would pass through these ephemeral borders whenever she's in another country or continent. The need to know is a lure that she hardly ever resists on a good day. "Gray Harbor is the only place I've encountered, so far, that has a mirror of its geography in the other side. There's something about this place that is unique."

Mention of the -Ors generates such a face from the archaeologist's features, but she seems to be in agreement there also - they all have their own agenda, and none of them are to be trusted.

"It taps into our collective minds at least, that much is almost a given. Some of the experiences I have had here or have had recalled to me have drawn extremely heavily on cultural archetypes. Mesoamerican deities playing through the sacrifices to keep the year turning -- including their own. The Headless Horseman. Fairy toads with fool's gold." Ravn taps his lower lip thoughtfully with a gloved finger. "And of course, sometimes it gets outright personal. One dream I had sent myself and Gina Castro right back to my literal childhood home. We were on a blind date arranged by our respective parents, and ended up smoking pot in the greenhouse. I think it's safe to say that the Veil reads us -- though maybe it's more the collective us it reads than the individual. So I can bring something in there, and the Veil may use it against you."

Alexander beams at them both. "Yeah. Dreams are too fucked up to not come at least in part from us. And too personal. But Isabella is right, too - Dreams and the place that is the Veil are...different. Things in the Veil proper sometimes aren't trying to kill you. Things in Dreams almost always are. Or at least to hurt you, one way or the other." He gazes at Isabella. "I don't think I've ever really asked. What's different about the other side of the Veil here as opposed to there. Is it just having the Veil town, or...?"

Sounds about right. Isabella watches Ravn throughout his litany with the intense focus of someone who tends to hoard these bits of knowledge and past experiences for later recollection and use, though Alexander's tangent has her swiveling her eyes towards him. "What's different is that out there, it's just the Dream," she tells him. "From what I've managed to find anyway - I need more data and explorations in different other spots, but Gray Harbor's the only one I've encountered somehow with a relatively stable mirror world. If you go through a thin-point through the others, either it's just a Dream or a space that isn't as defined or even alive as the Veil here."

She purses her lips at that. "Like I said, if I get the chance, I ought to do more exploration but the tricky part is finding them, first, and some of them are difficult to get to. The point I investigated in Wales was several feet deep into the ground - you can't reach it without a bulldozer and that comes with its own share of problems."

The archaeologist seems to want to say more, but her smartphone dings and she takes a look at the Caller ID. "I have to take this, please excuse me." A quick smile to both men before she rises and moves to the kitchen to take her call outside.

Ravn in turn listens carefully to Isabella's recounting of her attempts to investigate elsewhere; his interest is spurred in part by the possibility that reality is a little bit frayed at the edges in his own childhood home, and he recalls August Røn speaking of a thin point in Portland as well. A very vague recollection of a conversation on the pier with some tourist skims the surface of his mind as well; places in Russia, in China, in Germany. The last one annoyed him a little, he recalls -- so close to home, and yet he never knew.

He looks back at Alexander as the archeologist is called away and then down at the pile of journals and clippings. "Do you mind if we continue to look at these? Bentley may have faded away now, so to speak, but I'm willing to bet that this town has a tradition. Blue collar workers. Decent fellows. Simple fellows. A little violent when drunk maybe. Pushes their wife around now and then, don't get into a fight with him over a few beers. And then some day, he snaps -- goes on a rampage, or disappears, or like Bentley here, gets into work that takes him to dark places. Can you tell me that I'm wrong?"

"That's...fascinating," Alexander says. "So, it's known that what happens over there affects things here, and vice versa. Is it just because this is the thinnest point, that so much of us bleeds over into it? Or is it that we give the things over there life? I've hypothesized before that the Shadows feed on pain, suffering, and negative emotions...but that may mean that there are other 'feeders' who desire different emotions. Joy, or contentment, or confusion. Maybe all of the Veil creatures feed on some variety of...human psychic energy. So, of course, they'd gather at what must be like an oasis for them, in a vast, deserted world."

He watches Isabella fondly as she goes to take the phone call, then turns back to Ravn. His smile is brief and brilliant, like summer lightning. "No. I don't mind. And you're not wrong. Um." He goes through the box until he brings out some print-outs, and pushes them over to Ravn. "I've run statistics for each decade, checking for demographics. It's not complete, because there are a lot of disappearances. Violent incidents, too, but a lot of times, people just...disappear. And no one really cares. Investigations are incomplete, and their lives are quietly papered over."

Ravn studies the printouts and the numbers on them for a few moments before looking back at Alexander. Then he nods with a small, disappointed smile. "This cements the theory I had. Everyone knows that Gray Harbor likes a specific kind of people -- it calls us here, from all over the world. The people with the shine, or whatever one likes to call it. I was theorising that there are two other kinds of people that it likes -- artists, creative people, expressive people. And people with mental disorders or a level of quirkiness that can turn very dark."

He taps a finger against his lower lip. "Think about it. Most of us -- and the people here in this statistic -- match at least one of those criteria. I know I qualify for all three -- I play the violin, and I struggle with enough issues that I've spent time in a mental ward after a breakdown and a suicide attempt. How many of these people here on this list had a few drops of shine? Not everyone is a bright beacon. Most are probably like me -- just enough to be visible to the other side. The artists are the ones I struggle to explain because I don't see what the Veil gains from that."

Alexander thinks about it, then nods. "That would make sense. I'm not creative, though. I don't like fiction. But," he taps his fingers rapidly on the side of the table and frowns, "I think you've got something where. You should go down to the boardwalk. A lot of the town's homeless live there, and a lot of them are people who stand out. I think they might even be stronger than the average person with abilities, but they can't find a way to cope with it. Either because of underlying disorders, or just because it's hard when no one believes you and you don't understand why things keep happening to you." He knows this; the lived experience is etched on his face. "But creatives...well. Creativity is the ability to create? Right? So it might go back to what the Veil is and what the things that live there are. Maybe creatives...create them. Manifestations of human minds?"

"So the creativity is the link that they draw our stories from us through." Ravn nods. "It makes sense? It... Makes disturbing amounts of sense. We dream and tell stories and make things up, and they reach out to us and pick random elements to use against us. August Røn believes that they are farming us -- that that's what the Dreams are, otherworldly milking machines. I'm inclined to agree with him. The experiences I have had, and the ones that others have shared with me, all have two criteria as well, and they always meet at least one: They make you miserable, and they make you use the power we have."

"Possibly," Alexander says, then shrugs. "Or we're doing this to ourselves. Creating the agents of our own torture, populating a blank-slate, psychomorphic realm with them, which they then turn back on us." He rubs at his temple with his good hand. "But maybe that's just pessimistic. You're right, about the Dreams." He sighs. "Some of them are just so silly it's hard to imagine them being dangerous, but I think that might be just because...sometimes they don't understand us? So they throw things at us at random, hoping something gets the reaction they're looking for."

"If we use our powers in them, then they get what they want. Even if it's silly. Hell, let's hope that some day, they'll decide that it's easier to throw us into fun computer game parodies or nineteen-eighties disco infernos and make us do our thing, than try to hurt and kill us." Ravn leans over to look at some of the other clippings and records. He is mentally taking notes -- but of course he is, that's what he does. "Some of the murders are pretty silly too, aren't they? You talked about death by frozen turkey at some point -- is that even a joke? Did someone literally die by being beaten to death with a Sunday dinner?"

He looks at the other man with an expression that clearly reveals that yes, Ravn expects this to be very much the case. "It's hard to tell if they truly don't understand us, or if they are taking the piss sometimes. If they're really... dead humans, then what happens to them, that they lose that understanding?"

For a moment he looks as if there is another question he wants to ask, but then he decides against.

Alexander's mouth quirks upward. "That would be nice." He doesn't seem to mind Ravn's interest. To the contrary, he's eager to pull out new files, and push them towards the man. Like a kid showing off his Hot Wheels collection. Except that it's murder. "Yeah, actually. Thanksgiving, but yeah. Nineteen....eighty-two. The Wisecheks. Troubled home, previous reports of domestic violence, but in the early eighties, a lot of cops didn't take those seriously. Mrs. Wisechek decided enough was enough two days before Thanksgiving. No one's sure exactly what led up to it, but she took a 22 pound Butterball, frozen solid, and bashed Mr. Wisechek's skull in while he was sleeping in front of the TV. The body was still there when the rest of the family arrived on Thanksgiving Day, and she apparently cooked a gorgeous meal out of the murder weapon before putting her own head in the oven." He grimaces.

Alexander's weird, but he's not unobservant. He stares at Ravn. "What. Ask what you're thinking."

"I promised someone not to discuss it except in the loosest of terms," Ravn replies after a moment. "And it's a little -- you're a Baxter, yes? Not in name, but, one of them nonetheless. Two different sources tell me that something happens to the Baxters after they die. Bodies disappear. Maybe not just that."

He studies Alexander's face a moment, aware that this is a personal issue. An entire town's curse revolving around the idea that you're meat for the grinder just because you had distant ancestors with a certain name is as personal as curses get. "Has anyone considered the idea that these people on the other side -- the Revisionist, this Doctor, the others -- might be those disappeared Baxters?"

Alexander shakes his head. "They're not. The Baxters get sacrificed to the Mill. Their souls are torn apart, shredded so that they can't move on. They are over there, but only as a collection of broken souls." He shudders. "Not even the Exorcist thinks they can be put back together, but I'd try, if I could."

It's like Ravn summons a demon by invoking the B-name, because the sound of the back door closing heralds Isabella's return to the warmer confines of the house, doffing her footwear close to the kitchen door before wandering into the living room with a ready and slightly apologetic smile - only to realize that they're talking about family matters. Not that she's surprised that the folklorist had heard about it; he wouldn't be doing his profession justice if he hadn't come across the family feud the town had been founded upon by now. Green and gold eyes blink, glancing sidelong at Alexander before moving to retake her seat at the couch.

"We honestly don't know much about the Baxters' connection with this town's strangeness," she tells Ravn slowly. "Just that they're linked. At least, they used to be sacrificed to the Mill. Now that it's put out of commission, I'm unsure whether the other Addington mill is working as the modern-day grinder. But considering a few of the descendants of the Baxters aren't just known but still alive in this town, chances are that they haven't been doing much sacrificing of late. Maybe they're just waiting for all of us to die before trying to claim our bodies." The last said acerbically. "I know I didn't give them the satisfaction when my mother died."

Ravn winces. "I'm sorry, Alexander. That is... probably the most horrible thing I have heard here to date."

Isabella returns and he listens to her carefully, before nodding. "I don't think anyone wants this curse to continue," he says at length. "But while it does -- I'd do the same. I'm surprised that any of you are still here. I apologise for bringing up things that must be extremely disturbing to the both of you. It's hard to avoid -- everything here leads back to what happened, a very long time ago, when the Addingtons somehow elbowed out the Baxters. If we want to learn to understand how Gray Harbor works, it's not a topic that can be avoided -- much less so, when the Veil keeps bringing it back, too."

Alexander meets the sidelong look with a smile, and when Isabella mentions her mother, he reaches out and gently squeezes her hand, if she allows. "It's not this mill. It's the same Mill, just over there. I don't think the new mill is used the same way. There are two Addington mills in town - the abandoned one in the Firefly Forest, and the new one. The abandoned one, in the Veil, is where the sacrifices happen. I'm pretty sure. That's where all the broken souls are."

"And I think it was mostly Margaret and Thomas who were...keeping up the family tradition. I don't know who, if anyone, is gonna take it up after them." There's a shake of his head at Ravn's apology. He smiles, just a little. "I've gotten used to the idea that everything is horrible. Doesn't bother me to talk about it. And, as you say, it might be useful. More data is always useful, somewhere."

"I've had enough very pleasant lunches with Hyacinth Addington to have a very hard time picturing her taking over as the resident serial killer," Ravn agrees. "But when we know that the other side can rewrite history and perception, it's probably best to never assume that anything is written in stone. I'm just a bloke who walked into town four months ago, and heaven knows I'm not trying to tell anyone who lived here all their life how things work -- I'm just trying to look at it all from the perspective of cultural archetypes and narrative traditions. The Veil very obviously lifts those from us, and that means they can also be used to our advantage, at least some of the time. I feel we're looking at two agendas here -- understand how it all works and lift that curse. But also, just keeping people as safe as we can. That latter part includes your research here, Clayton -- you've effectively proved my theory that unstable, creative people are Dream fodder. And that we really need to look into identifying these people before they brain someone with a frozen bird."

"She's terrifying," Alexander says, but then admits, "But you're right. I don't see her like that. I hope that maybe this'll be the last generation of that. But," he shrugs, "there are a lot of Addingtons, and I'm not sure what the family gets out of it, other than trying to keep the abilities in the world. So if things start to pinch...it's hard to say which way someone will jump." He smiles at the rest. "I don't disagree. To either point. So, it's good to have you here. You and Isabella and August are the real...academics? That I know the best and trust the most. I'm an investigator, but it's not the same skillset, not entirely."

"They get -- the position? The power? It's a little unclear to me at this time. I'm pretty certain that at least some of them would be exceedingly willing to give it all up for normalcy to be restored and getting away from that legacy. But I hardly know all of them." Ravn shakes his head and leaves it hanging; wouldn't be the first time the Veil molded someone to its own purposes.

Instead he says, "We so-called real academics can't extrapolate anything until we have information -- rather large amounts of it. The pioneers of my field spent nearly fifty years going around my country, recording stories, writing them down, not editing or changing or commenting, just collecting. The record keeping you've done here is invaluable."

"Some of them are just terrified of Margaret," Alexander says, wryly. He relaxes back against the couch rubbing at his face as he adds, in a bit of a mumble, "Not that they're wrong to be so." Still, he looks greatly pleased by Ravn's worlds. "...thanks. I'm glad it's useful to someone besides me. If you want to see more, you only have to ask. And you can copy anything you need, too. I used to have everything digitized, but my tablet got stolen a while back, and it had all the files on there. Haven't tried to remake it." He grimaces. "Was stupid to keep them all on there in the first place."

"Have you considered backing up to a remote location? I do that -- everything on my laptop is also stored on a University server, and on a server back home." Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "Even a cloud drive might be a good idea. That said -- all of these old records and clippings really ought to be scanned in for preservation in their original forms. I guess that if we get bored on the long winter nights, we could get started on that."

Did he just volunteer to help? Well, it's not like Ravn leads an exciting double life that takes him to town most nights anyhow.

Alexander ducks his head in a sheepish gesture. "I do now. But before, I just didn't think about it much. I got in a rut, I guess you could say." He brightens at the offer. "I...yeah. If you want. I'll even attempt to cook something to munch on while we work. Nothing messy, obviously, but...something."

"Hey, that's more than I can do. My idea of cooking? Toss something in the microwave if it needs to be fancy, eat it out of the wrapper otherwise." Ravn grins slightly. "But I can definitely hook you up with access to my home server, and then we can take it from there. The idea of a collection like this being destroyed by the paper itself dissolving over time -- even without the whole Gray Harbor aspect, that's a notion to make a historian cry. You have no idea how much of our work is done out there, in the local archives, digging through shoe boxes and old scrap books."

Alexander smiles. "I'm only a step above that, myself. Despite August and Javier's best efforts," he admits, with a shrug. "But I can make chicken nuggets or something that won't kill us." He grimaces, apparently remembering the ghost of meals past. "Probably. Maybe I'll just order us something." But he nods to the rest. "My undergrad degree was in history. We had to do local history research as part of the program - not as much as a real historian, but it's one of the things that got me interested in all of this."

Ravn flips through more pages; he's genuinely interested -- not so much in the details of the murders themselves as in the patterns that they reveal. In this, the two men's focus may differ a bit -- but at least they share the passion for the preservation of the information for future generations. "That whole 'real historian' bit is to be taken with a spoonful of salt anyhow," he murmurs. "There are obvious advantages to being part of the academical circuit, but some of the best researchers I know don't hold degrees. They're just very passionate about their field, and the internet certainly has made it easier for them to connect. I'm not very keen on the idea of gatekeeping in this field -- every time we shut the door in the face of some hobby historian, we shut the door on everything they've gathered and pieced together."