2022-03-26 - Open House Day at Addington House

So many things that can possibly go wrong, thinks Vicky Barrett, seventeen-year-old college student. She's here because her mother thinks it will be healthy and build character for her to have a summer job that isn't helping out at the parental greengrocer. I'm here because mom thinks I argue too much with the customers, Vicky grouses to herself.

The blond teenager looks at her fellow tour guides; teenagers who spent a night or two browsing Wikipedia on local history and got made to read the brochures -- all of the brochures. They've got the usual speeches memorised -- this is the living room where the family used to receive guests and throw social events for the upper echelons of Gray Harbor society, yada yada, money was rampant in the first half of the 20th century, and the Addingtons kept court in a way that's reminiscent of pre-Civil War plantations in the South. Don't forget to admire the draperies, they were imported from Paris, France, because nothing less would do.

She's not supposed to talk about the abhorrent exploitation of labour force and natural resources that laid the foundation for the Addington fortune. She's going to talk about it anyway. People need to know these things.

Vicky worries. Unlike most of her peers, Vicky shines. And like several of the people who are drifting into Addington House just now, she knows that a lot of the town's problems over those almost two hundred years were orchestrated from right here. Hopefully, people are here to admire the Queen Anne architecture and the elegant antiques, and not rouse some angry Victorian ghost -- or worse.

Una Irving arrives by bike, because wheels are faster the legs, even if motorised wheels are faster still but also require monetary outlay not to mention actually holding a drivers licence, which Una Irving does not. She chains it up to a helpfully provided bike rack, and pauses, looking at her phone and hurriedly typing something in. This done, her shoulders are squared, and she approaches the main steps, joining the others here to take a look around-- or more.

She's wearing an unusual amount of black, today: dark jeans, dark shirt, dark jacket over the top. Perhaps it's an attempt to look sophisticated and serious; perhaps there are other reasons, too.

Another quick glance at her phone, though it hasn't buzzed yet.

It's not a whole lot longer before Della -- non-coffee-manager Della -- drops by, thanks to motorized wheels (hybrid, thank you) ... and probably not finishing up nearly as much work as she'd said she would. She's not wearing black: an oxblood red jacket dressed down with charcoal-washed jeans, her used-to-be-long hair in an asymmetrical cut that's striking enough to have involved a video consultation with her stylist back home. Back where she used to live, that isn't a place where people's hair catches on fire for unearthly reasons.

Vicki gets a second look, because these days, Della shines too.

Una's expression? It brightens when Della arrives, and the phone that she's been staring at-- and tapping at intermittently-- gets carefully tucked away. "I'll take you up on that, next time," she tells the other woman. "Though the cycling is good for me, or so I'm told. Jules is probably in class or something, but-- we can take a look around, anyway. This kind of place has always fascinated me. So much history. I bet there's mountains of interesting things in here."

Oh, Una has caught sight of Vicky, too, who is not entirely a stranger to her, but her gaze flicks past the tour guide who shines and towards one who does not; or perhaps, more truthfully, towards anyone who looks as if they might not ask too many questions. Indeed, having already picked up a brochure, complete with map, she half looks as if she's already edging away from the tour guides altogether, and beckoning Della with her.

Della's shrug is liquid -- good for her evidently isn't too much of a motivation -- but the woman manages an animated smile; "Definitely. I'm so glad you suggested it! Work was..." this shrug is more stunted.

She does reach for her own brochure before she's swept off, and mentions to Una, "I'll jot down some things in case Jules wants to see them, later." She also scans along the way for any 'no photos' signs... if only to later be discreet.

Vicky Barrett is a gangly blonde teenager of somewhat wispy appearance. If she had more grace she would be ethereal; as it is, she mostly looks like a tall child. She sports a nice Tour Guide lanyard, and she hasn't even complained a lot that it's made from plastic, rather than recyclable cardboard.

She's also the most proactive of the lot. Vicky is known for quite a few things in certain circles, some of them ending with her being taken home in a police car, but she is not shy -- and if she agrees to do a job, she does it to the best of her ability. If she had a choice? She'd be protesting commercial fishing if she had the choice but she doesn't.

Instead, she wanders up to the first arrivals. "Hi! Welcome to Addington House! Is there anything specific you want to see, or do you want the general guided tour where I am not allowed to talk about how many unfortunate workers died or were crippled for life in the lumber mill to create the Addington fortune?"

Una's attempt to sidle away sans tour guide is, alas, unsuccessful. She's just opened her mouth to tell Della something (probably something about 'work sucks, come and be unemployed with me, except don't because I need your rent money'), and then, look, it's Vicky Barrett, and instead of scoping the place alone (which, to be fair, is unlikely given how _un_sneaky she is), the redhead is forced to come to a halt, shove her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and look, well, nonchalant.

A quick glance towards Della follows, and then Una says, "Well, I'm all for hearing all the things you're not supposed to tell us. Any deep, dark secrets? This place has got to be a treasure trove of stuff, right?" RIGHT?

Ava's arrival is marked with excitement. She's been counting down the days until the open house. Maybe it's a silly thing, but Addington House may hold a lot of the answers that she seeks, or so she's hoping. The partner in crime she'd expected, Conner, is running late. So it's just Ava at the moment.

The doctor steps out of her car, dressed in navy and white, well put together, in her typical designer fashion. But the clothes themselves are meant for easy movement. Even the shoes have a chunkier heel in case running ends up needing to be a thing. Ava makes her way into the house, taking one of the maps as her hands brush over the old wood. Her eyes land on Vicky with some amusement, a smirk focusing on her. Last time she saw her, the poor girl has fleeing the coffee shop.

Della's gaze passes over Vicky at the teenager's approach, and she's getting her phone back out when -- all of a sudden her expression lights up. "Perfect." It's Una's commentary that has her not texting after all, though, or photographing or catching up with whoever wants her attention now; "Much more interesting than the party line." Speaking of: Ava gets a she's-familiar-somehow nod.

Houston has been here for months and it has yet to stop raining. She uses a a newspaper she found to keep dry(ish), her messy blonde up-do already a mess but it works for her. Laden in silver jewelry, she's otherwise dressed in blackish—dark grey skinny jeans, distressed, a long tank top, a couple of scarves around her neck, heavy boots on her feet with a low heel. She doesn't look like she's come to the Addington House on purpose, but sometimes shiny things wander through the door.

"Lord have mercy," she says, mostly to herself, shaking water off the paper and discarding it on the porch before she steps inside, where it's hopefully more dry, a Texas drawl flirting with her words. She's not far behind Ava. Only she's a woman who hasn't yet figured out rain comes and goes in this place like a breeze, caught out on a walk rather than a drive.

Una's fingers waggle in Ava's direction as the doctor arrives-- "Ava! Have you and Della met? Ava lives up the road, and helped with the yard, Della. And this is Della, my roommate, not the one in the coffee shop, obviously."-- but yes, okay, she's asked Vicky a question, and politeness suggests she ought to be waiting for a response. Besides, her weight keeps shifting from one foot to the other: she's eager to move.

"You can take pictures inside," Vicky tells Una; the girl must have guessed what was on her mind, or it's the question everyone asks. She cheerfully wanders ahead, further into the grand hall -- and what a grand hall it is, complete with the kind of double staircase that ought to have Scarlett O'Hara gliding down the steps like a relic from a forgotten age except that Addington House is a Queen Anne style residence, and Scarlet O'Hara obviously would prefer Colonial.

She throws a glance around. "There's all kinds of juicy secrets here. The Addingtons built the house back in the day, shortly after money began pouring on from the lumber mill." Over the dead bodies of the workers somehow goes unsaid but heavily implied by her tone. "These days, the family no longer lives here. The top floor is all offices and meeting rooms. The basement is probably where all the juicy secrets are buried but have you seen that place? Man. They showed it to us and told us to not let anyone down there, 'cause it's rows and rows and rows of crates and folders and parcels, half of it is hand written and then there's crates of old floppy disks, like, they go ptwhib ptwhib if you flip them a bit, and they're the size of a dinner plate for what, 3,5 MB of data, it's completely whacked."

Fortunately, even Vicky Barrett sometimes needs to pause in order to breathe.

"That's where I know you! Nice to meet you." Della's quick about it, adding a smile for Ava before cutting herself off the rest of the way; there's trekking after Vicky and Una to do, of course, and, "What lovely stairs. Has an elevator ever been installed?"

Ava laughs. "That is where you know me. It's nice to officially meet you, Della! I've heard a lot about you. I've seen you going in and out a time or two." Una gets a big grin. The grin widens at the mention of downstairs and handwritten parcels. Una can see the sparkle in her eyes. "That does sound completely whacked," Ava agrees with a chuckle. "Did they ever mention if the house survived a flood?" It's an odd question.

Houston glances over when what appears to be a tour begins. If there's anything a person like her appreciates, it's a secret. She glances over to watch the tall teenager begin. The blonde slides her hands into her back pockets, and her brows go up when there's a pointed reference to the juicy secrets in a place no one's supposed to go. Absolutely off limits. Well there's that decision made. She's staying. "Who doesn't love a good creepy basement."

At least until the rain clears up, or this line is reeled past her interest. "You'd think somebody would digitize all that before it rots... on something more compact." She moves in to join the group of women on the tour, now that she's sure she isn't leaving wet boot prints on the flooring.

"Great," says Una, so very, very enthusiastic.

It looks like there's another question bubbling up in there, but she sets it aside, because Ava and Della have both gotten in first, and there's only so many questions Vicky can answer at once (yes, even Vicky), surely.

It's Houston's comment-- hello, person she doesn't know; insert bright smile here-- that pushes the redhead to speak up anyway. "Gosh, that'd be a fun project to work on. Cataloguing and digitising it all. I bet there are lots of awful things in there they wouldn't want to come to light, of course, so no wonder they don't want you taking us down there."

"These old places are never accessible," Vicky says and shoots Della a look of indignation. "People in wheelchairs obviously don't ever want to participate in society. There's no walking stripe for the blind either, have you noticed? It's like culture is only for the abled."

Any crusade will do.

Ava's question has her pausing a moment, though, and then throw the doctor a strange look. "The trailer park floods all the time. That's because it's down there where there used to be swampland. Addington House is up here for a reason: Colonisers don't like getting their feet wet. But I think I know what you mean -- the painting is in one of the exhibits, but most people don't want to see it."

And off she is, towards one of those doors leading towards what was once the servants' quarters, now part of the museum. "It's creepy," the teenager apologises. "And old. It was painted sometime around 1910 or so. We don't know the artist. It's supposed to depict the victims of William Gohl."

The digital age may have to wait; or maybe somebody should reproduce this painting for a horror gallery somewhere. It's an amateur's work, no doubt; the brush strokes are clumsy and the colour range is muddled. Dark and sombre hues of blue and grey depict what's obviously the bay -- the cliff formations of the rocky beach are eerily accurate -- and in the water there are black forms, floating, swimming.

Maybe not swimming. On a closer look, those aren't porpoises. They're bodies, floating, face down. And at least one person present recognises the scene.

Della's expression stills momentarily -- then, sotto voce, "Oh, with the garden, of course. Thank you for doing that." She glances between Houston and Una before it's back to shaking her head: not accessible, of course not. But if her lips tightened at that, it's nothing to compare to the painting, which has her involuntarily stepping back -- hopefully not onto anyone. And then she takes a photo anyway.

Una's not dis interested in the painting, but evidently she's more interested in her phone, getting it out and snapping a quick picture-- or is that typing? It's hard to tell. She keeps glancing around, and then at her map, and then back at her phone.

Della's phone goes buzz, a moment later.

(TXT to Della) Una : So, wanna sneak off and get a look at that basement?

Ava glances to Houston for a moment and gives the woman a smile. It's an appreciative smile that seems to say 'smart lady'. If smiles could talk, that is. Her eyes drift back towards Vicky at the mention of a painting and she nods, following along after the teen. Standing in front of the painting, Ava can only take a deep breath of a sigh. "Yeah," she frowns. "Something exactly like that." Una can recognize the tightness in her friend's frown, the spark of recognition as Ava looks at the painting.

It's exactly what she saw. Only she saw it large and in person. Small and in painting seems far less daunting. Her phone buzzes and she takes it out, snapping a quick picture of the painting. "Creepy," she adds for the teen's sake. "That guy was pretty messed up in the head, huh?" Him and his stupid ghost. Her fingers fly over the keypad of her phone.

Houston returns Una's smile, her own open and friendly. "Though really, even with a quick peek, it's not like anyone'd have time to read a bunch of handwritten things in a mysteriously unlocked and off-limits basement. The scariest thing down there is probably the size of the spiders." Vicky's crusade is a worthy one. "Colonizers like the best view, don't they?" She wanders along, looking to the portrait when it's pointed out. "That's... cheerful." She glances over to Vicky. "Is this a haunted tour?" She glances over, catches Ava's smile, and gives her a nod, her earlier smile lingering. "Hey." Softly, so as not to interrupt their tour guide's presentation.

Did she bumble into a ghost story? She squints at the painting, hopefully not in Della's shot. "Ghoulish." Her hands stay put in her back pockets. Funny, she doesn't sound like a big fan of horror.

"That's what they called him," the blond teenager tells Houston with a smile that clearly communicates I read the damn handbook, I am earning my too few bucks per hour for this gig. "Willy the Ghoul. His name was William Gohl, though, and he killed people over a period, not at all at once. They never found all the bodies and they never got a full confession either because the guy was batshit insane. They think he killed upwards of maybe a hundred and forty people. No one really knows why. But there's a lot of people who have had nightmares about that painting so maybe his ghost lives on in it."

Comforting.

Della promptly looks at her phone -- if only to take another, more detailed photo, and then another if there's one of the 'about the artist' placards. Maybe not just 'only.' At least there's no ringtone. She glances at Houston again, for longer this time, and is about to speak when -- "Hundred and forty?!" Della gathers herself, murmuring, "Here I was just going to ask about the restrooms."

(TXT to Una) Della : y

(TXT to Una) Della : wtf 14"

Una can recognise that tightness in Ava's frown, and it stills her-- stops her from glancing back at her phone, though it, too, buzzes.

Not that that stops her from glancing back at Houston. "No, you'd need more than a quick peek," she allows, sounding thoughtful. "Unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. That's why they need a catalogue. I wonder if the historical society has such a thing." Beat. More loudly: "There is a historical society, isn't there? I'm sure I've heard that there is."

"Oh. The painting is worth the nightmares. But I wouldn't worry about his ghost. Not anymore, anyway." Ava offers that with a brief smile, letting it tug her lips out of the frown that marred her face for too long. Finally she pulls her eyes fully from the painting with one final squint. Another text is sent. Conner where are you?? I need you to touch a thing!

"I heard that Addington House was very involved with the Historical Society, in fact. Helped great with their archives. What with them being so established."

"Oh, gods. My sister was babbling about this when we moved into that mur—er—motel by the waterfront." Houston sighs. She walked right into a ghost story. "People who kill a bunch of people usually are." Batshit insane. At the phrase his ghost lives in it, Houston takes two very long steps back from the painting. "Fuck that."

"Yeah, you'd practically need an inside woman with a key to really catalog something like that." Pointedly, perhaps more pointedly than intended, she takes one more big step back from the painting. "Where's a sage stick when you need it." Witches. She pulls her phone out and her thumbs fly over the screen. That's what a ranting text looks like. Clacky-clicky-clack-clack-clack. Boy, she can go. "I think there was a historical plaque or something. I dunno, I was trying to keep dry and..." She trails off, text speed never diminishing.

You'd think a painting that apparently gets asked about every so often would indeed have an artist's placard. It doesn't. It's hard to tell its exact age, either -- the colours are a bit faded and the frame does look worn, but it might have been taken lovely care of. 1910 or more recent? Vicky might be right, Vicky might be wrong.

"A lot of tourists want to hear about Billy the Ghoul," Vicky reads off from memory -- she's got a great memory, although usually she uses it to think up ways to be a pain in the backside to the fur industry, kill shelters, racists, misogynists, vegetarians who won't go all the way to vegan, people who use plastic when cardboard will do, Sunday drivers, and people who short-change at the greengrocer. Among others.

"He was an officer for the Sailor's Union of the Pacific and all we know about him is that he had a wife and child. He shot, stabbed and slashed the throats of his victims and dumped them in the bay -- that's what the painting is about. He was arrested by the Sheriff -- an Addington, of course -- and a posse, and at the time he went to court they could only pin two murders on him. Modern historians think the body count is closer to a hundred and forty. He was sentenced to life in prison but a few years later he was transferred to an asylum for the criminally insane where he died sometime in the thirties." She read the book, all right.

Deep breath; Vicky needs oxygen too. "Historical Society, right. They meet at the old Post Office building, but let me tell you off the record, you asked for a juicy secret, there's one. They say they meet at the old Post Office building -- but if you look at the registers, the only person in town who's supposedly a member is Hyacinth Addington. So unless she meets herself there, you know?"

She nods at Ava. "Most of the archives are right here, in the basement. They let us look at some of it. It's a lot of old junk and paperwork mostly. But they can't just toss the whole pile on the dump because you never know what some future historian is gonna need, or something. Are you into that sort of stuff, Dr Brennon? My mom always says it's a pity how no one cares about town history anymore."

Beat. "Not white sage, right? 'Cause white sage is for indigenous people only, it's on the red list, that's how endangered it is."

Della stops fiddling with her phone -- no more buzzes, at least, that's what her nice silent watch is for -- to look up for that 'juicy secret'... only then it registers and she just very silently sighs. That last bit about the sage, though: time for more typing. Though, "Where are the restrooms, by the way? For later. And," with a particular glint in her eyes, "This doesn't have a coffee shop, does it? Speaking of colonization."

The look that Una aims Houston seems to be asking a question, probably something along the lines of: you don't happen to be an inside woman with a key, do you?

Or maybe not. It's hard to tell with these glances.

Idly; "I don't suppose they need more tour guides over the summer? I do love history. Or--haha!-- maybe we should just join the Historical Society, if it has so few members. Do you know when it's supposed to meet?"

Beat. "Restroom, yes. I could use one too."

"I'm totally into that stuff. I was actually hoping to join. Part of why I came on the tour today. I was hoping to bump into someone who was a part of the society. But if what you're saying is true, then there might not be much hope for me in that regard, huh? I love town history." Ava offers a pitifully sad look Vicky's way. First, her clinic explodes, now this? What a bad couple of weeks. Is it enough to pull on the teen's heartstrings? Maybe?

She glances to Houston and shakes her head as the girl steps back from the painting. "Don't worry. I'm sure there's plenty of ghosts here. But not his."

Houston's texting gets more and more speedy as Vicky talks about the Ghoul, and she has to be making some epic autocorrect errors there. No way is that all right. She glances over her phone at the tour guide. "You're a font of useful information." She smiles to herself and says, "The only thing corporations did right was a skinny vanilla latte." Is she baiting the teen guide to distract her? Chances are looking pretty good, because what she says next is, "Is it hard to reconcile taking a paycheck from a shrine to the very people who made all this murder, mayhem, and exploitation possible?"

Look, she's a couple yards away from the girl. If there's a vegan whirlwind, she can probably make it through the door before the ethically sourced rant hits its zenith. She looks to Ava. "That's a relief. The last thing I need is that following me home." Someone who believes in ghosts then.

"No coffee shop," Vicky tells Della. "But if you head back out to the hall and into the old kitchen -- it's really super big, you'd think they fed like forty people here -- there's a tour guide named Matt who's selling coffee today, along with period appropriate pasties, and I have to warn you, they are not vegan." A crime, obviously. "And there's a rest room as well which is fortunately not period appropriate because no one wants to crap in a bucket."

She glances at Una. "I think they meet by arrangement. I'm not sure they actually -- meet, you know?" Something in the girl's voice hints of -- something that she probably can't say and be quoted on while she's wearing her lanyard.

Not that a lanyard ever stopped Vicky Barrett even when she's the one wearing it. She leans in and says, exactly so loud that no one else might hear through the door back to the hall, "If you ask me it's a facade and there's no one left. They're all gone. Poof. Silenced. The way people go quiet around here or disappear. They knew something and they were shut up. It's a conspiracy." There are a lot of conspiracies in Vicky's life. This one might even have some basis in reality.

She half-turns, turning the most pitiful bright, blue eyes on Houston. Look at this misery. Look at this suffering. "Mom made me. Says I have to learn how to deal with customers, so I have to have a summer job where I'm not working for her." If some enterprising start-up engineer was to trap the saltiness in her voice, they could probably sustainably supply Washington State with salines for a few decades.

Della's eyes go round, she coughs just barely short of an actual snicker, and then there's more typing. Also a couple of pictures. That's even before Vicky lets loose.

"A conspiracy," she breathes, as though it were at least (at least!) as significant and magical as coffee.

"A conspiracy," repeats Una, echoing both Vicky and Della, though the latter is probably inadvertent.

"Tear it down from the inside," she advises Vicky, cheerfully. "That's the only way to deal with exploitation, right? Is there anything more you can tell us about the Historical Society? Or..." Beat. "It'd be a shame to lose the whole thing, if everyone's gone. Especially when there's so much around by way of history, and source material, and, well, everything!"

Her phone's out again. The typing can't be great, the way she's not looking at it.

Nope. Looks like the face didn't work. Ava will have to work on that. "If they were all silenced to that degree, they must have really stumbled onto something worth covering up, don't you think? I wonder what it could have been?" Honestly, there's not much to add. In this regard, she can just sit back and let Una handle it. Girl's got it covered!

(TXT to Una) Ava : I didn't know you were so good at this. Glad you're on my side, lol!

Oh god the typing is still going. Houston might get a hand cramp. "Moms can be the absolute worst, but she's the only one you get, and you know what would be the epic flip of the script? Secretly helping researchers learn more about the stuff they don't even want you to know. You could be the woman on the inside, the mole." Houston was prepared to duck and cover when the wrath of a budding activist hit incandescent levels, but Vicky isn't in college yet. That will come. So she jumps on Una's thought train just as it leaves the station. "The truth is important, and the truth lasts forever." Oh god, is she going to say this. Do not cringe. "That's the ultimate in sustainability."

In case that doesn't work, she swaps tactics with an aside of, "Is there a good vegan place in this town? It's really not super fun to cook on a hot plate in a motel that smells like corpse feet."

(TXT to Ava) Una : Call me the great pretender. Anyone but me. I got your back! As it were. Ish.

"Well, uh." Vicky searches her memory; this wasn't part of the required reading for the job, and the Historical Society is not something she's looked into for the sake of her own interest in the topic (interest level: Slightly more exciting than dead frogs). "Okay, I'm pretty sure that they're all women. And at least two of them have the, you know, the light. Haven't heard anyone say they died or something."

She hitches a shoulder. "If you ask me? It's like that time when people started acting real weird. Suddenly that lady on Oak Avenue had twelve kids and she's like, just a few years older than me. Or the old astronaut guy is secretly a Russian spy, and so's Mr Rosencrantz who has the garage. Things just changed. And no one knew about it. Whole world just believed it. I'm pretty sure I used to be black. And I'm like, not black now, you know? And everyone can see that and everyone knows I've always been pasty white, but I know. My parents are black for fuck's sake, and no one even asks about it. They can do that, they can make things different."

Beat. "Barrett Fresh Fruit and Vegetables on Spruce, we got everything and it's very clearly labelled vegan and not vegan." She'll know. She's the one who labels things. Excessively.

The girl glances back at Della. "Did you need the bathroom, miss? It's through there -- and then there's the kitchen where Matt will tell you everything you never wanted to know about boring settlers' corn cakes boiled in bear fat or whatever, only it's not actually bear fat because at least they're not that insane. I have to go greet the next group."

Houston earns herself a look, though. It's the kind of look that promises (threatens?) being remembered and possibly attempted recruited for whatever anti-consumerism crusade the Barrett girl finds herself launching next. "Truth, man. There's no truth in this town that doesn't change every time something on the Other Side feels like changing it. Don't tell anyone I said that, I'll be out of a job."

There is a lot going on, both on Una's phone and off, and though she's now dropped her attention to look at it and catch up on whatever the incessant vibrations relate to, that doesn't last either, because...

"Wait, what? You used to be black? Your parents are black?"

Vicky may need to go, and Una may have, uh, that desperate need to go to the restroom, but, but, but.

Della's not even pretending not to type. Maybe she's the secretary for the Historical Society Invasion Club. And there may be a fine line between cringing and shuddering sometimes, but she's all the way on the latter side -- with a small detour for 'the light, I know what that is now!' -- and then again because either Vicky's to be taken at face value, as it were, or she's talking about things that way and bear fat and what. "I... I'll find it. Thanks." That is, "Thanks!"

"Truth here is pretty relative, you've got that right. That's part of why the Historical Society is so important. Their records would be pretty thorough, wouldn't they? All women is kind of neat, but also kind of sexiest if you ask me." Ava frowns a little at that.

Her expression just sort of sets in. "Well, if what you say is true, that just means it's more important than ever to make sure the Society is up and working again, wouldn't you say? We can't allow Them to control our lives too much, hm? Can't be scared away. Right Vicky?"

There's the little whooosh noise of a sent text, and someone out there just got a creepified-avoidance-fueled monologue from Houston. Whew. She tucks her phone back into her pocket like she didn't just clacky-clack type through a good couple of moments of conversation. She clears her throat lightly. She doesn't react to a very real and present reference to the Other Side, nor does she give any knowing looks.

"I need to try to get in touch with them too. I'm interested in finding a historical property to rent." She slides her hands into her pockets, making a mental note to do that. She glances out the window, then back to the tour guide.

"Don't look at me," Vicky Barrett returns to the doctor. "As soon as I'm a legal adult I'm outta here. Gonna go live with a cousin in Portland. They think I'm adopted but whatever. They still love me even if I'm white now." And then she is off, leaving her little audience with each other, their mobile phones, and the decidedly creepy painting representing the many victims of local serial killer, William Gohl, and directions for the kitchen.

Outside in the main hall, other locals are arriving for the guided tour. A few faces are familiar -- from the community centre, from the Safeway, from the laundromat, wherever locals go. Addington House is one of those places that you live in a town your entire life and keep telling yourself that you ought to see, but most residents of Gray Harbor haven't actually gone, or they've gone once because you oughta, or in case of at least a couple of the people out there, because they need to brush up on local history so they have something to tell the tourists.

Tourism is the town's main summer income, after all. Whether you're a waiter at Table Thai or an ice cream vendor on the boardwalk, being able to answer at least the basic questions means the tourists stick around, means they spend more money. It's hardly a secret that town hall pays these college kids to play tour guides here all summer for a reason: The reason is called tourist money. Gray Harbor needs it.

Is it really much of a surprise that Vicky can't answer all their questions? Probably not. Una looks disappointed anyway, huffing out a long deep breath that follows the teen out, though she herself hasn't moved.

Then, brightly (albeit in a quiet voice): "Who wants to come break into the basement with me and Della?"

Della looks sideways at Ava, not quite biting her lip for all that her teeth show briefly -- and once Vicky vanishes, well. Still not a cringe, but a definite wince. With a just-a-minute finger for her housemate, she turns to ask Houston, her voice low, "What kind of historical property?"

"Girl, the Historical Society thing was my idea, you think I'm not going? Why do you think I'm here?" Ava scoffs a little at Una, almost looking offended. Maybe a little hurt, even. It doesn't last for long as she gestures to the painting. "We're going to have to talk about this, soon, too. I saw it in person not too long ago." There's a shudder.

"Conner was supposed to come with me today so that he could touch things and get some feelings off of them, but I think he got caught up with stuff. Or he fried his new phone and can't contact me. Which means old fashioned investigating. Plus some ghost hunting."

Houston replies to Della, equally quiet. "Somewhere to live, something quirky with a history." Says the woman avoiding ghosts. "Business and home. It's difficult to find something suitable in this town, but the motel's getting old. Good light. Craftsman, Victorian, Tudor, you name it. I run a lifestyle vlog."

She side eyes Ava at the mention of ghost hunting. "I'm not wearing enough crystals for this," she mutters. She does hesitate a little at Una's offer. Breaking into the basement does sound fun. Vloggable even. Her two sides war. Nope out of potential horror or go with the story. Damn you, youtube!

"Oh, I know you're in," Una tells Ava, hastily: please don't be hurt! "That was kind of a rhetorical question, as far as you're concerned. But--" She's looking at Houston, catching up with what she's saying.

"You should join us. Hello, I promise we're not crazy. I'm Una, this is Della, and Ava. We're nice normal people, just looking for information. But... if you don't, well, that's fine, just, can you not tell on us?"

Beat. "I'm going to text Ravn. He knows this stuff. I'd be lying if I pretended I was an experienced break-and-enter-er."

(TXT to Ravn) Una : Uh so, if I were to be very legally obtaining entry into a secret Addington House basement...

(TXT to Una) Ravn : I'm in the hall. Trying to avoid Vicky Barrett. Where are you guys?

(TXT to Ravn) Una : Oh, we literally just got rid of her. Well. She left. We're by the creepy Gohl painting.

Della's nodding, particularly at the light, with a quirky bit of smile for the vlog; "Well, good luck with finding a place. And -- " she glances at her housemate, who just gave her their names, and shares a lift-and-fall of her shoulders with Houston, a bit more of that smile: what can you do. Type type.

It doesn't take long for the door to open to admit one tall guy who matches Houston's dress code well enough that no one would be surprised to find he's the other half of her vlog team (he isn't, and if he was, he'd need longer hair). Black blazer, black jeans, black everything -- and slipping in with a glance over his shoulder like he's left his stalker out there.

A gloved hand goes up in a small wave. "I was -- well, dodging Vicky. She volunteers at the Community Centre. Which means she usually has about eighteen things to tell me about how the place ought to be run, and then a few complaints about the homeless guys eating too much processed food."

The presence of a new face registers and Ravn offers a small smile. "So, we are breaking and entering except we already entered? Hi, name is Ravn Abildgaard." He pronounces the name in a decidedly non-English fashion -- more like round, but with the 'd' clipped off (no pun intended, stoppit).

Ava nods at Una and glances towards Houston. "Oh, crystals won't help you with the ghosts in this town. Sorry. But yours are very lovely. You might get some compliments? I've really only interacted with one ghost so far and she was delightful. But from what I understand, they're really a mixed bag." Ava shrugs. "I'd say it's worth it for a chance to uncover secrets, right?"

As Ravn enters, she lifts a hand. "Well, to be fair, we've entered one part, we haven't entered the secondary location where all the secrets are kept. Which is probably locked. Unless you sticky fingered a key already?"

"Houston. Hi. Una, Della, Ava... and Ravn." It's turning into a party in this odd little museum. "Yeah, sure, sounds like a good time." The blonde doesn't know any better than to creep around an Addington property. "I'm an old hand at breaking into things with a big Keep Out sign on it." The things you do to meet new people. "Y'all do this kinda thing a lot?"

"Ghosts are fine until they latch on," she says to Ava. "Crystals always help me, even if they don't really work for other people. It's like a security blanket, thing. Y'know. Elsewise they make a good stabbing weapon." She hms. "I mean the girl did say juicy secrets a couple times. That's basically an invitation with fancy-ass calligraphy." She sniffs lightly. "What, I read all the Nancy Drew books when I was a little girl."

Something on her phone (these damn younger millennials, unable to look away!) makes Una frown, and then flush (probably, given the way she glances apologetically at Della, something to do with her), but there's vindication in the form of Ravn and his full name introduction (take that, Della), and the redhead straightens her stance and squares her shoulders.

"Not me," she admits to Houston. "But there are things I need to know, and this seems like the best place to start looking. Who can resist a mystery, right? Is the door to the basement marked on the map?"

Ravn pauses to glance at the painting. "Christ on rollerskates, that's creepy. I don't think I've seen that before, but it reminds me of something Alexander Clayton described to me once." Then his blue-greys drift to Houston again. "I don't know you, but lady, you speak my language."

He looks back at Una. "I grabbed a brochure out in front. There's a floor plan." The paper crinkles as he pages through all four pages. "Looks like it's in the kitchen. Shouldn't be too difficult to get in there -- and I'll honestly be surprised if they have a big high-tech lock on the basement door. The exterior doors, sure -- there's a lot of valuable art and antiques here, and probably a bucketload of very expensive electronics upstairs."

There's a shake of Della's artfully styled head: no. No, she doesn't do these things. And with that, and a sideways smile Una's way -- vindicated or not! -- she turns to look: ah, the man in black. She just gives in and laughs. ...And consults her phone. Again.

"You should see it in person. It's worse. We should talk about that. Soon." Ava tells Ravn with a far too chipper smile. "Alright. So we have two rogues on our little quest. Shall we?" She grins and gestures in the direction that leads towards the kitchen. She pokes at her phone again. Once again trying to get ahold of Conner.

"I'd seriously kill for a vanilla latte right now, but I'm in for a mystery." Houston says, swiping a lock of hair out of her eyes. The chill of the rain seems to have worn off a bit. "The creepy basement door is always off the kitchen in an old house. You're twenty percent more likely to die on the steep steps if it's also under the servant's stairs." She doesn't like ghosts, but she has a sister into these things, a sister who does research and talks about it ad nauseam.

There's a sliiight pause. "Considering the location in which we're having this conversation, I'm going to go ahead and take back that kill for a snuggle voraciously." Specificity in all things. Hear that, ghosts who may be listening?

Some of Una's bravado may be wearing off, likely thanks to Houston's practical statistics, real or no. But she pushed for this little excursion, and she's not going to back out now: she'll even lead the way (having now remembered that she, too, has a copy of that brochure with its floor plan, and the ability to read it, decipher it, and actually walk towards it).

There are more people to pass on the way, but there's nothing really out of the ordinary about a group of five normal people, exploring the house on open house day, right? It's fine.

"Sorry I haven't managed to catch you in person until now," Ravn tells Della even as the unlikely group of protagonists (totally protagonists, aren't we? Yes, of course we are) begin to make their way towards the grand Queen Anne kitchen. "I guess you get tossed into the deep end of the pool here."

And what a kitchen it is. When this house was built sometime in the late 19th century, everything was done by hand. It's been modernised a couple of times since -- modern appliances installed to service the very contemporary business offices and meeting rooms on the top floor, water on tap, electrical stove, the works. It's not hard to imagine what it must have looked like in its glory day, though; the sheer size, the work space for the household's cook and her maid minions, the old cast iron stove which has been left as testament to the firewood based technology of another age (and because, let's be honest, the thing weighs a ton or more).

All that counter space, once used for preparing food every step of the process from 'take a goose, wring its neck' to 'dinner is ready, ma'am', is now occupied by -- pastries and a generously sized espresso machine. Amidst the chaos is Matt the college student, wearing a lanyard like Vicky's. He's a pimpled white kid holding a chemistry textbook in one hand and very obviously hoping that no one actually makes it here on the tour.

"Quite all right, says Della, acknowledging and possibly wryly amused... but not necessarily appreciative, given her just as wry, "I hope." She follows the group along, slowing by the espresso machine but not, this time, for the actual goods; nor, for that matter, any need to talk to poor Matt. Instead, giving in despite the decade she has on Houston, "Sorry? 'For a snuggle voraciously' what now?" Is that a vlogger thing? "Good to know about the stairs."

"Oh, just like you never use wish in the presence of a mysterious mystical force, you should never say kill in the house with a serial killer's portrait," Houston says, doing it again. "No Macbeth in the theater. You know. The basics." She tucks her phone stuck half out of her pocket. "We'll be fine. This is a museum basement. It's probably just a little cluttered." She glances over into the kitchen, and eyes the kid with the book.

There's a thoughtful glance sent back over Una's shoulder towards Ravn and Della as she overhears their exchange, but in lieu of making comment, the redhead turns back again, focusing instead on: ah yes, the kitchen. And the unhelpfully present (but not particularly surprising) Matt.

Una, better known for throwing herself into situations than thinking them through, hesitates only momentarily, and then sweeps her way towards the student. "Excuse me! I just saw, uh-- sorry, I missed the name. But apparently it's your break? Don't worry about the kitchen; I'll watch it for you. No one's coming back here anyway, right?"

"I'm on the second break shift," Matt announces, without looking up. "You need something? Gonna go on reading otherwise."

"We'll just borrow this," Ravn murmurs and gestures at the key -- an old cast iron affair hanging on a nail next to the kitchen door. "Architecture students. We need to look at the foundation stone."

"Whatever," says Matt. "But thanks, lady." At least he acknowledges Una's offer. It's something, given how little he seems to care for his job here in the first place. Maybe Vicky's mom is not the only parent to force the jewel of the family future to get a real summer job.

"Ah. Thanks." Della hesitates, but in the end just smiles -- until her housemate weighs in and that smile becomes determined. Good thing the kid's not looking up. She'll just keep back towards the rear, here, when it comes to heading down those steps; never mind what happens to the people, the women in the movies who do that.

"Actually. I was wondering if you'd be willing to do us a huuuuge favor. I know you guys are selling coffee and stuff. But my friend here was really itching for a vanilla latte, and so was I, honestly. How willing would you be to go into town to grab some if I said, keep the change?" Ava wonders as she slides a hundred dollar bill just a little bit out of her bag for the kid to see. "I really don't want to have to go all the way back into town for it. What do you say?"

The glance Una aims back at Ravn is pained: yes, okay, she should've left the grift to the person with actual experience in it. Lesson (probably not) learned. She tried.

And then Ava throws money around, and at this point, the redhead really does just scuttle back towards the door, and the key that they now have, shaking her head.

Unlike Della, she's not willing to be the last down the stairs: indeed, there's restless energy that keeps her shifting from foot to foot, eye on the door. Go, go.

Poor Matt. He is pimply indecision on feet. A hundred bucks? What teenager doesn't want a large donation of spending money that mom and dad don't know about? But what adult walks into a museum and offers some random tour guide a hundred bucks for a cup of coffee fetched from downtown when there's literally an espresso machine right there? Sure, he can't make a proper vanilla latte the way one of Eleanor Roen's girls might at Espresso Yourself but, come on, a hundred bucks?

Like, seriously, a hundred bucks?

Ravn in turn shoots Una an apologetic look. He didn't mean to rain on her parade -- and then he too blinks at Ava because wow, yes, all right, that's a way to do it too. "Lady's not joking," he tells the kid, in an attempt to sway his decision. "It's Addington House. She works for 'em. It's called customer service, kiddo."

In the end, Matt caves. He's likely already thinking about the new game he's going to buy -- and plucks the bill from Ava's fingers. "Back in twenty!"

It's probably good that he doesn't hear Ravn's murmured question to Ava, "So, did you make that on the copier machine, or does being a doctor in this town pay ridiculously well?"

It's not that Della facepalms; it's the back of her hand that she holds to her forehead, just for a moment. Wistfully, "I should've gone for one too." But, suddenly: "Let's go if we're going to. Twenty."

"Thank you, dear," Ava offers the boy with a warm smile. Though Ravn's comment gets a chuckle. "You think these clothes and my nice car buy themselves? I come from money." That does explain how she doesn't exactly need roommates to afford that house on her own. "Also, I do video consults on the side for extra cash on occasion. For folks outside of the area. It's lucrative." She shrugs. "Come on. Let's check out downstairs."

Whatever mixed emotions Una is feeling, the end result is a choke of laughter, because, well? It worked.

"I'm taking lessons from you two," is her murmured remark. "Note to self: simplicity... and when in doubt, cold hard cash. Okay, yes: downstairs."

She'll even lead the way, bypassing Ravn to collect it from the hook and unlock the door. The basement, after all, awaits.

Who's surprised to find that the staircase is wide and well lit? No one who remembers that the year is 2022, not 1890. The staircase was built wide, probably to facilitate storage of goods and crates -- and electric light has been installed since, probably to prevent accidents. Addington House is, after all, not some haunted old mansion. It's a (probably haunted) mansion that is still in use as a museum, a town archive, and the seat of an influential business empire.

There's a door at the bottom, and the key works for that, too. Beyond that -- the light changes. Upstairs, in the museum part of the building, antique gas lights have been replaced with subtly shaded electrical counterparts, in order to preserve the dusky feel of gaslights from Victorian times. Down here? Cold and fluorescent neon lights. The basement is a storage facility, not a recreational area.

And boy, is it ever. Rows and rows and rows of steel shelves, like a factory storage area. Occupied by crates, ranging from old wooden ones to modern plastic. Some are labeled in careful inked cursive; others with plastic strips written out by one of those mechanical label machines that were all the rage of the 1970s office landscape; others yet with labels printed on an inkjet printer; and yet others without labels at all. Does the Addington family never toss as much as a single Christmas card out?

They probably do. Some of these crates may hold interesting things. Most of them are probably here because somebody emptied a desk into a crate, put the crate in the basement, and left for another job without looking back. At least the basement is well aired; the smell is more dusty than moldy.

Well-lit, no. Wide, yes; Della, for all of her sleek wardrobe and fast hardware and hybrid car, hasn't the experience with houses of this magnitude; if a kitchen's that large, in her realm, it's because it was remodeled that way. And this place?

Well.

She still gives the handrail a tug to make sure it's secure, then either way doesn't use it. She walks carefully, aiming for unobtrusive rather than stealthy, and then... waits her turn. Once she can see, she stares.

Time for the next photos: ceiling, too.

"Cold hard cash is sometimes the simplest answer. But sometimes it'll end up making it worse by insulting someone. So, you have to be careful. With a teenager, though? I figured there was a pretty good chance he'd take the money. I would have at that age."

Ava follows the way down, breathing in the smell of old papers and knowledge. "Oh, it's like heaven," she whispers, her face a picture of bliss as she looks over all the different boxes and piles of papers. She doesn't the touch, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to touch, her fingertips brushing the papers as she smiles to herself. "I could stay down here for weeks and just sort through it all." Ava sounds so happy.

"Oh holy shit," is Una's assessment of the basement, as she clears the final step and hastily makes room for those behind her. There's honest, genuine dismay in her voice: this place is bigger-- and more full-- than perhaps she had dared to imagine, and as a result, significantly less approachable.

"I mean-- yes," she allows, in answer to Ava. "There's got to be mountains of treasure in here. All kinds of amazing things. But... we have twenty minutes. Less now. How the hell are we going to find anything useful in twenty minutes?"

Beat. "Where's my asshole ancestor to throw around books when I need him?"

That may be a hopeful upturned lilt of her voice at the end, as if she's intending to summon the poor dead man. If so... nothing happens.

The best part about looking at photos from this basement later on is going to be the game of shadows: Realising that so many shadows on the walls and ceilings look sort of like people, silhouettes in funny old hats -- tall hats for the gentlemen (presumably) and wide-brimmed things with feathers for the ladies (presumably, we're not judging if any ghosts here want to shake things up a bit). One might sit at a kitchen table later and reach the conclusion that either that basement is haunted to kingdom come or it's easy to imagine things in the elongated, strange shadows cast by people moving through strong, fluorescent light.

"Not going to lie," Ravn murmurs to Ava. "I could stay here with you. Pretty sure we need to decide where we're looking, though. Una, your asshole ancestor -- must be pretty early on? And anything pertaining to that painting upstairs must be early 19th century."

At least it all seems to be fairly chronological. In that kind of way that happens when at some point, some employee pissed off Hyacinth Addington enough to get assigned to 'sort all the shit until you've learned something' duty for three weeks.

"He'll be back in twenty, but that doesn't necessarily mean we have to be out," Della supposes, for all that she'd reiterated the timing herself. "Not if we're architecture students," this with a burble of stifled laughter in her low voice. "Keep good track of the key?" She's looking at her photos long enough to make sure they get what she wants, but not so much for more than what she wants. Not yet. Now is for moving out into the shelves, not yet for any of the detail work that she loves but for whatever (jumps out at her) ... (catches her eye) ... comes to mind.

"What I really need is access to all of it. I'm not going to get that until I get the historical society up and running again." Ava pauses, glancing around at the boxes. "I do wonder if there's a helpful Addington down here who would like to help me in that regard. In exchange for my helping sort through all this in the future! Get it all in proper order. I imagine there's one or two of you that isn't happy that the Historical Society has been relegated to silence, and all the knowledge is shoved down here, with nobody documenting anything new. Surely someone wants to help me fix that."

Maybe that'll encourage a ghost or two to pop it's head out. "Beyond that, there's a funeral procession that I'm interested in. If there are pictures of it, that might lead to something. According to the clothes that was more recent. Then there's Gohl. I was shown all the floating bodies," she shudders. "Then I was shown this house. I'm also looking for a bestiary, if there is one, or a few. History of stuff that's made it over here and how they've been handled, that sort of thing."

"Yeah," agrees Una. "1863 is when he stole shit, but presumably what we're looking for is after that. Sometime between then and the 1920s, which is... a long time, now that I think about it." The redhead meanders through the shelves, working her way backwards towards the oldest shelves, where she pulls out a box at random.

She's got half an eye for Della, too, but does not presume to direct her attentions. Nor does she interrupt Ava's ghost-calling, though it does make her turn and glance around to see what, if anything, stirs as a result.

(That doesn't mean a box won't do so of its own accord: not magically, mind, just in that static way that sometimes causes some things to be more interesting than others. Look at me, Della says that perfectly ordinary box. Pick me.)

"I'm on board with the Historical Society project," Ravn murmurs. "I don't suppose having at least one PhD in the actual field along can hurt your case."

His gaze travels down the rows -- so many!. "Gohl is fairly well documented. I remember reading about him. There's a pretty persistent rumour he came back but I haven't managed to get anyone to tell me about it. Hyacinth hinted a few times but given that it was her family members who ended up dead, it wasn't a favourite topic for discussion." He looks back at Ava. "But Gohl didn't die in Gray Harbor that I know of. Let's split up -- Una and Della go look for Asshole Irving in the far end and we look for a funeral procession closer to the present?"

Della's listening: not recording, but taking notes here and there; it means that Ava, or rather Ava's direction given all the shelves, doesn't get more than a quizzical look.

Perfectly ordinary boxes are welcome to wheedle her way into her attention; indeed, "Mm," suggests a lack of disagreement with that suggestion, but it's Una she glances at to confirm. Although... if a box is being nosy, she'll pick it anyway, first. Just one.

Peach Melba is on the list.

"His ghost came back. Took a lot to put him down. He closed a door on the way behind him that altered how healing magic works. Apparently which, by the way, effected not just us here, but effects the rest of the world's healing magics as well. Take from that what you will." Ava states that with a frown. "He's gone now, but people died. More people, I mean."

Ava is starting to move through the boxes of more recent stuff, looking for anything funeral related, or anything interesting really. Whatever might catch her interest. "Really could use a guiding hand," she calls out again, looking around.

"Sounds like a plan," agrees Una, who weaves her way deeper and deeper into the past (as it were), though it's not as if the shelves are properly dated to be sure of more than a rough time period (ie 'old' and 'slightly less old'), at least in this section. She runs her fingers down the backs of some fairly decrepit filing boxes, eventually pulling one down at random.

Della's box, by contrast, is distinctly less old, and whoever filled it, fifty-odd years ago, did so seemingly at random: brittle and yellowed, the box is full of clippings from magazines and newspapers, many of them recipes from a long-defunct column in the Gazette.

If there's anything relevant there, it's hard to see what or how. (Or, for that matter, why).

"We know that there things on the Other Side that can rewrite reality on a global scale. Ask me about it sometime, I ended up with my childhood friends in Denmark firmly convinced that I'm Swedish and never have lived anywhere but Sweden before coming here." Ravn makes a face and then moves towards the more recent section.

Then he pauses and looks back at Ava. "You can't see them, can you?"

Whoever they are. Probably the figures that will later on show up on Della's photos, too vague to be definite proof of anything but an active imagination. He shakes his head. "This place is full of memories. But please don't try too hard to summon anything more solid. Last time I was here, someone managed to conjure up an old Addington ghost and a Veil denizen, and the argument lasted for hours."

Doesn't stop him from looking around though. And it most certainly does not stop a box lid from dropping off a shelf and coming to a halt at Ava's feet. There's a polaroid photo stuck to the inside of the lid.

A funeral procession, and a familiar one at that. And written on the white frame: September, 2019. Michael's Funeral.

Make that another quizzical look from Della, Ava-ward -- in part because her box is... not uninteresting, necessarily, but not exciting. She duly documents its location and a few shots of its contents, both en masse and a couple quasi-random clippings: "Be there in a minute. Apricot chicken recipe. Golden syrup pudding. Upside down tomato pie." And then it's off to Una.

"Yeaaah. We got an invitation, or well, Zara got an invitation, to take up her frustration with the healing situation with City Hall when her and I tested a healing theory out. I think that's who they were expecting us to contact. The something-ist, right? I've heard people talk about ist's in hushed tones before, but never really got information out of them about it. I'm starting to understand why."

Ava frowns. "I'm trying to get an Addington ghost to help with this and guide us. Maybe we can help them, too. A win win situation is best for everyone, don't you think?" As she says that, the box lid comes falling from a shelf to land in front of her feet. Her head tilts as she stoops to pick it up, glancing at the picture stuck inside the lid. She shows it to the others. "See? I think someone agrees with me."

From Una, muffled via the shelves: "I am not making upside down tomato pie, whatever that is."

Beat. "Did you find something? Because I've got jack and shit over here."

Granted, Una's still staring at random boxes, shifting them around and moving on in a way that suggests she's already half decided she's not going to find anything, and with the time constraints inherent in this little exercise, there's no point looking too deeply at anything, no matter how cool it might well be. It might also be that she's still straining to be able to hear what Ava's saying, and working through that.

The 'something-ist'? That's familiar, now. And that's got her worrying at her lip, focusing too much there and not enough on her search.

Which is probably why she completely misses the folded page of fine stationary that flutters out of one of the boxes she's disturbed and onto the floor.

"Mailbox at City Hall means the Revisionist. Not someone to screw with unless you really do want to find that the whole world is convinced you're a go-go dancer from Rio de Janeiro, desperately trying to overcome a long term drug addiction." Ravn shoots Ava a somewhat concerned glance. "That said, the Revisionist is not hostile -- more, alien. If you end up using that mailbox, be extremely careful with your wording. There's a reason I'm not complaining about being turned into the guy who runs an illegal lobster fighting ring -- it's far better than what I had."

He glances at the photo Ava is holding. "I guess that's connected to -- well, the Addington murders in '19. Where Gohl apparently came back and got killed a second time. Which does coincide with what some people say, that healing became harder. Aidan's talked about that. Finch de la Vega too, I'm pretty certain."

"Both of them?" Della, tongue in cheek. She'd hesitated over the golden pudding recipe, but... it's wrong to steal, isn't it? Even 1970s clippings. (And besides, it's on her phone.)

Coming up behind Una, now -- "Hey, careful." She bends to pick up the paper, adding, "All good," before bothering to look it over: maybe it's a written-out 1870s (1770s!) recipe.

Ava frowns at that and then goes wide eyed and sends off a very quick text to Zara. "Got it," she states with a sharp nod. "We will be sure not to use that any time soon. Can you use if for simple communication? Just asking questions? Or is it just for requests? Quite frankly, I really just want to freaking talk to whoever this laughing woman is. If she's even a woman. I want clear answers."

Ava takes a picture of the picture before settling it gently back into the box with respect. "I'm guessing his death had to do with Gohl, then. The visions all seemed to be about him, and then settled on this house, which means I was being led here for answers. But I feel like I don't know the right questions to ask to get the answers because I don't have all the pieces to the puzzle yet." She moves towards the box the picture came from, pulling it out to check and see what is inside of it. "It makes sense that the healing stuff is connected to all the stuff with Gohl, since he shut the door that locked down powers in the first place. So why more restrictions now? Why point me here?"

It happens a few moments after Della's fingers touch the paper: the sudden awareness of feelings that are not her own, but somehow imprinted into this otherwise innocuous folded piece of paper.

Anger-- no, not anger. Fear. Whoever held this paper, whoever wrote it, did so whilst terribly afraid and somehow, all these years later, that fear remains.

And it has been a long time: there's a date on the top right-hand corner of the page, and it is August 13th, 1921.

And the rest of the page? It's an inventory of some kind, and close to the bottom, three items have been crossed out, with a note added in a different hand: returned to AI, October 23, 1921.

"Hmm?" says Una, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Why ever anything," Ravn murmurs and looks blankly at a stack of build permits from the late 1990s; expansions on the outskirts of town. Are those the A-frames or -- he tucks them back in because whatever they are, they are not important. "That's more than a small part of our problem here, you realise? That we're dealing with intelligence so alien that even when they do seem to be trying to give us a straight answer, it's like reading some obscure Peruvian tribe's archaic petroglyphs, with only the Bible in Spanish for reference. Lots of dramatics and very little of it translates to anything we can understand."

He looks at Ava again. "So we know that whatever happened in your office is somehow connected to Billy the Ghoul or to the fact that he 'closed doors' a couple of years back. It's something, I suppose. Have a feeling we really need to track down some of the healers we haven't spoken to yet, get some answers from people who were there."

"Gah!" says Della, dropping the thing, backing up: like she'd touched a cinnamon bun that was hot like the oven but a century old.

"Careful careful careful," her voice rising in both pitch and volume. Not much lower, "Don't step on it." Or her.

"Ugh. I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense. Perhaps that was them trying to help, and I'm just not on the same wavelength enough to pick up what they are trying to say." Ava sets the lid back on the box and continues to look through the others. "Finding others who are willing to talk is harder than it seems, honestly. I've only found three other healers to talk to, so far. And Mikaere checked with this mother for me as well. Outside of that, there's no real new information. If you know where to locate some of these healers, point the way!"

She blinks at Della. "You alright?" she wonders before sighing. "I'm going to drift a little further down and see what I can find.

"What's the problem?" Una wants to know, stooping to pick up the bit of paper and frown at it.

Seems like a perfectly normal bit of paper to her. Though-- "Hey. This might actually be relevant. I think it's related to the earlier attempt at a historical society Mrs Leigh mentioned, the one my family tried to start?"

"It bit me." Though Della's staring at it as though the verb's not quite right. "Stung -- wait. Be careful. You don't feel anything weird?" She's not so discomposed that she doesn't move to take a picture, as long as Una's holding it up anyway, but doesn't touch.

Ravn wanders towards the other two -- possibly having noticed that they seem to have found something. "Not having a whole lot of luck up in the modern end. I suppose a lot of things are digitised now, so finding anything from the last decade might be an arsepain."

"Nope," says Una, sounding a little bewildered, as she turns the page over in her hand: look ma, no biting!

As Ravn approaches, she turns her head to glance in his direction, then makes a face. "That's probably true. Well-- we found something. Della, what do you mean, it bit you?"

A glance his way confirms that it's him, and not turned rabid either -- but it's to her housemate, her friend that Della says, shoulders folded forward, "It did." Though she has to look at her fingers again; "I mean, I can't see anything, but all at once I felt -- here. Maybe a bug jumped off." She reaches for the paper again, cautiously, just a pinch's worth.

"Whatever it is, take a picture of it in case it suddenly lights itself on fire or some other ghostly trope." Ravn doesn't reach for his own phone, though -- maybe because ultimately, the issues of the Irving family are not his issues, and interfering too directly might just prompt a reaction like that; a ghostly 'mind your own damned business' or similar.

"Right," Una agrees. "Photo. Did you get an okay one, Della? No one will notice if we take this with us, right? Assuming it doesn't burst into flame or anything. So there really was an attempt at a historical society. And they... returned something. To someone. I can't quite see what; it's been crossed out. Maybe if we get a good enough photo, and magnify it?"

The feeling's still there, when Della's fingertips touch it again: that same fear. There's no sense of whose fear, or what might have caused it, just a spark of knowing. Someone held this paper, or wrote on this paper, or did something with this paper, and they were afraid.

Lights itself on fire. Great. Della bares her teeth but keeps at it anyway -- only to hiss between those teeth, visceral without the immediate urgency of before. This time she can talk better. Photo. Right, photo. "We should get a better one, without fingers. And the other side," she says without looking up," her shoulders still tight, processing. "It's still there but not as much. It scared me." It's scaring her, though not the same way. "Someone scared, I felt it. It felt real." It felt real.

"I won't tell if you don't," Ravn murmurs to Una. "Particularly not if we are in fact rebooting the Historical Society. You can return it later, I figure."

He glances at his watch, and back at the staircase. "In fact, why don't I go make sure to keep Matt up there busy, in case he gets back? I don't think he's going to sound the alarm lest he wants to explain that hundred dollar bill, but it probably won't hurt if someone keeps him busy."

Una's answer to Ravn comes in the form of a few quick nods, initially. "Right," she agrees. Also? "Good plan."

For Della, her words are quieter, and more soothing: "I believe you. I'm pretty sure it's definitely a thing: things having, I don't know, residues? Memories attached. Just because I don't feel something, doesn't mean it's not there. So-- ok. Someone was scared. That's a clue too, right?"

"I think someone was scared." Della, still hanging onto it, still stubborn, makes herself put down the paper but only so that she can photograph it, both sides, focusing on the writing but aiming for angles once she's gotten the square-on view. She even holds it up to the light for a picture, just to show she can -- and who knows, maybe there'll be a watermark upon examination. "Does that mean that it is relevant," she wants to know, "or important, necessarily? Or just... could be the housekeeper who had her numbers off?"

Una's watching Della's face more than the paper, more than anything right now. "No," she allows. "Not necessarily. But it might be. We'll have to look at it more closely and see. Maybe it'll tell us something, maybe it won't. But it does seem to be related, and that's..." She casts a glance over her shoulder, at the shelves, and all the shelves behind them, row upon row. "I mean, given how much stuff there's in here. It's impressive."

Della's pale for someone her shade of brown, but her jaw is set. "All right." She nods, and then looks up and about. All those shelves. Shelves with no one else nearby. "Where did..."

She shakes her head, then, the not-cropped side of her hair swinging, and -- again deliberately -- slides the paper a little closer to the younger woman with her forefinger. This time she'd been braced for it; only a little wince shows. Looking straight at Una, "Una? I'm going to get some water." And maybe find that bathroom, or some coffee, or some air. "I'll text you if I go, though, all right? And when I get home." The home with the garden this time. "Do you need anything?"

Una's answer comes on the exhale. "Ok," she says. A shake of her head. "No, no, I'm good. Text me. I'll keep this safe. And we can talk about it... later." The paper gets picked up, and tucked carefully away.

"I'm going to go find Ava. Text me."

Upstairs, Ravn helps himself to the espresso machine. Matt the suddenly well moneyed pimpled charmer is nowhere in sight -- probably hasn't made it back yet with the most expensive vanilla lattes this side of the Ozarks. He breathes out, allowing his facade to fall a moment when he thinks himself alone.

A basement of shadows to others. To him, and his unfortunate ability to see the dead and memories of the dead -- a veritable cornucopia of shadows and memories and impressions. And fortunately, he adds to himself, not any real ghosts dropping in to argue about wedding dresses or summon Veil denizens, or push people down stairs.

Ava is still downstairs, and will probably remain there until someone drags her out by her ear. It's like a paradise. Better believe she's taking pictures to rub in Conner's face for missing his chance to be here. Of course, as Ava goes through the mountains of paperwork, looking for anything that could be helpful, she's also talking. While Ravn hides from the prospect of ghosts. The real ones. Ava is still trying to coax hers out.

She goes through the boxes one by one, and as she does, she continues on the organization system that it appears Hyacinth has started so long ago. Might as well keep the system alive. As she organizes, she talks. She knows there's at least one ghost here, because it helped her. So she'll keep them company and explain all the recent goings on. What's happening with the healing magic, how she thinks it's connected to Gohl, how it's drawn her here. The plans to restore the Historical Society. How she could use more help.

Of course, she has to add, how much she'd like to help them, with whatever they still need here in this mortal world.

Itzhak leans around the corner of the kitchen. He's wearing a beautifully tailored waistcoat with trousers, steel blue, and a shimmery black shirt with the sleeves turned back. His hands are in his pockets, and he lofts his eyebrows at Ravn. "Vicky said you was in here, and she's gonna be mad if you use the non fair trade coffee."

When did he sneak in? Well, he's here now, looking like someone's rough trade sugar baby.

"Good grief. I thought I'd managed to dodge her. I even stayed in the lobby until I was sure she went to the sun room with another group. That girl can smell a sucker at fifty paces and she knows I hate saying 'no'." Ravn looks up from the espresso he's making himself on the machine.

Then he glances towards the open door to the basement and archives downstairs. Fluorescent white neon lights down there contrast with the warm and pleasant light from the old, but lovingly renovated grand kitchen. "Have you met Dr Brennon? I ask because Dr Brennon is all about getting the Historical Society back on its feet and investigating everything, and well -- to be blunt, you've lived in this weirdass town longer than I have. I think she's presently trying to coak any helpful Addington ghosts out of the shelves and crates down there."

He turns and heads for the stairs. "And you know how it is. In this place? Odds are that if we don't interrupt her, she'll likely succeed."

"I know that you helped me earlier with the picture of Mike. Or do you prefer Michael for those that didn't know him? I'm guessing he died in the situation that resulted in putting Gohl away for good." Ava continues going through the box, still looking for information on the old Historical Society. "I'm sorry for your loss. It can't be easy to lose family like that. I lost my mom not too long ago. It wasn't easy." How is it easier to talk to ghost than other people?

She hmms as she finds an old file she thought might be useful, but then realizes it's just old mail. "Is there something in here that might indicate who you are? A picture or a name, so that I can address you properly? Or, thank you properly for your help earlier, rather. I really do appreciate it."

Itzhak trails along after Ravn, jogging downstairs behind him. He catches the top lintel and uses it to propel himself in a hitching little swing into the records room. "Nah, Dr. Brennon, who's he? ... She?"

"Ghosts never answer when you want them to," puts in Una, who has been distracted elsewhere in the stacks after farewelling Della to lighter and less residue-laden climes. It's not her fault: there's just mountains of cool shit in here, even if most of it is absolutely useless as far as most people are concerned. Now, she weaves her way around a corner towards the doctor, footfalls not so light as she should be a surprise, though she's been quiet a while now. "Or mine doesn't, anyway. Maybe the ones here are eventually more obliging, but I've got my doubts."

"She." Ravn makes his way down the stairs and grins up at Itzhak over his shoulder. "My new neighbour, too. Oak Avenue, man, it's where the party is. And the other neighbour is here too -- have you met Una Irving yet?"

He steps into the large basement, coffee in hand, and looks around. There's Ava being Ava -- all but face first into every crate, and thirty seconds short of challenging the Addington family for the right to the archives. And there's Una, still rummaging around the late 1800s end of the archives, hunting for things pertaining to her glorious ancestor who has gone down in local legend as 'Asshole Irving'. "Ladies -- have you met Rosencrantz? He's a great guy, awesome mechanic, and more importantly, he's been in town longer than I have and seen some of this shit go down. You were here in '19, right?" That last question is over his shoulder, to the man in question.

"Don't believe a word this guy says," Itzhak says promptly, "sure I met Una. You made me text her while I was real stoned. I'd say I'm not always like that but I'd be lying." He seems worn out and tense, a tall lean wild thing in a pretty suit. Nevertheless he presses one hand to his chest and bows an abbreviated soloist's bow. "Yeah I was here, why?" he adds, raking his black curls back from his face.

"'Made you'," scoffs Una, stepping away from the briefly-distracted Ava in order to turn her attention to the new arrivals. "It was a pleasure, then, and-- yeah, well. Now too. Hello, Rosencrantz. Hi again, Ravn. Did you see Della go past? I think whatever she felt on that paper really spooked her."

She's looking a little dusty, but if she's found anything further, there's no physical indication of it.

"Might have slipped past while I was trying to figure out how Matt's machine up there works." Ravn glances back up the stairs. "Also, I'm not entirely convinced Matt is coming back. Which is a good thing for us, I suppose, given that we have no one telling us we can't be here if he doesn't." He shoots at glance at Rosencrantz. "Brennon bribed the teenage tour guide into going downtown for vanilla lattes, and honestly? I think he decided he had enough money now he doesn't need this stupid job. Anyone asks, we have no idea this area is off limits. Not like there are signs."

There was one, upstairs. He hung a dishrag over it. Just in case. Oops.

Black coffee in one hand and the other in a blazer pocket. "Anyhow -- yeah. Brennon's trying to work out the whole healing issue. Something apparently changed a few years ago -- and then there was the explosion in her office when she tried to examine a chronic condition. Lots of turns and roundabouts, long story short, seems to be connected to Gohl somehow. And, well, his getting kicked back out of the world a second time in '19."

Itzhak grins at Una, something a little reptilian about it, a little unhinged. Like he hasn't slept in days and he might be starving. "Hiya, nice t'see you again. Hang on, Gohl?"

He shoots Ravn a narrow look. "Yeah. A whole bunch of shit changed when we had his funeral."

The lack of hinge in Itzhak is noted, likely, but Una's expression is neutral-to-warm, and though her arms cross in front of her (black) shirt, that seems to be mostly out of interest. "What happened at his funeral?" she prompts.

Ravn whistles for Ava, making sure that the doctor gets a chance to listen in -- because this is what she came here for, ultimately, and while she may be quiet a few filing away bits of information, he suspects she'll commit bloody murder if she misses out.

"Hyacinth alluded to it a few times," he agrees. "But she didn't really want to talk about it a lot. Which is not surprising given it was her family getting murdered. And while I may be a compulsive-obsessive historian, even I am not enough of a dick to push people into talking about the deaths of loved ones when they clearly don't want to."

Itzhak grunts. He tugs a flask bottle of rum out of a hip pocket. It could not have possibly fit in there, but he pulls it out anyway. Long fingers flick to unscrew the top. "She took the worst of it."

He takes a swig and offers it around. "You can't expect me to talk about Gohl sober."

"Over-eager professional interest in things people you care about don't want to talk about is generally frowned upon," Una agrees, wisely, which does not mean she's not eagerly interested to hear this story now, even standing at the peripheral edges of everything that's going on.

A pause. She's eyeing up Itzhak's flask. "What's in it?"

A girl's got to be choosy about her day-drinking.

"I'm trying to not drink in daylight. Which means pass the bottle, since there's no daylight down here." Ravn will not object to fortifying his coffee, either. He wasn't there in '19, but he's heard a few things.

Talk about sacrifices; bargains made, to force the ghost back into the ground. Family members lost that Hyacinth refused to talk about, though her swearing about grandmother Margaret tended to be excessive. Bodies floating in the bay -- the painting upstairs depicting exactly that, and surely it's symbolic given that Gohl went on his initial killing spree over the course of a decade; and yet he remembers Alexander Clayton talking about that, bodies floating in the bay like shoals of fish. Never easy to tell where one reality ends and another begins.

Part of the problem in this town, Ravn reflects, is that too many people hoped that if they just kept quiet and took the story with them to the grave, the story would end. Almost two hundred years of bloody history is testament to the fact that things just don't work that way.

"Coconut rum," Itzhak says with an absolutely shameless curl of the mouth. "It keeps being on sale." He hands it to Ravn without looking. "Look, if you don't mind me askin', what is it ya trying to learn here? Maybe some a this stuff is better off forgotten."

That's not what Una expected the flask to contain; that much is clear by her expression, and that abrupt burst of laughter. She'll take it, though: take it, and take a swig, and not make a face, either, though coconut rum is a taste sensation best experienced with the addition of pineapple juice at a minimum. Booze is booze.

"Depends if it's going to come back to bite us regardless," is her two cents. "Forewarned is forearmed, right?"

How she managed to filter everything out is beyond sorting, but the whistle seems to break through Ava's haze. Wide eyes lift out of the book she was poking through discussing an 'animal' attack to settle on the gathered group. "Oh! Hi guys. Itzhak! Hi. I'm glad you're here, Conner and I wanted to talk to you about something." He may not remember her from the three or four times they've met, but she remembers him, scrambling to her feet with a grin. "Great timing." Clearly the book she found excites her.

"Wait. Did someone just whistle at me or was I imagining that?"

"Yeah, me. Because you wanted to talk to someone who was here in '19, and here's Rosencrantz. If you were hoping for Matt the teenage wonder, sorry to disappoint." Ravn can't help a lopsided grin.

He's also quite happy to dash coconut rum into his coffee. Sure, his tastes tend to run to something less sweet but whatever. He's standing in a room inundated with memories, impressions, and flickering images, and his sanity sure as hell needs the fortification.

To be fair, Itzhak does have the general air of a guy with a lot on his mind, not all of it good. Or even most of it. He stands like he expects trouble and the trouble might be him.

Una's laugh makes him flash a smile, like yeah yeah, he knows, coconut rum. He upnods at Ava, then visibly replays several things through memory. "Oh you're a doctor! Yeah okay, right, hey. Nice to see you again." Then he's grinning unhappily, rocking back on his heels. "Youse guys wanna hear about Gohl, I guess." Where's his flask, he needs that.

Coconut rum is better than no rum at all; it'll do.

Una, having already handed on the rum, returns her arms to their crossed position in front of her, brown-eyed gaze flicking from one member of their little circle to the next. Ava's excitement is noted, but the redhead's attention is inexorably drawn back to Itzhak. It is, after all, story time.

"Yeah. I think we do."

There's a confused tilt to Ava's head at the comment of her being a doctor. Clearly she has missed something. "I am, indeed, a doctor. Doctor and a healer. Double the heals." She leans a little closer to Una as story time looks like it's about to begin, though Ravn gets a little squint. "I'll have you know I would have been delighted if it was Matt. He has my latte, and I could use the boost." Then, her eyes flicker back to Itz, extremely curious.

Ravn passes the rum bottle back to its rightful owner and then sips his spiked and slightly sweet coffee. "Don't need to dwell on all the awful," he reminds Itzhak. "Trying to figure out what changed with healing when Gohl kicked the bucket the second time. Not how he abused his victims in gruesome detail."

"Good, 'cause you ain't hearing about that from me," Itzhak says, taking the flask. He tips it back for another practiced swallow.

Sighing through that magnificent nose, he closes his eyes. "Gohl was gunned down a hundred years ago. But he hung around, as a dybbuk. A cheated ghost, possessing a living person so they can fuck up those who wronged 'em."

His voice is low and rough around the edges; he tells the story almost as if he wants to sing it. "He killed people. A lot of people. He killed the little sister of the girl I was seeing then. He killed a dozen Addingtons. And he said he wouldn't stop until he got a funeral. He never had one the first time. Give him his funeral, he said, he'd go on his way."

Much of the low-level levity-- indeed, let's face it: all of it-- has faded from Una's expression, now, as Itzhak tells his story. She rubs at her arms with her fingertips, as if the air in the basement has gone frosty-cold, too cold for her jacket to ward off.

Her, "That's fucked up," is murmured as an aside, clearly not intended to interrupt the telling.

The book is held to Ava's chest, her arms folded tightly to keep it there, and her brows knit. Her frown is steady as she listens. The mention of the Addington murders draws her attention to the box with the funeral picture. "Michael Addington being one of them, I'm guessing," she offers softly. There's a soft sigh. "He just killed his way through people because he wanted a funeral? Was that really all he wanted and it was worth murdering all those people for?"

"This guy was a whackjob who killed upwards of a hundred, maybe hundred and forty people while he was alive," Ravn points out, gently. "I don't think a dozen more people would bother him after he died. He was criminally insane -- and obviously without a shred of empathy whatsoever."

He glances back at Itzhak, well aware how horrible the memories stirred within must be; he'll find a way to make it up to his friend, later because some things should indeed stay dead and buried -- William Gohl among them. And yet he has to ask: "I remember being told, just after coming into town, that his bones disappeared from the graveyard. So he was buried but not properly -- or he was buried, finally, and then buggered off, and somehow, kicked healing in the face on his way out?"

Itzhak tips his head back, prominent Adam's apple sliding up and down his long throat as he drinks. He's stubbly, not quite proper whiskers but not clean shaven.

He comes up for air, shaking his head minutely at Ravn. All things will be told in time, that gesture says.

"They called him the Ghoul for how many people he killed," he says, voice low but unwavering, rough but perfectly controlled. "Wasn't nothin' to him. We had to exorcise him first. I was part of that. Hya and Erin Addington ripped him out of his host and I stuffed him in my fiddle case. When I did he told me the Addingtons couldn't be trusted. Not news."

Itzhak looks down at the flask, tipping it back and forth uneasily. "We had his funeral, but it wasn't just a funeral. We had to sacrifice to get him gone. I..." pausing, he gazes at nothing. Then, briskly, "I sacrificed the violin I had all my life. Nothing special. Just a student level instrument. But she was mine. I crushed her to get rid of Gohl."

Una's breath catches.

"Ah, fuck," she says. Could be for the story as a whole. Could be more specific: for Itzhak's violin. Could be both.

"But it worked. He stayed gone."

Ava sucks in a breath through her teeth, her expression shifting to something more angry than shocked. Horrible monster. "The whole thing sounds like a nightmare for everyone involved, no wonder nobody wants to talk about it. Sorry for making you have to go through it again."

Her throat clears. Sadly, there's still questions. "When he left, they said he closed some sort of door, and it altered how healing works. I have obviously noticed the difference. We found out recently that it's not just here that it's effecting either, it's everything. I know the healing stuff isn't really your thing, right? But, were you there for that? Did you see that part?"

Ravn reaches out and, somewhat uncharacteristically for him and all of his touch issues, brushes his gloved fingertips over Itzhak's sleeve. There's no words that will communicate what he wants to say, so he doesn't try. Hopefully, the gesture will say what needs to be said between friends.

Then he nods, slightly. "To the best of my knowledge, Gohl is gone. But we keep being told that something changed as he left. That healing became harder. He must have kicked something over on his way out -- one last fuck you from Billy the Ghoul, I suppose."

"Yeah." Itzhak clears his throat. "We all gave to him. Just all kinds of stuff. Treasure, you know? The kind of stuff you have because it means something. That was the deal. The worse it hurt, the better it would work.

"So we gave and we put him in the ground and then all the doors shut. Look," Itzhak leans forward, gray hazel eyes intent, "we used to be able to reach miles with the Song. I could have stood in the forest and pick up something at my place in town. Miles. He cut that off. After that day the Song changed."

"But... but he got what he wanted, didn't he? He got his funeral. He wanted that." Repeating that isn't going to change the reality of it, but Una is plainly frustrated by the lack of sense it makes, as if even homicidal maniacs need to be logical when, of course, that's half the point.

She has another shiver, then, and wraps her arms more tightly around herself.

Then: "Does trying to change it back mean risking the doors opening and bringing him back." It's phrased as a question, but not intonated as one.

"He was a sadist. He wanted a funeral, but he made sure that putting him in the ground hurt as many people as it could in the process. Because that's who he was." Or that seems to be the conclusion that Ava draws, her tone growling slightly.

"So this problem with the upper reaches of healing, being able to turn back terminal diseases and the like, that was messed with at the same time. But because we're all so careful not to overstep those bounds of nature, nobody noticed." There's a sigh as Ava closes her eyes. Una's question sends a chill down her spine. "I don't think that's a risk we can even think of taking. We have to find another way to find a balance without risking opening that door again. I know that's not my call to make, but I can't imagine there's anyone out there who would argue."

"Now there's a terrifying thought." Ravn glances at Una with a wince. As far as he is concerned, malicious, vengeful spirits need to stay gone, the world has plenty of them as it is.

He takes a breath, and a sip of the fortified coffee; Ravn is no healer but he relies on them enough to understand just how important this is -- has relied on them enough times to be able to quite safely say, he would not be alive and accounted for if not for a couple of Gray Harbor's gifted people. A bad habit of getting shot at or stabbed teaches a man some gratitude.

"Calling the asshole back up is definitely not on the table. But if there's rules, rules can be negotiated. Something put that post-it note on your forehead. Something must be possible to talk to."

"It wasn't him, not really. It was something..."

Itzhak stops. He looks up at the ceiling, reminded that at this moment he's standing in the Addington ancestral home. They are all surrounded by Addington ghosts.

He forces a smile, tips a long finger (marked with a D) to indicate the place as a whole. "Walls have ears."

Una does not seem particularly pleased to be raising the terrifying possibilities, but perhaps that's her job in this right now: not a high level healer, not a high level anything, but a witness, and speaker of thoughts.

She's already got her mouth open to say something further, just as soon as Itzhak finishes talking, but she's evidently listening just enough to pick up his last remark.

"Oh," she says. He has a point. "Right. Yeah."

"Mmhmm. Well, after seeing how good Una is with words today, I think getting her together with Zara to come up with a letter to reach out to the placer of post it note might be a good idea. I just seem to piss it off. Her off? I don't know, that thing is always laughing at me with that creepy, recorded lady's voice. I think it's a her." Ava shrugs.

Itz makes that gesture and she follows, then pauses to nod her head. Right. "We can always continue talking elsewhere? Even if I am loathe to leave this basement. Oh, speaking of which, Ravn, will you help me break into somewhere later?"

Ravn blinks and then laughs. "Well, uh, depending on where and why -- I mean, yes, if it's something I can actually explain later to some police officer who also shines. I don't usually go breaking and entering just for shit and giggles."

He glances up the stairs. "I suppose we could step outside? I could use a smoke, and I think we've established that getting down here is largely a matter of getting into the place at all. Look inconspicuous enough and security is shit. They've got all kinds of protection for the valuable antiques up there but they don't really seem to imagine that anyone might want to go over all this stuff. Not surprising, really -- I doubt there's anything that a burglar would find valuable here. Just people like us."

Itzhak slips the flask into the hip pocket it came out of. "I could use the hell outta a smoke." He jogs back up the stairs, moving easy but with the precision of a craftsman. He doesn't look back. Everybody else must come to their own conclusion about whether to follow him.

Una's mouth opens again, but this time it's because of what Ava's said, and there's a flush on her cheeks to go with it; the words don't immediately come, but there's a hesitant little nod, and, well, maybe that's enough: she'll help in any way she can.

If she has thoughts on breaking and entering, well, those will have to wait: Itzhak's already headed for the stairs, and Una's prompt to follow, as reluctant as she, too, is to escape this treasure trove of information and possibility.

Ava looks down at the book in her hand and sighs. She turns to respectfully put it in place. Look at how nice and neat she's made things. Already more organized down here. "If you guys could maybe put in a nice word for me with some of the living relatives, I would appreciate it. I'd love a chance to come down and organize the whole place. We could talk some more. Thank you again for the help earlier." There's a curtsy of respect from the doctor figuring that some of the ghosts might be a little old fashioned, before she starts to head up after the group, taking up the rear.

"Don't worry, Ravn. I wouldn't ask you to break into anywhere for no reason!"

"You can ask me," Itzhak calls back.

Ravn follows Itzhak up the staircase and out through the grand hall with its double stairs. Here and there, other sight-seers stand around -- some listening to the teenage tour guides, some wandering around on their own to look at the antique furniture, the paintings, the statues. All of which is elegant and beautiful and definitely worth a visit, but once one's mind is racing down the tracks of history in pursuit of Billy the Ghoul, maybe it all seems a little irrelevant.

And as Vicky Barrett would point out any chance she got (and today, that's quite a few) it was all built on the backs of exploited lumber mill workers. Blood money, she'd say. All of it blood money.

The gardens outside are beautiful; the early Addingtons were not simply building a place to live -- Addington House is a statement of ownership. Overlooking the park area and the Bayside area, it must employ a handful of gardeners and caretakers all year round. The gravel paths, hedge maze, and flower beds are beautifully maintained; postcard-worthy. No wonder that City Hall is willing to pay tour guides to walk people around the place. Those people will end up spending money on the hotel stay, on souvenirs, on restaurants . . .

"You're thinking of the Old Post Office, aren't you." Ravn can't help a chuckle. "One thing at a time. Rosencrantz, as far as I can tell, we're alone. We can step all the way out on the street if you want, though?"

"I'm good. Plants kinda break things up, you know? That's what Roen says, ghosts can't scare a flower." Itzhak stops in the garden, already fishing in the pocket of his waistcoat. He glances towards Una and Ava, his expression a curious sort of melancholy, looking them both over as he pulls out and lights a cigarette. What he thinks, he doesn't reveal, only a quirk of the eyebrows then away.

The house itself doesn't hold much interest for Una. Perhaps on a different day; perhaps, too, if she did not have a house of her own that's full of antiques, admittedly less fancy on the whole, but still: old, a pain to keep dusted, likely built and bought off the labour of others.

"If you're breaking in to the post office, I want in too," she speaks up, having kept her silence all the way through the house and out here into the gardens. "But-- right. That can wait." She turns, then, digging her hands into the pockets of her jacket and focusing her attention back on Itzhak. "Though I'll let those of you in need of nicotine handle that first-- I'm generous."

She's not missed that melancholy, but her return expression is even, brown-eyed gaze sharp.

Ava grins at Itz as he calls that back towards her. "Charmer," she offers back with a laugh. "I will keep that in mind, though. You may regret it." Oh look! There's Matt, finally returned with the latte. He's flush with cash, and she's flush with drink. "Well done. Thank you, dear." Then she's on her way after the rest of the group.

A hand presses to Ava's chest as she gasps at the accusation of it all. "How dare you accuse me so accurately of exactly what I was wanting to do," she scoffs. "Like you guys know me, or something. I figured we were all together, we might as well, right?" That melancholy look is noted, her head cocking slightly to the side. "What was that sad puppy face for?"

Four random locals standing around in a beautiful Queen Anne style garden. Nothing unusual there -- maybe two couples? Ravn reaches for his own cigarettes and lights one with a battered old Zippo. Maybe he's asking himself some questions about life choices -- more specifically, the ones that lead to his neighbours trying to employ him as a cat burglar.

If he caught Itzhak's expression he lets it slide. Maybe not all the dirty laundry needs to be aired on the same one and only occasion. The tall Dane takes another swig of his coffee -- he's going to have to go return that cup later -- and chuckles as teenage tour guide Matt appears, hands a vanilla latte over to Ava, and walks off again, with an air of 'whatever, she paid me'. Rules never apply when cold cash is on the table. "So -- you were saying, Itzhak? That it wasn't actually the ghost."

Sometimes its good to imagine one has enough money to buy a fantastic, museum of a house. Sometimes someone just needs to walk their dog. Sometimes the two can happen at the same time. Walking down the street with her Doberman in heeling sweetly next to her, Leila stops just in front of the Addington House, marveling at the size of it and the open-house sign. Biting her lower lip, she glances down at her dog with a frown. "What do you think, Flower? Would they buy it if I told them you're my service dog?" It doesn't take long for her to hear the sounds of those in the garden, however, and the woman angles herself and the dog closer to that area as curiosity gets the better of her. "No peeing in the nice garden now," she mutters down to Flower.

Itzhak inhales a deep drag from his cigarette. He shakes his head in answer to Ava, hooded eyes on her for a moment. Then, answering Ravn, "It's something to do with them," jerking a nod towards the house. "And the sawmill. They figured out how to... I don't know. How to close doors."

Leila approaches and Itzhak breathes out a plume of smoke, looking at her.

For Ava, Una has a quick and dirty grin: acknowledgement that, yes, the past few weeks have given her a reasonable amount of insight into the workings of the doctor's mind. (It doesn't hurt that she's also amused by the return of Matt, and the delivery of that latte. Bribery works!)

More serious, of course, is the attention Itzhak gets; the sharp exhale of breath. "The Addingtons did it?" Maybe it's not the wisest thing in the world, to speak the name out loud on their land, if not in their house. But. But. "And that impacted healing. Just like that."

Such a conversation to overhear!

As his eyes settle on her, Ava give Itzhak a small, supportive smile. "Alright." Clearly she isn't about to push it. "If you want to talk about it, though, I'm always around." Her eyes widen a second later. "Also, before you take off, remind me to tell you about the Nightshade Bear." That came out of left field, but she did mention she wanted to talk to him about something earlier.

"Wait, what?!" The tone changes immediately changes. "They're to blame for why our healing is messed up right now?" A pause. "The sawmill? Is that where it happen--" Her head turns to glance behind her, spotting an unfamiliar shine.

Ravn looks at his cigarette. "You mean the whole thing about how some people widen the rift when they die, and other close it." He glances back up at the house. Yeah. Good point. Maybe some things need to be discussed even further away from anything bearing the Addington or Baxter names. Bit like sitting down on the haunted carousel wearing a sign around your neck reading Eat Me.

He blows smoke out, away from the others. "For what it's worth, Hawthorne knows a lot about that. He's kind of made studying some of it his thing. But there's one thing the old lumber mill and Addington House have in common for me: It's where I've actually met someone from the Other Side, in a capacity of being able to have a conversation."

The Dane pauses. "Well, get shouted at. Anyway. You catch my drift."

Then his gaze too drifts to the new arrival; as always, Ravn is trying to mentally catalogue the people in town who seem to have an affinity for the supernatural, what the locals call shining. He's pretty certain he's not seen that woman before. He's very certain he's not seen her dog before. He nods politely at her -- and then drifts a few paces, as if to put Itzhak between himself and the dog, that's pure coincidence, he'll never admit otherwise.

Oh the four have definitely attracted Leila's attention as she seems to register something about them. Her dark eyes narrow as she inhales sharply. Tightening her grip on the leash, she pauses for a brief moment before moving towards them with purpose. Her eyes seem to be fixated on Itzhak as he glances at her, but it doesn't take long to notice that her actual focus is on the cigarette between his lips. Once she is within range, she offers him a lazy smile before gesturing with a tilt of her chin, "Sorry to interrupt, but have any more to spare?"

The cigarettes were a great excuse to get a closer look at the shiny people, but the words from Una and Ava are enough to shock the shit out of Leila as she catches the tail end of the conversation. Eyes widening, they snap towards the two women as she freezes like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Oh shit. I uh..." She what? Leila has no idea as she trails off.

One of Itzhak's eyebrows goes up, then the other. Then he shakes a smoke out and offers it, but he doesn't go over to Leila. If she wants it she will have to brave the group--and his shine is all power. "Don't think we met." He glances at Ravn, Una and Ava checking to see if they know the newcomer.

"Oh," says Una, who has just dragged some information up from the depths of her memory, glancing at Ravn as he speaks: right, yes, of course. The Baxter and Addington curse. It leaves her looking distinctly discomforted, so much so that she only really notices Leila when everyone else draws attention to her.

Likely she works out, then, how supremely odd this conversation must seem. Likely, though, she's also now noticed what everyone else has: that Leila is One Of Them. "Hello," she says, and perhaps having learned something from Della's earlier dismay, does not immediately seek to make introductions. Still, there's nothing in her expression to suggest that she knows the newcomer, either.

"Well, they like to yell at me, too. Or scold me, anyway. Guess I'm going to be adding saw mill to my list of places to visit here soon." Ava puts her hands on her hips and signs. "How have I grown up here and I'm still learning so many new things?" When it comes to shining, there are two very large lighthouses in the form of Itz and Ava. But then, Leila is also a lighthouse, her Glimmer a shining beacon of it's own right. That alone as Ava curious.

Her green aura shimmers slightly as she studies the other woman with a welcoming smile. "It's alright," she offers finally. "You were curious because the conversation pertained to you, I'm guessing? The healing aspect of it?" It's not a guess, it's clear from her tone. "For you own safety, the upper most degree of healing that you are capable of? Don't try to use it right now. At all."

Ravn is still watching the poor Dobermann who has done nothing whatsoever to earn his suspicion. He blows out smoke, away from the rest of the group, and murmurs, "That's one thing that's changed, too. When I came into town, no one talked. If you weren't there, you didn't get to hear about it. People are talking now. That's probably why -- folks are figuring out that if we ever want some kind of influence, we need to keep each other up to speed on what's really going on."

As easy as that isn't when the powerful, moneyed family in town wants people to not be talking.

He raises a hand gloved in black kidskin in a lazy wave to the newcomer. "Crazy as that sounds, Dr Brennon has a point." The man speaks with an accent that clearly labels him not an American -- it tries hard to sound like Oxbridge English but doesn't quite go the distance.

Oh Itzhak is playing a mean game. Leila's awkward pause lasts for a beat longer before she finally regains her composure. She seems to notice Ravn's shifting since she motions for the dog to and drops the leash, trailing it a bit forward. As she approaches Itzhak, she places her foot on the end of the leash in order to make sure she still has some control, despite Flower seeming more than happy to lay down and wait further back from Leila.

Accepting the cigarette, she raises it up in thanks before reaching into her own back pocket to pull out a lighter. "Thanks," she mumbles around the filter before lighting up. As she inhales the first smoke, she looks over those gathered, her focus on the two women. "Uh, hey, didn't mean to eavesdrop," not entirely the truth. "I..." She pauses, obviously not sure how to approach the subject. As Ava offers an inviting smile, it seems to ease Leila's attention as her shoulders relax. it is the question, however, that draws out a sigh of relief. "Holy shit, so you guys weren't just talking about crystals." She nods sharply at Ava's question. "Yes. What's going on?" Its only when Ravn raises his hand in greeting that she realized she hasn't introduced herself. "Name's Leila. I just moved here. Wait-..what do you mean I can't, what's would happen?"

Itzhak permits the claiming of the cigarette, pulling on his own. He's quieted from the awful story he was telling, letting the others talk, but when Leila says she just moved to town he nearly chokes. "What?"

As if this is somehow Ravn's fault he rounds on him. "She just moved into town! JUST MOVED IN!" He turns back to Leila, his lined face twisted into a scowl. "And if you know what's good for ya you'll move right back out!"

Una-- just a normal, every-day lamp in comparison to the burning brightness of others-- lets out a low, mirthful laugh. "Not just talking about crystals," she agrees. "You've stumbled on the right group of people in town... well, some of us. Right place, too, apparently." For that, a meaningful glance towards the impressive edifice of Addington House. Leila has offered her name, and now the redhead seems willing to do the same. "Una. Welcome to--"

Itzhak gets in first; Una laughs, again, though more ruefully this time. "But we all know she won't, because none of us ever do. Welcome to town, Leila."

Ava looks at Itzhak with a smirk. "You know she's stuck here now, just like the rest of us. Once you're here, you're here. Another high powered healer type pulled into town right now? You really think that's coincidence? Come on now." Una says it. "None of us ever do. Damn right." Ava smiles, partly apologetic towards Leila. "I'm Ava, or Dr. Brennon as Ravn said. Not to put too fine a point on it, but when I tried to use it, my clinic exploded with Ravn and I inside of it. Then I got a warning to stop."

Ravn can't help a soft laugh at Itzhak's outburst. He shakes his head and rubs out his cigarette before pocketing the stub (not a litterbug, him!) He's still amused as he tells Leila, "Nothing personal. We call it the Hotel California -- you know the song, you can checkout but you can never leave. Everyone in town like us will tell you to get right back on that Greyhound and keep on moving. And we all know you won't. No one ever does."

He rubs his elbow; it still hurts a bit now and then, particularly when he's reminded of the explosion. "Let's try that again. Hi, Ravn Abildgaard, I'm the resident busybody folklorist." He pronounces the name almost like round, but with the 'd' sound sort of clipped off.

When Itzhak finally speaks to tell her to move out, Leila blinks slowly at him before her eyes widen in a very 'what the fuck' way. "What? No fucking way, do you have any idea how hard it is to get a vet job with decent pay as a first year? I've lived in worse places. This place is pretty nice in comparison." She nods in Una's direction, "Exactly Una. Certainly not with rent this cheap in comparison to Seattle. I think I can afford a house here in a year or two."

Ava's words, however, seems to unsettle Leila as she takes a drag from her cigarette. She does the polite thing and blows the smoke away before she cocks her head to the side curiously. "Um, you guys are making this sound like its an episode of the Twilight Zone." She nods at Ravn as he mentions Hotel California, "Exactly! I mean, I saw this place on the map and its just...how can you not want to be here?" Oh yes, it has sunken its claws deep. "Unless you guys want to keep it cheap and ungentrified," she offers them a cheeky little grin. Oh the poor unfortunate soul. She repeats Ravn's name quietly to herself in attempt to get used to the pronounciation.

Itzhak growls some long and probably quite unpleasant sentence in Yiddish. He is not nearly so polite as Ravn, dropping his cigarette into the garden soil. He does, however, very carefully crush the smoldering cherry under the toe of his elegant shoe, grinding it deep into the ground. Then he stalks off, anger in the line of his shoulders.

"I don't think this place will ever be properly gentrified," is Una's conclusion, which comes with a wry little laugh. "The town protects its own... and I don't mean its people, for the most part, unless you happen to be certain people, I think."

She shoots a glance after Itzhak, chewing at her lip, but evidently decides not to comment on it. Instead, on an exhale: "So we know more than we did. That's... something."

"Hey! Itz! Wait, I need to talk to you about the Nightshade Be--ar. Why is he always leaving like that?" Ava gives and exasperated look towards Ravn. "Can you please give him my number and tell him to text or call me? It's important." Ava reaches down to dig into the dirt where the cigarette was pushed into the ground, pulling it out with a little glower. She pinches it between two fingers and then takes a few last sips of her drink before tossing it in the cup to throw the whole thing out later. Not leaving trash in nature. No.

"The Twilight Zone wishes it were like Gray Harbor. You'll come to understand. But seriously, heal people, do all the normal stuff. But no big, miracle level things. No trying to put cancer into remission or any of that. It won't end up pretty. I don't want you getting hurt. Especially since you're new."

Her head shifts towards Una and Ravn. "We do. Now I know where the trouble started from. I know where to look for more answers, too."

"I can do both," Ravn replies to Ava, looking after his friend as he stalks off. "Whether he'll do either though -- Rosencrantz is all heart and emotion, and the idea that someone else got lured into this pitcher plant of a town always pisses him off. It's not us he's pissed with."

A searching look goes back to the doctor. "You can tell me what you're on about with a nightshade bear, though? Later, maybe."

Then he settles down on one of the lovely garden benches and folds those long legs ankle over ankle. "This town kind of is the Twilight Zone, at least for people like us. Sorry, some of us usually try to be slightly more, uh, gentle about breaking it to new people." Another side eye at Ava. "Not sure whether that's doing anyone a favour, mind."

Watching Itzhak walk away in anger, Leile cants her head before she looks back towards the group. "Uh, I didn't realize it was that bad of situation. That man is very passionate about people leaving," she murmurs in amusement. "Sorry abou that," she offers to Una. "Didn't mean to piss your friend off." Her eyes dart back to Ava as she raises her eyebrows, "Holy shit, you weren't kidding then, were you? Are we talking backfire? Fuck," Leila begins to chew on her lower lip aggressively before she takes another drag from her cigarette. "Okay, that's good to know. Do you know why this is happening? I kind of...need my skills, y'know?"

At Ravn's explanation, Leila finally nods slowly as she seems to see the pattern. "Damn, you guys certainly know how to set one's mind at ease. Although, to be fair, I'm not one to do anything gently, so I kind of appreciate the blunt welcome. Its something to keep in mind now that I'm more aware. I...did notice a lot more people like us," a quick glance towards Una as well. "So I just figured I finally met my people, y'know?"

Una's quick shake of the head towards Leila may mean 'don't worry about it' or possibly even 'I don't actually know him that well, so don't worry, you don't need to apologise to me', or perhaps something altogether different. What she says is an easier, calmer, "You'll be fine. Avoid the big whammies, and... well, this town is good at community, and that's definitely an improvement over Seattle. We are your people, and we stick together."

This doesn't prevent a quick, studying glance towards Ava, whose reference to something she does not understand has not been missed. "I'm all for finding more answers," she says.

"If he doesn't, I'll just have to try to track him down myself." Ava sighs and glances back towards Ravn with a nod. "Yeah, of course. You were part of the potential group we were thinking about, anyway. If Conner would ever actually get back to me." There's another look to her phone, but nope, no responses. A breath through her nose before the doctor glances up and back towards Leila.

"Oh, no. I wasn't kidding at all. All of the main healing powers are find to use. Heal the normal stuff. Broken bones, gunshot wounds, etcetera. Just don't try the big gun stuff like curing cancer or reversing terminal illnesses. The big whammies as Una put it," Ava giggles. "That's when the issue happens. As long as you avoid that, you'll be fine. Well, you should be fine. Unless something changes again. You never know!" Not helpful Ava. "I have to get going soon, but I'm going to give you my card so that you can call me and we can sit down and talk shop in a little more detail if you like?" She digs through her bag to find a card before offering it out with a smile.

"You and me both," she murmurs to Una. "We should stop by the saw mill and give it a little once over at some point, I think. Plus the old Post Office. Plus there's other stuff I want to talk to you about. So, like, text me sometime when you're free."

"Don't." Ravn's voice calls a sharp halt to what Ava is saying. "Don't just traipse out to the sawmill. It's the singlemost haunted place in town. That mothman thing and the goons from the Other Side? Peanuts compared to some of the shit that's gone down in that place. I'm not saying don't go ever, but make sure you know what you're doing and who's going with you. Don't just wander out there one afternoon to see what you can find."

He takes a deep breath and focuses on -- not the newcomer but the situation at hand. "There are three places in this town that keep having very strange things happen. Hauntings, disappearances, monsters. It's the saw mill, it's Gray Pond, and it's right here -- Addington House. All of them are connected to the whole Baxter-Addington feud -- and that's a story that will take the better part of a week to get to the end of. A lot of bad things happened. A lot of those ghosts are still around. Conner and I were both there in the sawmill when the Exorcist literally ragequit -- if you think a Veil denizen can't do a table flip, think again."

"Sounds like you guys have each other's backs. And if there is a way to make it so I can access the...big whammies as you call it, I'll be more than willing to help you guys if you need it." Leila then reaches out and takes Ava's card, giving it a quick glance before she nods and slips it into her back pocket. "That would be greatly appreciated. I'll be at the vet and shelter as well if you guys want to drop by. I'm usually there most of the time at least." She takes the last drag of her cigarette before lifting her foot to stub it at the heel of her boot. Perhaps remembering what Ava did, she shoves the stub into the pocket of her jeans.

As Ravn begins to talk about the sawmill and mothman, Leila's eyebrows slowly begin to hitch higher as his words get more freakish. "You...guys aren't kidding, are you? I mean, if I can do what I can do..." she glances at her hand, "Why not everything else, I guess. Holy fuck, now I see why you guys say to run..." she trails off as she looks in the direction of Itzhak's departure. "Note to self, don't visit the sawmill, or Gray Pond, by myself."

Una's mouth has opened to reply to Ava, but Ravn's rather firm warning gets in first, and she shuts it with an audible snap. What the Dane has to say isn't news, but it's serious, and it has her giving a slow and thoughtful nod of confirmation. "Well," she says. "Maybe not the sawmill, then? Because I sure as hell can't protect myself from... whatever, there. But-- my schedule is a lot more open than yours, Ava, for now, so name your time. Let's talk."

A firm nod follows that statement, and with it, a serious, meaningful glance. Not quite 'don't do anything stupid, Ava' but perhaps more along the lines of 'let's definitely think carefully about next steps because I don't want you to end up dead or worse, because I'm pretty sure there's a lot worse than dead'. It's a very expressive glance.

"Uh-- I promise, things aren't always that crazy, Leila," she's quick to add. "I mean. You have to be sensible, and even then things will happen, but... but it's mostly still fine." 'Fine'.

Another car pulls up outside Addington House, this one an old ice blue Camry. Once Jules has found a parking spot, she’s on the hunt to find her housemates. With the crew outside and Una’s red hair, it isn’t surprising that she finds her first.

“Hey.” Jules butts right in, striding up in jeans and a blue puffy jacket left open. “Hey, guys.” Her greeting for Una segues to one more expansive, for those she recognizes and those she doesn’t. “So what’s up with Della?”

Ava turns her head towards Ravn when he gets all protective and sharp with his tone. Her brows lift, and it's hard to tell exactly how she's taking it for a moment. But it's a smile that touches her lips first, hands lifting, palms facing forward except the two fingers still gripping the coffee cup. "Alright Dad, relax. I'll make sure there's folks with me if I go to the saw mill. But I'd like to remind you that you went to the sawmill by yourself when you got a note that told you to, didn't you?" Hm??? "Just like my dumb ass. So yeah. Pot. Kettle." She points at him. "At least I can throw fireballs!"

A smile is offered to Una and Leila. "We'll catch up more later," she promises with a nod. "But I really do have to be going or I'm going to be late for the final inspection on the Clinic to make sure it's back up to code since the explosion. I let myself get lost in all those old boxes that I completely forgot. But later, let's do some B&E, yeah?" Ava waves and starts to drift away from the group. Jules gets a brief smile and an upnod of a hello before Ava heads away from the garden and off towards her car.

There is a rather large Doberman sitting calmly and boredly a few feet away from the group, ignoring them as much as possible though an ear and an eye is kept on Leila the whole. Upon Jules' arrival, Flower raises her head to glance and sniff in her direction but nothing more is offered. As for Leila herself, she offers Jules a wave as she seems to know Una. "Hey, Leila," she offers before falling silent to see what else she can pick up from this conversation. After a moment she decides to also take a seat on the bench next to Ravn. The mention of fireballs quirks her eyebrows upwards before Leila nods at Ava, offering her a lazy wave. "Hell yea, take care of yourself Fireballs."

"I didn't say 'don't go'. I said 'don't go alone or unprepared.'" Ravn's lip curls into a small smile. "I went because if the Veil is going to send me a written invitation? I might as well go because they'll fetch me otherwise. That way, at least I had some kind of control, or illusion of control. But yes, you got me on the fireballs. I can give someone a very disapproving look if required. Watch your back, doctor."

And Ava's off, with a wave to her back. The Dane looks back to others. "I know, I know. I'm a hypocrite. But people should at least make mistakes knowing the risk. That old lumber mill is dangerous, it's where it all started."

"But yeah. Comparing notes is good. Nightshade bear rings a bell, I've heard that term somewhere. Another cryptid, I think." Ravn glances to the others. "Apparently on top of everything else we also get bizarre cryptids eating park rangers, or so the scuttlebutt goes."

Una's expression visibly brightens at Ava's explanation of where she's headed: the clinic! Future workplace! "Good luck!" she calls after the doctor, before her attention's drawn back again, both to the arriving Jules and to Ravn's explanation. "I'm not all that much use, when it comes to dangerous things, but I'm pretty," pause, wrinkle of the nose, "generally pretty unflappable, which may count for something, I'm not sure. It doesn't sound like a great place to be, though. -- wait, something's eating park rangers? I mean, I heard the rumours, but..."

"Jules-- hi. Della touched a piece of paper, picked something off of it, and now... now, I'm not entirely sure where she's gone, because as you saw, she didn't answer my last text. Did you see her car in the lot?"

"No one's eaten Garrett, I hope. Haven't heard from him in awhile." Jules is perhaps a little too flip with her remark.

Upon coming to a halt alongside Una, she eyes the large dog with healthy suspicion; as content as the Doberman seems to be, she's not inclined to go up and try to pet her. "Hi. Jules," she replies to Leila with a little smile. She's another woman of color, with her black hair and olive skin, though perhaps a little hard to pin down heritage-wise. Then Una has her attention. "I wasn't looking for it," she admits. "Do we need to send out a search party?"

"Eaten rangers and missing people. Holy shit, I really did not know what I was walking into," Leila murmurs quietly to herself as she settles back into the bench, intent on listening for now.

"No -- the police came asking questions at the Community centre too, of course." Ravn nods and reaches into his blazer pocket for another cigarette because discussing mysterious deaths may be par for the course in this town but he doesn't like it. "I wasn't familiar with any of the names -- four Fish & Wildlife officers, one real estate agent, all of them disappeared somewhere near Humptulips. And a lot of people in Humptulips talking about hearing some kind of shrieking and howling that wasn't wolves. That's the one thing everyone apparently agrees on -- it wasn't wolves. Anyway, I'd have noticed if Garrett was one of them, and I'm pretty sure Leontes would have noticed her boyfriend missing, too."

He fishes his battered old silver Zippo out of a pocket and lights it. "It probably sounds worse than it is," the Dane adds with an apologetic glance to Leila. "Most people in this town just live their lives like anywhere else. And then you have idiots like us who have to try to and poke every sleeping bear we meet with a sharp stick, just to see if we can make it behave."

Una's conclusion with regards to the Humptulips disappearances? "Well, that's creepy. Note to self, don't go walking in the woods alone." The twitch of her mouth definitely seems to imply she doesn't see this as a risk, though it's a moment later that she adds, "But-- that makes it sound like they were all... like none of them were like us. Not that that necessarily means anything, but-- you know."

Poor Leila. Una's glance in her direction is sympathetic. "You get used to it," may not be particularly comforting. "Ravn's right. We're just too curious for our own goods."

"Della's probably fine. Probably just... recovering. She's had a lot thrown at her." And if her expression is... look, it's difficult to describe. There's something in it that could almost be called envious, though that surely makes no sense. "I didn't know it was possible to touch things and get something back, but apparently it is, but I can't do it."

Not bitter.

Jules, meanwhile, has some checking in to do, Ravn's assurances be damned. She pulls her phone from her jeans' back pocket and rattles off a text. "Well, good," she says. "He's a decent guy. Would suck if he died."

With her phone still in her hand, Jules watches Una and her expression, intent. "Maybe it's like...touching the spirit of the thing. I don't know. Another thing to ask Gramps." Her gaze slides to Ravn, then, and she mentions offhandedly, "We're paying them a visit. You can come too, if you behave." Exactly what that entails? Well, she doesn't specify. Instead she's texting again.

Oh she is listening. Leila glances at Ravn's cigarette enviously but simply raises a leg to place it against the seat of the bench, leaning into her knee as she listens. "Gramps?"

"Psychometry. That's what it's called -- reading objects. Some people here have that gift. It's not always pleasant." Ravn glances at his own gloved hands. "I don't, for the record. And I'm honestly not sure I'm sorry about that."

Jules' comment has him looking up though. "Now wondering if 'Gramps' is my new nickname."

Una's nod acknowledges how much this could not be a good thing, this psychometry, but that doesn't entirely ease the conflicted look on her expression, or the way she shuffles from one foot to the next. "In this case," she puts in, "Though you are kind of a granddad in young clothes, Ravn," yes, okay, she looks a little smirk-y for that, in an affectionate kind of way, "We're talking about Jules' actual grandfather."

Now Jules rolls her eyes. "No, idiot." Ravn, not Leila. "My grandparents live up on the Quinault reservation," she explains then, deliberately looking at Leila and not Ravn, who has now been awarded the idiot badge. "We were gonna visit them this weekend. To talk about stuff." She's nice and vague about it. "And bring them cinnamon rolls." That might be news to Una, but now that it's out there, can it be countermanded? Who would deprive old people of cinnamon rolls?

"Fuck yea, cinnamon rolls," Leila murmurs in agreement as she bobs her head. "Well, if you guys ever get hurt just look me up. I might be able to help you out, though I guess Ava might be able to as well. Still, two may be better than one, especially if extra care needs to be taken."

"Somebody has to be." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Comes with the territory of running the Community Centre, I guess -- everyone thinks I know everything. I obviously don't know everything, and women do tend to agree that I'm an idiot." He doesn't look very bothered, to be fair.

A glance goes towards Leila. "The Community Centre's on Spruce Street. If you have healing skills and you don't mind helping out now and then, heaven knows we have enough people who can't afford regular medical services. Once the tourist season begins? We'll have homeless people coming in from all over the state, there's usually a veritable camp under the boardwalk. A lot of them are just like us -- drawn here for reasons they can't always explain."

Una gives Jules a look. Maybe it's related to calling their perfectly nice, helpful neighbour an idiot, and maybe it's due to surprise cinnamon roll baking requirement; both are possible.

Instead of commenting on that, however, she remarks, easily: "There's a limit to how much one healer can do, so more healers is always a good thing, I think." One hand rubs idly at the back of her neck, and then she drops it again. "More people to help out and do good things is never a bad thing. One more way to counteract all the bad in this world, right?"

"Una makes killer cinnamon rolls." Jules tells Leila this like she's confiding a well-kept secret. "Come by sometime and snag one. We're at Number 5 on Oak." It's back to her phone then, tap tap tapping away. For a second, her mouth hitches to the side, a wry expression. Una's Look is utterly ignored.

As Ravn explains, Leila nods slowly before she places two fingers by her temple and flicks them away in salut. "At your service, I'll help out, definitely. Let me know if its the season, and I will pass by to check and see if there is anyone who may need it too." At the offer of cinnamon rolls, Leila's lips curl up triumphantly as she scores some for herself, flashing Ravn a 'score!' look. "Hell yea, now that I'd definitely pass by for as well." Kicking her leg free from the bench and stretching it, Leila stands up and reaches over to grab the leash from the ground. Taking note, Flower lets out a yawn, stretch, then rises up to her feet. "I think I better head out as well. Thanks guys, for the welcome, for the warnings, and for the invites. I'll be at the shelter and vet clinic if you need me."

Ravn draws on his cigarette and then looks after Leila as she leaves. "Talk about a welcome wagon. Brennon is, uh, direct. And Rosencrantz always gets furious when he realises this town has trapped someone else. She took it well."

Una's arms have gone back to being crossed in front of her, which is probably not a defensive gesture, though it's hard to tell, given her expression is, well, relatively impassive as she watches Leila go.

"Ha," she says, a moment later, glancing back at Ravn. "Yeah, well. It's better than trying to gloss over it all and pretend everything is great, I guess. I mean-- there's an element of that, too. Of not terrifying people too much, immediately. But she's also clearly... I mean, she isn't new to all of this, not given how brightly she shines."

Jules finally puts her phone away and returns her attention to those who remain. "Hope that was okay," she says to Una, not quite an apology, but sounding apologetic. "She seems decent. It'd be nice to know more people in town."

She looks over at Ravn, then, assessing him at length. Whatever she sees decides her: "So yeah. Una and Della and me ended up in the spirit world together, and I want to talk to my grandparents about it and bring them. They said it's okay. They said you can come too, but you can't repeat or publish anything or whatever it is you do without their permission. Or they will sicc demons on you." That last bit is Jules' fabrication, but Ravn doesn't need to know that.

"I want to say that I can't publish or use anyone's testimony in an academical context without permission but that's not how it's worked for indigenous populations before, I know." Ravn nods and throws Jules a thoughtful look. "Maybe it's a good think I'm not actually in the academical world anymore, not counting tutoring. I'm curious enough about Quinault beliefs to accept that invite -- but I'm not going there as a researcher."

"And the Veil protects itself anyway, right? Though-- I guess that line is more blurry when you're talking about the spiritual beliefs of a society. That changes a lot of things, doesn't it?" Una's managing, this time, not to project her own doubts about this particular interpretation of things; her expression is more thoughtful than anything, just barely above neutral.

"It's fine," is a belated reassurance to Jules. "Though now I need to do cinnamon rolls and cookies tonight, because we're running low and I don't want to fuck over the fae and risk the garden. How I'm going to keep up once I'm working-- well, we'll make it work. At least Ava understands." Helpful, in a boss.

"Then what would you be going there as?" Cue Jules' curious question, including a small cock of her head. Bird-like, perhaps.

As for Una, Jules is just self-aware enough to look a little guilty. "You don't actually have to bake cinnamon rolls for my grandparents. I just thought it would be nice not to go empty-handed, but I shouldn't have volunteered you."

"Someone who lives here. The idea that all of this -- " Ravn glances back towards Addington House and by extention, the town of Gray Harbor, " -- all started in the 19th century? That's ridiculous. The Baxter-Addington feud, sure. But there has always been places where reality is thin. Your grandparents' people have lived here for countless generations. Might be about time somebody asked them what's up around here."

"No, no, it would be rude not to bring something," Una is quick to say. "Of course I'll bake. I probably would have anyway." This is, let's be honest, almost certainly true.

She's slower to contribute to the rest of conversation. "It's a good reminder for all of us," white people, presumably, "to not simply think about things through the lens of what we're used to. I'm interested to hear."

One nod, and then another. "Okay then." Jules, so often on edge and quick with her snark as she walks a tightrope between defensiveness and pride, for once looks settled. For a moment, all that baggage is put aside, and she is comfortable in her own skin. "We're headed up tomorrow morning. We'll send you a text when we're ready to go."