2022-04-11 - On the Subject of Ghosts

It may be a little drizzly outside of the forever Summer, but inside it's so nice and lovely. Gabby has been spending the last five minutes of her time, jumping in the gate space between the entrance to Una's yard and the sidewalk. Drizzle, warm sun. Drizzle, warm sun. Drizzle, warm sun. Hop to one foot, hop to the other. There is absolute delight on the woman's face and has been for the entire five minutes. She has never seen anything like this before. Of course, this does mean that one half of her body is now far more wet than the other half, but it doesn't seem to bother her at all. Or, any, really.

It could be that Gabby has completely forgotten why she came to Gabby's in the first place.

Around the back of number five, Una's been pottering in the garden, checking up on her pansies and begonias and the rest of her eclectic mix of spring-and-summer flowers that probably shouldn't be flourishing in the same space at the same time, under the same weather conditions. She hums, tunelessly, as she works (where 'works' really means 'pauses to examine a plant, decides that yes, it still looks lovely, and moves on to the next, very occasionally snipping off a stray leaf, or leaning in to smell something lovely'), and eventually makes it far enough around, towards the fence line, that Gabby's antics-- or, at least, motion in that direction-- comes into view.

She pauses, adjusting the fit of her floppy straw hat in an attempt to get a better look, and then begins to approach. She looks a lot better than the last time she ran into Gabby (certainly less damp), and as she starts to make it closer-- "Oh! Gabby. Hello."

Ravn Abildgaard is prone to largely mind his own business as he traverses the city; whether walking (which he does a lot) or riding the vintage motorcycle he calls Lola Bianca (which he also does a lot), he tends to pass without attracting a lot of attention. Some people light up a room by walking into it; others barely cause a ripple.

There is no place for the motorcycle on the marina (or well, he could probably park it somewhere, but the odds of some teenager or tourist getting all over it are too high for him to feel comfortable with the idea). Nothing unusual in the Dane wandering back to Oak Avenue at least once a day, for a shower, for his bike, for his cat, and for that matter, for the soundproof garage; the violin is an instrument that must be practised daily if one wishes to keep the touch.

Nothing usual in him walking up from down towards the bay. He quirks an eyebrow at the dance that seems to be taking place on the edge of the microclimate. That, at least, is unusual.

There's a pause after her hop into the yard, all of Gabby's weight balancing on the one foot. Her arms are out on either side of her to help with the balancing as she glances up to offer Una a brilliant smile. "Hey there. I was in the neighborhood. Quite literally. So I figured I would hop by." That part earns a little laugh as she takes a couple of hops further into Una's yard. Get it? Hop? Then the other foot pops down next to the first as she settles. "You live in a fairy tale. You neglected to mention that part. Seems like something someone should mention."

Her eyes drift along the garden to further scope it out, settling on Ravn for a moment and offering him a wave as well.

"You're a week late to be the easter bunny... though we do have a bunny or two somewhere." Did they leave chocolate eggs in the garden on easter? If they did, they're probably still there, because easter sunday was not a good day in this particular household.

Una comes to a halt, one slightly-grubby hand on her hip, the other still holding her hat far enough back that she can actually see properly around its brim. It's about then that she notices Ravn, issuing him a warm smile. "I guess I forgot," she admits, with a laugh. "I'm so used to it, now. It's fabulous, though, isn't it?"

"Ravn, have you met Gabby? Gabby, Ravn."

The tall Dane pauses in stride -- spotted. He raises a gloved hand in a small wave. "I don't think I have? My pleasure. Are you new in town or have we just managed to not cross paths?"

Standing there in the balmy sunlight he does look over-dressed; in the rest of Gray Harbor the winds are just above icy, definitely cool, and gray drizzle is falling from the sky. Consequently he now looks like a slightly drowned vagrant from whose clothing little spirals steam rise as cold moisture meets balmy summer weather. It's a miracle how this place keeps just flipping off the rest of town as far as the weather is concerned.

"It is! I love it. Super pretty. I don't know how anyone could just get used to it. But I suppose that's because it's new to me, huh?" Gabby grins. "Is now a good time for stuff? It looks like I caught you in the middle of gardening."

Green eyes search Ravn for a moment before she nods. "We were vaguely introduced at the coffee shop once. I see you sometimes at HOPE." Her shoulders shrug. "But not like formally formally, no. Like Una said, I'm Gabby. Hi." Her eyes drift past his shoulder, brows lifting a little in a 'and you' sort of way. "Ooh. That's pretty. Very unique!" She grins again and nods before glancing back to Una, expectantly.

The glance Una aims back over her shoulder, at the yard as a whole, is both proud and affectionate: she may not have created this particular oasis, but (part of it) is hers, and she's doing her best to help keep it like this. "Oh, now's fine. It's less 'gardening' and more 'checking on things'. And maybe used to it is not the right term, either, just that--" She shakes her head, shoulders shrugging in an easy gesture of indecision. Just that something, anyway.

"Gabby and I met properly last week," Una explains, for her sort-of neighbour. "She's a bit of a ghost magnet, so we're going to see if my asshole ancestor shows up for her or not. Communicates."

The glance Ravn sends Gabby is sympathetic; a flicker of recognition -- being that person can be tedious, yes. "Best of luck with that," he says and buries his hands in his pockets because his gloves are wet from the drizzling rain just outside this small micro-biome. "As I recall, he had nothing to say to me. What makes a ghost want to talk to one person and not another may be down to what shirt they're wearing or the weather, though. Here's to hoping you learn something useful."

Gabby tilts her head at the sympathetic look. "Well, I've never had much of a problem with it. With the ghosts anyway. It's the people who give you a hard time about it, really. The ones who can't see what you can see, anyway. That crazy label gets thrown around a lot. When they can't treat your kind of 'crazy' with meds, they get even worse. Oooh nelly." Sounds like a rough tale, but it's said with a smile and another little shrug.

"I don't think it's my clothes, though. I mean, I change pretty often. Maybe it's something in my blood. I dunno. I've just always been able to see and talk to even the stubborn ones." Her eyes flicker between Ravn and Una again, then once again behind Ravn's shoulder. A brow lifts again before she nods to herself as if she pieces something together. "Okay!" Hands clap together. "Show me to the asshole!"

"Not to you, not to me, not to anyone who has passed through this house in the past four months," grouses Una good-naturedly, who acknowledges Gabby's enthusiasm to get started, but doesn't yet seem inclined to move. Maybe it's just that it's so warm and sunny outside. Maybe it's something more than that. "Except by occasionally throwing books around. Never touched the fridge magnets, even."

"So no, I'm not especially holding my breath, but-- I'm willing to try anything. You'd think a ghost that allegedly wants you to find something would actually, you know, help you to do so. He may simply not be capable."

"He may not be conscious enough. Many ghosts are little more than an emotion or a sentiment given shape." Ravn nods slightly. "Asshole Irving may be too caught up in fix my shit, woman to get around to the part that involves him actually doing anything himself. Sounds familiar from enough living assholes, doesn't it?"

He doesn't comment on the supposed crazy of Gabby. Maybe he doesn't need to. He's got half a dozen psychiatric diagnosises of his own, for that very reason.

"He's right. Remember how I mentioned that some ghosts are more just a memory of something? It could be something like that. Like, the guilt is still lingering and manifesting and being a dick. Or he's there, but only partly. There's lots of different possibilities. But only one way to find out." Gabby glances to Una and the fact that she hasn't moved yet.

"However, we don't have to find out today if you aren't really ready for it. Because you seem to be stalling like you're nervous. We can so totally just go get ice cream instead." She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm always down for that."

"I'm working my way up to being willing to face the library," admits Una. "It's always so cold and creepy in there, and musty, even though we've tried keeping the door open, and airing it out. He keeps banging it shut. I guess assholes gotta asshole, alive or dead."

She looks a little rueful for her own reluctance, digging one hand into the undersized pocket of her jeans-- which is to say, a couple of fingers, and just barely. "I also wonder whether he's always manifested, or if it just started when Jules moved in." Beat. "Jules is one of my housemates," she adds, for Gabby's benefit. "Did I mention? I can't remember. She's Quinault, so it's personal for her."

"Sounds more and more like old Asshole Irving isn't entirely there," Ravn observes. "Like a toddler, flailing for attention and banging his fists on the ground, but he doesn't actually want help putting on his mittens because he's still in rage mode."

He reaches into a pocket and takes out a cigarette -- plastic, apparently -- to toy with. Those hands are not great at staying still for long. "Jules is probably what makes him act with some kind of urgency. She does have very strong emotions on the affair."

"You don't have to come in. Might work better if it's just me, even. You can point me at the library, let me try it for a few. Then if that's not working, come in and join me? That way you don't have to go into the library if you don't need to. Sound reasonable enough? You can fret outside the door." Gabby's hand pushes through her hair. "You mentioned Jules was Quinault before, yes. That this was a big thing for her, wanting to restore what she could.

Her attention flickers towards Ravn with a nod, partial agreement offered in that direction. "You've had to deal with a bunch of ghosts, too, huh?"

Ravn's analogy draws a twitching smile to the corners of Una's mouth, her head dipping forward in acknowledgement: he may be right. "And he may never get out of rage mode," she supposes. "Because ghosts--"

They're not actually fully there. Una knows this.

"So Jules may have started the temper tantrum. Great. Well. We'll see. Um-- maybe." That last is for Gabby; Una looks as if she's torn, though whether it's because she wants to be there, or because she doesn't want Gabby to be there alone, just in case, is less obvious.

"Occasionally. I'm not for hire if you're worried about competition." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. The world is full of so-called clairvoyants and mediums making tables dance, hearing messages from the spirit world, and performing cleansing rites with crystals and white sage (the last is less than great given it's put white sage on the red list due to over-harvesting). Whether the real deal or confidence artist helping you 'help Aunt Petunia cross over the rainbow bridge, also, I sense a dark man here who tells you he is well and to do the thing'' -- it's a way to make a living or maintain a social position.

If there's one thing Ravn Abildgaard does not do, it's vy for position. In all affairs financial, romantic, or something else entirely, he has a firm policy of simply walking away. Transient, like his life.

"If he never gets out of rage mode, once you get all the information you can out of him, it might be best to say goodbye to him. For good, for everyone's safety. No need to have him throwing things at people all the time, or having a room in your house you can't go into at all. That just sucks."

There's another one of those strange, owlish head tilts from Gabby as she stares at Ravn again. "Competition?" It's very clear that the thought hadn't crossed her mind. "Una offered me some cookies, but I think that was more a friendly thing than a payment thing. Plus, I don't mind sharing them. I just came because it seemed like something I could help with. I don't do ghost stuff for money. It just kind of happens to me and I roll with it."

Una's silent, as Ravn speaks, and then Gabby speaks. Somewhere along the way, she's got a look on her face that suggests she's working through something, though it's not until several moments after the other redhead has finished speaking that she actually manages to put anything together. Then, "You could, though. I mean, I guess it could never really be a proper business, and maybe the Veil would just protect itself to stop you, but..."

A moment more. Then, "How do you get rid of a ghost?" The question is aimed at both, this time.

"I don't." Ravn's answer is simple. "Ghosts are like weather. They happen. Nothing I can do about it. Ghosts themselves can do something about it if they're enough there -- show you where they buried the money or where the missing will is hidden. Outside of that, I guess you need a priest or who has a similar function in your belief system. Or someone strong enough to banish them the hard way."

"Sometimes, sometimes you can also help break whatever is holding them here. But that's if they are fully cognizant of it and then willing to, you know." Gabby makes a buzzing gesture with her hand. "Tethers. Ties that bind. Connections. Usually deeply emotional. Those are full on ghost, though. Not the special Veil ones. Those are different. I don't know about those.

"Ah," says Una, lifting one hand to rub at the back of her neck, where the brim of her hat brushes against bare skin. "So I better hope that ol' Asshole Irving fades away of his own accord once we've found those artefacts, I guess-- else we may be stuck with him, because I don't have enough beliefs in anything to have someone I could call in. It's not that I think all ghosts need to be banished. Most of them are fine! Nothing wrong with them."

But this one is plainly making her uncomfortable, even in the abstract. Even from out here, where the sun is shining, the bees and buzzing, and probably the rabbits are off fucking in a corner, because that (allegedly) is what rabbits do.

"Maybe let's not disturb him today," is apologetic.

"I'll refrain from practising my violin and keep him awake, then." Ravn sticks the cigarette back in his pocket. "If you do decide to go the banishment route I can find you the usual methods for getting rid of ghosts and revenants. But a recurring theme in ghost folklore that you need to know where the ghost lies, and that's going to be problematic, I imagine -- even if he was buried in St Mary's the grave has likely long since been re-purposed."

He doesn't say 'find the bones and burn them'. He's not Sam or Dean Winchester. Besides, that'd be far too easy.

"There's also Ghost Fight Club. Loser's soul is gone forever." Gabby's face doesn't change expression, but there's a sparkle in her eyes that makes it clear that she is very much not serious and trying to take the edge off of Una's discomfort through humor. "Seriously, we don't ever have to disturb him if you don't want to, I'm good either way." She smiles now, a reassuring look for her new buddy.

"Couldn't you use the violin to play soft music to keep him at rest?" is argued cheekily.

"Is the first rule of ghost fight club something about you don't talk about ghost fight club?"

Una's not quite in the right frame of mind to really enjoy the joke, but she's tries: look, there's her attempt at a smile.

"I'm not sure if I've ever heard you play the violin, Ravn, so if he can hear it... well, ghost ears must be ridiculously sharp," she adds, dropping her hand now and digging it in to the other pocket of her jeans, elbows hanging loosely at her sides. "Yeah, I have no idea where he's buried. I hadn't thought to look for a tombstone or anything, but you're probably right: it's been at least a hundred years. I bet there are Irvings buried there, though. I mean, there'd have to be, right? I should look and see, one day. I forget, sometimes, that my family has been here in between the asshole and me."

"No one wants to hear an amateur with a violin, it's bloody torture." Ravn nods slightly. "If the fellow's buried at St Mary's at some point, there may be church records, or patrons who remember him or the location of his grave, whoever is presently in it. Some of St Mary's ghosts are quite social minded if you don't mind listening to them waffling about their own things. One of the past priests are also still in circulation though he seems to largely be affiliated with the Baxter ghosts."

Gray Harbor. Where talking about a conversation with somebody fifty years dead is as normal as having a backyard full of summer or an inconvenient 'gas leak' every time somebody tries to use sufficient levels of healing power.

"Hey, you might find out you have a family plot or something. Find out some cool stuff about other relatives, maybe? That might be neat." Or it could be more bad stuff. Gabby is going to try to focus on the nice stuff for now. It's the best she's got. "You were so happy when I got here, now I feel bad. You should go hop in the gate. That was pretty fun. Made me smile." She gestures back to it.

"Oh, pfft, I'm sure it's not torture. You're probably better than you think. But if not. Maybe we can save that as a potential way to help exorcise ghosts in the future," she grins.

"Screech, screech, screech," is Una's supposition, presumably, of what an amateur with a violin sounds like. "There was a kid doing saxophone lessons, next door, when I was a kid, and that was torture too. I definitely don't have a musical ear, but I'm pretty sure the entire street knew he was terrible." And yet, it somehow seems to be a fond memory - or, at least, fond enough that it allows her a more genuine smile.

"I'll have to check it out, maybe chat to a ghost or two," she agrees. "Keep them company, if they're lonely. Don't worry, Gabby; my mood's been changeable all week. It's definitely not you. And as fun as that gate is," and look, yes, Una has probably tried it, "I don't particularly fancy getting wet. Did you know, I think this garden gets rained on gently most nights, just to keep it blooming, but the sun out by day? It's ridiculous."

Ravn shakes his head. "I don't play for others."

That's why Rosencrantz is marching once or twice a week with a violin case of his own, then. Or maybe he's the one doing the playing and Ravn is taking lessons. The man is a regular performer in the Casino Island piano lounge -- Rosencrantz, that is, not Ravn.

"Anyhow," he says. "I'll let you two get on with it. Good luck with the whole Asshole Irving thing. Wouldn't surprise me a whole lot if some old codger like that is a lot more willing to spill his beans to a woman ghost hunter. Get him to show off, maybe, he sounds like the toxic kind of jerk who might just get off on getting to brag in front of some young lady who isn't a direct relative or a victim of his thievings."

"Warm, gentle rains? That's perfect for the relaxation method I showed you. So you have the perfect yard for that. Very nice. But I am glad that it's not my fault your mood tanked so fast. I still feel kind of bad, though." Gabby's face shifts a bit as she frowns. "I don't know how to make it better, I'm sorry."

"I wish it weren't so gross that you're probably right. But you're totally probably right." Her hands get shoved into her back pockets as she rocks back on her heels. "It was nice meeting you, Ravn. Um. Let me know if you ever want any help with your ghost friend." Her eyes drift behind him. Not where she'd been looking before but hovering to a spot much closer, just over his shoulder as if someone was right by his ear. "I'm sure you have it handled, but you don't seem to register her at all, so I'm not-- sure."

"You're fine," Una promises Gabby, quickly. She even has a smile for it! See, everything's fine.

"Thanks, Ravn. Have a good--"

Only, of course, she's registered now what Gabby's just said, and it's distracted her. She can't see anything. The frown is definitely back.

"I don't see ghosts unless they want to be seen." Ravn nods. "That this town is haunted to kingdom come is nothing new, though -- there's a couple of drowned sailors on the marina who like to just walk right behind yachters and breathe down their necks, that sort of thing." A glance towards Una. "Talking to the cemetery ghosts might be an option if you do want to know where your ancestor is buried. Good luck."

The Dane resumes walking towards the door of Number Three -- it is where his shower and his laundry machine is. And if Aidan Kinney has been in an experimentative mood lately, food, too. Otherwise, he'll probably be headed to the Diner in short time, like every other evening so far.

Gabby waves Ravn off before turning back towards Una with a worried look. "That ghost looks at him very intensely. He should be careful. But I'm guessing from his nonchalance about it that he already knows who it is. Plus, he has a ton of ghost knowledge, so I don't really have to worry about him, right?" Her eyes study Una's face at that last part, searching for validation in that question.

She doesn't have to worry about him, right? He has it handled.

"He's fine," Una promises, watching after Ravn with a thoughtful expression. "He'll be fine." She may even believe it, though whatever her feelings on the subject, she's not currently particularly forthcoming. "The cemetery's a good idea. I know it was mentioned before, months ago, but I completely forgot about it as a thing. I'm not used to having ancestors to think about looking up, you know? I've never really been to one before for a personal reason."

She gestures towards her own house with a dip of one shoulder. "Even if we don't hunt down Asshole Irving, you want to come in for a cookie or two? I don't have any peanut butter ones, at the moment, but there's chocolate chip."

"Good. I'm going to chose to believe you." That settled, Gabby hooks an arm through Una's and beams. "I would love a cookie or two, thank you! I was just waiting for you to ask, I'm not going to lie. I have been dying to try one since you mentioned them." There's a giggle at that. "Man, I don't even have a single relative. I can't imagine having ancestors. That would be crazy bananas."

"But I'll go to the graveyard with you. But only if we go after dark when there aren't other people. It's the only way I'll know that everyone else is definitely a ghost. Otherwise it gets too overwhelming for me because I can't tell people apart and there's way too many. My head gets really jumbled and it becomes a huge mess."

Una turns a grin onto Gabby, and begins to lead the way into the house. "I don't let anyone escape my house without cookies," she promises. "Don't worry, that was never a risk. I've only ever had my mom, and she insisted we didn't have any family, so it's been-- well, a thing, I guess. Finding out even a little bit more."

She adds, then, thoughtfully: "I'll accept the graveyard company, thank you. The last thing I would want to do is mess things up for you, I promise, particularly when you're doing me a favour. Ok-- come on in."

Inside, there's Una's sunny kitchen, and, as promised, plenty of cookies. No shadows here.