2022-07-07 - The New Neighbours

(TXT to Mikaere) Ravn : What are my odds of enticing a strong man with a brain to help me out with -- uh, yeah, let's just say this town is never boring and I'm actually not sure -what- I'm looking at. Got a lady at the community centre who insists that her new neighbours on Elm St are satanists.

(TXT to Ravn) Mikaere : Satanists. That's a new one. Are they playing that D&D game or something?

(TXT to Ravn) Mikaere : Conveniently, though, I'm not working today. Elm St, you said?

(TXT to Mikaere) Ravn : I promise that if we find out they're LARPers I'll buy you coffee while we laugh. A white house with a fishing garden gnome on the lawn, she said. I was going to stroll past, see what's there.

(TXT to Ravn) Mikaere : Good deal. I'll wander that way, meet you there. (I mean, the gnome is pretty suspicious in and of itself.)

(TXT to Mikaere) Ravn : Tell me about it. I saw a lady in town for a bit whose brother was attempted recruited to play a very crucial part in a garden gnome repopulation scheme, and yes, I mean that exactly as it sounds like. Be wary of garden gnomes.

(TXT to Ravn) Mikaere : ...

(TXT to Ravn) Mikaere : This fucking town.

Elm Street; that other suburbian residential area. With its green lawns and old craftsmans, Oak Avenue wouldn't want to admit to knowing Elm Street. It's not a bad area as such; it's just that little bit more dilapidated, in that tired way of poverty. People move in young and hopeful in one end, intending to graduate to Oak Avenue once they get established; many of them end up washing out in the other end instead, drifting into the mobile home park.

And then there's that damn pothole that seems to move around. It never gets filled in. And it was definitely in front of no 22 last week. Now it sits in front of a small house with white siding and a tired-looking pick-up truck out in front. A fence runs around the yard in that way of somebody who keeps dogs and lets them exercise by just opening the back door. And indeed, there is a plastic garden gnome sitting at the edge of a torn-up flower bed, holding a fishing pole and wearing a silly grin.

Ravn shoots it a dark look. It's been almost a year, and he has not forgotten how afraid Hyacinth Addington was when she found garden gnomes in her garden that she did not put there. Sure, it turned out to be an office prank; but for a while, she was genuinely afraid of them, genuinely terrified. He never found out in entirety what that was about. Even someone as strong and stoic as Hyacinth Addington can be terrified into silence and let's talk about something else, please.

He leans against a lamp post and lights a cigarette. Then he takes his phone out and aims for looking like someone who's just taking a smoke break and checking Facebook; or maybe playing Pokémon Go -- whatever. It's the kind of neighbourhood where loitering is not only not unusual, it's the norm.

Elm is not a part of town Mikaere's had all that much need to venture into, though the reality is that unless he gets himself a proper job, come the end of the summer, he's more likely to end up with a room here than on Oak. Is that one of the thoughts on his mind as he confirms his location via the street sign and turns onto Elm itself? It's not impossible. The again, what happens after the end of the summer is a big question mark in general, far bigger than the question of living quarters, or even jobs.

Once upon a time, the part of Auckland he's from was a little like this too, after its heyday of shiny new homes; these days, most of those homes have been knocked down to add shiny new townhouses and blocks of flats, gentrifying the older generation out. Still, it means he's not especially out of place as he meanders down the broken sidewalk, in pants instead of shorts and shoes instead of jandals, clearly in deference to the unknown question of what situation he might be stepping into here.

Ravn's more easily identifiable than the garden gnome at a distance, though the tall Kiwi picks them both out, lifting a hand (definitely for the Dane with the cigarette and not the gnome with the pole) in greeting as he approaches. "Afternoon," he calls. So casual.

"Oh hey." Ravn glances up and then continues to pretend to be captivated by his screen. For all intents and purposes, he's just some guy exchanging a few words with another guy while waiting for a rideshare or something similarly normal and inconspicuous. Trying to hide is far more conspicuous.

"The lady at the community centre told me these are fresh people moved in from out of town," he murmurs, voice low enough that they could be striking up a chat about the weather. "They have four or five cats and she thinks they're breeding them for satanic sacrifices. They act strange and wooden. They never talk to anyone in the street, they never barbecue. It's a couple with -- " he looks at his phone " -- five or six kids, all aged about twelve."

The Dane looks up and shrugs. "Might be cat breeders with low social skills, bringing kids in from previous failed marriages. Mrs Howitt is convinced they're satanists. The barbecue thing in particular, apparently. It's unamerican to not barbecue on the fourth of July."

"... Americans are weird," is Mikaere's muttered conclusion to all of that, though mostly, probably, relating to the barbecue thing. There's some kind of thought progression there that meanders through 'wasn't this country founded with emphasis on freedom and surely that also applies to... look, never mind, let's not go there'. He digs out his own phone, now, as if comparing information with the Dane, though brown eyes slide sideways to consider the house in question.

"Fiveish cats, fiveish kids. All the same age? Not going to pretend it's not a little odd, but you're right, there's plenty of perfectly normal explanations for any of that. Of course, this is Gray Harbor. Seen anything, so far?"

"Not besides the hideous garden gnome." Ravn's lip twitches a bit. "It'd be an easy break-in. No visible alarms, crappy locks, old windows with latches. Of course, breaking and entering is still against the law, no matter how much somebody thinks somebody else is a satanist -- even in Gray Harbor. Also, freedom of religion -- being a satanist is not illegal, not even in God's own country. So I'm thinking maybe we shouldn't start with that option."

Mikaere's mouth twitches. Is it for the garden gnome? The easy reference to breaking and entering? It's difficult to say.

"Travelling insurance salesmen?" he wonders. "Is that still a thing? Maybe not. And we don't look much like mormon missionaries."

Beat. "You said they were recently moved in? You could be here to welcome them to town on behalf of HOPE."

Ravn makes a face. "Somehow, I find it easier to admit to a past as a petty burglar than I do playing welcome wagon. But yeah, that's not a bad idea. Just being good neighbours. Do you guys need a hand with anything? Me and the other guy are here if you need a sofa moved across the living room or something."

He really doesn't look very much like a Mormon missionary. Insurance sales agent? Not sure. Ravn's pretty sure those are usually more formally dressed (if not necessarily better).

The phone goes back in a pocket, and the Dane swallows. "Right. Let's do that. Good thinking."

There's a small porch that contains nothing -- not even a few potted plants. It's the kind of porch that ought to sport some senior citizen with a cane, telling people to gerrof the lawn; maybe no one got around to putting grandpa out yet. The fly screen on the door looks clawed at, as if cats make a habit of hanging in it sometimes. A small hand-written notice over the doorbell says No Solicitors Please.

"Guess I'm as good at reading as the average person with thirty items in the five items quick lane," Ravn murmurs and reaches up with a gloved finger to press the button.

"Try door-knocking your way through a political campaign. This is nothing by comparison," Mikaere promises, sympathetically, as he slides his own phone back into his pocket, matching his stride more-or-less towards the door. "Friendly neighbours. Nothing to be concerned about."

He adjusts his stance as he comes to a halt just a step behind the Dane, making sure not to crowd him-- or indeed anyone who might join them on the porch or in the doorway. His whole expression changes, as does his stance: open, friendly, completely unthreatening.

"Being welcoming isn't solicitation!" he murmurs by way of reply, with a hint of laughter. Sure, maybe that's factually true, but...

"Maybe there's a reason I've never gotten involved with politics," Ravn murmurs, with a hint of amusement. He tries to think of what would have happened back home if politicians canvased on foot like they do in the US (and in New Zealand, apparently). They'd probably have not bothered because somebody like him would be assumed to already be a registered voter for the conservative party, already a political candidate himself, or pointedly disinterested in making any kind of political commitment.

There's no sound from inside; no footfalls making their way towards the door, no 'just a minute' shout from the kitchen or beyond. Not as much as a meow from the cats supposedly living here. Then again, only a few people ever managed to train cats to make noises at doorbells.

"I can think of a hundred reasons not to ever get anywhere near politics," Mikaere murmurs by way of reply, ready to stop what he's saying at any moment, ears trained on the door and what sits behind it. "It's a trap."

It's perfectly reasonable for there to be no one home, of course: it's summer, it's daytime, there's a hundred of places everyone could be. But the tall Kiwi hesitates, then shrugs. "Gonna check if anyone is home," he says, in a voice that's even quieter than the one he was already using. It's almost as easy as breathing, these days, to reach out with his mind and feel for consciousness. The hardest part is making sure to focus, instead of expanding out into the houses on either side, and the ones on either side of them, not to mention across the street.

Ravn catches that look and nods. He'll never understand the strange mind power entirely, having not a shred of it to call his own. But he recognises how useful it can be -- particularly at a time like this. Sometimes, people discover they have these powers and may have had them for a long time -- it just never occurred to them to try. Ravn is very certain he does not because he would definitely have found out in the past. Just like he found out he can move the latches on a closed window or manipulate the buttons on a mechanical lock without touching it.

There's nothing inside. No sleeping minds upstairs, no one in the kitchen, no one in the living room. Whoever does live here are probably doing whatever kids do in summer while the parents are at work. Maybe they go to stay somewhere else, maybe they're at summer camp, maybe they're just off to skip rocks on the beach. Either way, the place is empty. The only spark of a life is a small, yellow, and terrified mind -- probably a caved bird, thinking of the claws and teeth of cats.

Mikaere goes very still when he's making use of that power of his, his eyes a little unfocused with his attention turned to something other than physical vision. When be blinks and abruptly moves again, it's clearly an indication that he's 'back', as it were, particularly when he turns his gaze back to Ravn and frowns. "No one," he reports. "Just-- one very small mind, very frightened. Maybe a bird? Poor thing. Utterly terrified. I wonder about the cats, though."

He turns his head again, eyeing the door with some dubiousness.

Ravn nods. "Let's hop the fence and check out the yard. I'm not convinced that Mrs Howitt thinks not barbecuing is unconstitutional justifies breaking and entering. It's easy to get a little too vigilante in this crazy town."

He glances at the little gate to the back yard and then steps off the porch to walk through. There's not even a padlock on it; just a latch.

"Agreed," says Mikaere. "It's hard enough being a brown immigrant," temporary resident? Something else? Labels are hard, "without being caught trying to break and enter. Trespassing--" He gives a quick shrug. Hopefully, if it comes to that, they can talk their way out. And if they can't, there's always a little mental nudge.

He does glance around as he follows Ravn, though, adjusting his pose and stance to look-- as much as possible-- completely non-threatening. Perfectly casual. He belongs here! It's fine.

"Yeah. I suspect my residence permit might get revoked fast too if I ended up in court for burglary. Or it might not, because I'm apparently the kind of immigrant they want." He's not Norwegian, granted, and it's not the same administration anymore either, but the point stands.

The yard is surprisingly empty. There's grass here and there, struggling to survive without care, fertiliser, or water. It grows in knee-high clumps in that way of a yard that's been sitting empty for a long time; the kind you find behind a house that's been abandoned for some time and the real estate agent hasn't bothered to hire a landscaping service to make it look a little more attractive.

It's Elm Street. No one who moves here is looking for 'a little more attractive'. The ones who do, end up in the Oak Avenue area.

There are a few unusual things all the same, though. Ravn looks around with the evaluating eye of somebody who did in fact use to live a somewhat questionable life while attending university, and when hitch-hiking through Europe.

"There's no patio furniture," he observes quietly, looking around. "People usually have at least a couple of folding chairs, something. No bicycles either -- with five kids or so, I'd expect to see a bike, a skateboard, some discarded toys -- signs of them actually living here. Kids are messy. Mrs Howitt said they'd been here about a month. I buy not getting around to do any landscaping yet but kids leaving not a trace?"

He kneels down to look at the ground. It rains a lot in these parts and in some ways, that is a blessing for a prowling thief; foot and paw-prints aplenty amidst the sparse, coarse grass. This area really ought to be either paved or properly cultivated and re-planted. "Cat paw prints." The folklorist looks up at Mikaere. "A lot of them. But no way to keep cats from leaving the yard. What kind of cat breeder lets their cats run free? Mrs Howitt is wrong about them keeping valuable cats, at least. They may have a shitload of cats but they're not keeping them from contact with the outside world."

"It's fishy," agrees Mikaere, turning up his heel to direct his attention up towards the house, studying the windows. It's not that he expects signs of life, per se, so much as... signs of anything, maybe. "If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to say no one has lived here for ages. Just-- the metric shitload of cats."

He glances back at Ravn, gaze dropping from the Dane to the paw prints and then back up again. "But if there's a shitload of cats... where are they now?"

"If you can pick up the house canary they're not in there." Ravn gets back up and walks up to the back door. He shoots it a dismissive glance -- seriously, why even bother to use a lock this flimsy? -- and walks to a window. Without much further ado he shields his eyes from the light with his hands and tries to look through the glass.

"It's a living room," he murmurs. "Looks like somebody got sent to the nearest thrift shop with a shopping list to pick up whatever's cheapest, and fuck how it looks put together. But it's not abandoned -- come and see."

And sure enough; there's a couple of armchairs and a day bed sitting in front of an old TV. None of them match in style or colour -- but there are plaids and woolen blankets and towels lying on them as if scattered by a hurricane of kids deciding to stop playing blanket fortress and abandoning everything.

Ravn looks back at Mikaere and then scratches his neck with a gloved hand. "I have no idea what we're looking at here. Hoarders? Squatters? The only thing I'm pretty sure of is that it's not a Satan cult like Mrs Howitt thinks."

Mikaere gives the yard one more dubious glance, then dutifully follows Ravn towards the house, echoing his movements to peer in through the window. "No," he agrees, slowly. "It's definitely not abandoned. And it's not-- I mean, it's not staged or anything. It's a living room. A perfectly normal living room. Ma's looked not so different for a long time, particularly when we were little."

He turns to meet Ravn's gaze, shrugging. "Yeah, no. It's not a Satan cult. Just a weird family, maybe. I mean, that's possible, right? No Veil fuckery at all, just another family that is doing its best, and maybe has perfectly good reasons not to be particularly friendly."

And to take their presumably multiple cats out with them in the middle of the day.

Ravn nods slowly. "I feel more like maybe walking past tonight and seeing if there's anyone home than I do disabling the lock and going inside. Being poor or weird is not a crime."

"Agreed," says Mikaere, pretty much instantly. "This town may teach us to be suspicious, but-- it's not even as if they've done anything, even if they are not what they seem. There's absolutely no reason to invade their privacy."

He takes half a step back from the window, then adds, "But I do think we should wander past, tonight."

Cut to commercials. Dash to the bathroom and then the kitchen. Return just in time to see our intrepid heroes walking up Elm Street once more.

The street lamps are lit now -- most of them. It's far from dark -- this far north the nights are short this time of year, but regulations say that the lights are turned on at a specific time, and they are (at least the ones that are still working). Elm Street is livelier now; people are back from work, teenagers are hanging around here and there, and a couple of old men are sitting on a porch across the street drinking cheap beer and talking the night away.

There's a certain atmosphere on Elm Street. That strange feeling you see in many not so wealthy neighbourhoods; a tribal mentality of looking out for one another while simultaneously, it's every man for himself. The Strozzi brat may mug you in the dark but he'll also die before he lets you park your car so that old Mrs Wheatley's wheelchair can't get into the driveway.

"Maybe try that mind trick of yours before we walk up and knock on the door," Ravn suggests. "From what we saw they are kind of odd, and probably quite poor. They might not want two strapping strangers like us in the house, to find out bad it is. Might worry we'll call CPS on them."

It feels different, walking down this street now. Not unsafe, per se, not when you're tall and muscular and equally looking not especially threatening-- such a fine line, but Mikaere manages it-- but still different, enough so that Mikaere is watchful, though not outright wary. "Right," he agrees, low voiced. "Last thing I want is to spook them, especially if they are only what they seem. Imagine they've got enough on their plates, then."

And so, for the second time today, and the umpteenth time since he arrived in this town, Mikaere reaches out with his mind, setting up his mental parameters to focus his attention: this house. Just this one.

Meow.

Meow, meow, meow.

There may not be any human minds in that house now but there are definitely feline minds. A number of them -- five, seven, nine, ten? Some of them are very alike, and it is hard to tell how many exactly.

(The terrified canary remains in there as well, steadily developing its PTSD).

Ravn waits while the Kiwi does what a Kiwi does. He fits in well enough around here; the Dane's clothes aren't as scruffy as he'd want people to think, but he's got the slightly bent, self-erasing posture of someone from a place like this down pat. There's a certain way of carrying one's self that signals not go away but I'm nobody worth looking at, and Ravn is an artist with that last one.

"Well," says Mikaere, after a moment. He's frowning intensely.

"The cats are back. I can't even tell how many-- a lot. The canary's still there, too. I just..."

The Kiwi turns his attention back towards Ravn, digging his fingers uneasily into the pockets of his jeans, then pulling them out again and dropping them down to his sides; a nervous gesture, perhaps. "Did you see a cat flap or anything, earlier? Because there's no people in that house. And, ok, maybe the people went out again, but--"

"No, no cat flap." Ravn glances back. It's the kind of thing he'd definitely notice when considering breaking in -- a cat flap makes a burglar's life so much easier.

He frowns. "I know of one case in this town where three cats held a family hostage. But the family was still there -- just pretty damn traumatised by demon cats. And the cats' minds don't feel like normal cat minds -- or so I was told, I mean, no way I'd know myself."

"This family's not," says Mikaere, sounding absolutely certain of it. "Maybe they're just out; not saying something happened to them. But they're definitely not in the house: there's just cats, and they-- I mean, I've not spent a lot of time studying cat minds? But as far as I can tell, these are just cats. Similar cats, but still, just cats."

Frowning. So much frowning.

Ravn sighs. "I guess we're doing it after all, aren't we? Flip a coin -- heads, we ring the doorbell and wait to see if a cat answers, tails, we pick the lock?"

Mikaere's sigh echoes Ravn's. "Hey," he says. "You're the cat burglar. I'm a perfectly law-abiding citizen with a clean rap sheet, excepting the whole politics things."

He glances down the street at the house in question. And then he reaches into his pocket to pull out a coin (amazingly, he actually has one: cash is so increasingly uncommon these days). "Okay," he agrees.

He flips.

Heads. Heads it is.

"My rap sheet doesn't even have politics on it," Ravn returns cheekily. He's very well aware that there are Reasons for this, and Reasons might as well have been the name of daddy's lawyer.

The coin speaks. He sighs. "Still hate going up being all welcome wagon." Grouse away, Ravn, Lady Fortune has made her verdict known. He runs a gloved hand through his hair (which doesn't make it look any less untamed) and walks towards the front porch and the door on it.

He rings the bell.

And after a few seconds a voice from inside cries, "Just a moment!"

Mikaere snorts, but it's an amused kind of snort.

"Sorry," he says, pocketing the quarter again. "But the dice-- well, whatever-- have spoken."

He's not really expecting anyone to answer the door. Really, he's just standing there, anticipating nothing at all to happen, except possibly the yowl of a cat, and then--

-- then there's that voice, and he turns a wide-eyed glance towards Ravn.

Did he miss something? How did he miss something?

Or...

Ravn has just a second to shrug back. Whatever is on -- it's on.

The door opens. A hassled-looking woman in her mid-thirties looks at both men questioningly. She's white, with mousy grey-brown hair and a poorly fitted, flowery dress that probably came from the same thrift shop as her living room furniture. Her flip-flops are a size too large, and the hairband only succeeds in keeping part of her bangs out of her face.

"Yes? Who are you?" Not an illogical question to ask of two tall strangers ringing your doorbell.

"Hi," Ravn says from behind mental mask number whatever, Smooth Friendly Stranger. "We're from the community centre on Spruce Lane. Heard you just moved into town. Thought we'd come over, ask if you need a hand moving anything around, getting sorted, make you feel welcome. Name's Ravn Abildgaard -- don't worry, I won't ask you to spell it."

Somewhat belatedly, Mikaere mentally acknowledges to himself that two men with non-local accents and non-local names are not perhaps the best suited to being welcoming, even (or maybe especially) when using it as a cover story... maybe that's why when he opens his mouth to speak, he ends up blurting out, "Mick Hastings. Welcome to Gray Harbor," in the least Kiwi accent he can manage. It's not particularly effective, and probably just makes him sound even more weird.

He's also just kind of... not quite staring, but looking a little bewildered, and maybe, as a result of that, just a little stupid too. At least he smiles?

And as he does so, he does just another quick, tiny check: human? Or... feline?

No one here but cats. And a New Zealander and a Dane. The woman's mind is a cat. To be precise, a grey mackerel tabby with a tiny spot of white fur at the throat.

The woman looks at them both -- up at them both. Then she sighs. "We moved in last week. It's that woman next door, isn't it? Mrs Howitt? She thinks we're running a drug ring or something. We're just trying to live here."

Huh.

Mikaere does not make any attempt to pass this information on to Ravn, though it does leave him staring blankly at the woman for a few moments before he seems to recover himself and hastily say, "Small towns can be like that, uh, ma'am." The 'ma'am' doesn't roll all that well off his tongue, though that's perhaps more because it's not a term of respect used much in New Zealand, though it seems to feel appropriate here.

"But the offer is genuine. We're not here to cause you any problems, or get in your business. Honestly: we really do want to see if we can help at all. And if not? If you don't need anything? We can go away. The community centre's for everyone, but we're not proselytisers."

"Thank you but no thanks." The woman nods. She comes across far more tired than angry; exactly the way somebody might if their neighbour was caught spying on them at strange times, and telling everyone in the area that the new family are drug-dealing Satanists. "No offence but, we mind our own business. We're just trying to live here."

Ravn dips into a pocket and produces a card in a gloved hand. "I understand, ma'am. Here's my card -- well, not mine but the community centre's. You need something, you can give us a call. Come down sometime -- or check out the web site. We got a fair number of activities going on, maybe something will interest you. Sorry to have disturbed you. Welcome to Gray Harbor."

"Completely fair," agrees Mikaere, firmly, and with obvious, audible sympathy. "I hope you and the family settle in well."

He takes half a step back, clearly demonstrating his willingness to let her go, hands loose at his sides and his smile open.

"Have a lovely evening."

"Thanks. You too." The door closes.

Ravn walks off the porch -- because what else can you do. A few paces down the street he murmurs, "Well, that was odd. But I'm still not convinced there's anything wrong. Hell, I almost feel like it's Mrs Howitt's house we should be breaking into, and then smash her collection of porcelain sheep or something."

"Aside from the fact that she's a cat?" Mikaere manages not to glance back at the house over his shoulder as he follows Ravn down the street, but it's a very near thing. "A tabby. A tabby with a feline mind that is nonetheless apparently perfectly capable of coming across as standoffish, but still reasonably normal."

He sounds, if anything, slightly impressed. "Did I mention I'm glad the coin didn't encourage us to break in?" Beat. "Your Mrs Howitt, though? She'd probably deserve it, nosy woman."

Ravn blinks. "That was a cat? Least damn cat-like cat I ever saw. Maybe I should send Kitty Pryde over with a welcome salmon instead?"

He shakes his head as he walks away, slowly. "This town, man. I'm not even surprised. I don't even think you're pulling my leg. Do we do anything? I mean, if they're a family of cats managing to morph into people -- you heard her, just trying to live here. Might be people from another reality for all we know, gotten Lost."

Beat. "I'm definitely going to tell Mrs Howitt they're just Jesus freaks, though. She'll probably come at anyone who bothers them with a shotgun if I do."

Mikaere shakes his head. "I think we let them be," he says, sounding thoughtful but firm. "If they decide they want help, or want to talk to us, they'll eventually figure out who they should talk to, I reckon. And until then-- I'm not inclined to hassle them. It's a weird thought, isn't it? A whole reality full of cat people."

Beat. "Don't get me wrong, I'm fascinated. I'd love to sit down with them and hear all about who they are and where they're from and how it's different, but... not going to be nosy." He sounds a little wistful, though.

"Good plan," is a little belated. Jesus freaks, but very private about their faith. Nothing to worry about."

Ravn nods slowly. "I mean, I want to run back there and ask a million questions. Can they talk to other cats? So are the five or six kids actually a litter of kittens?"

He laughs, suddenly. "And part of me think the canary is the real victim here."

Mikaere's nodding along to these questions, eyes lit with fascination-- and then he, too, has to laugh.

"Oh fuck," he says. "No wonder the poor bird is traumatised. Seems a bit cruel, to keep a pet just to-- but that's human thinking, isn't it? The poor canary."

This time, he does cast a glance over his shoulder, shaking his head. "Gray Harbor. What a fucking trip."