graham cooper

Graham scrambling back like a feral animal would have been comical, were it not that she was left fucked and standing with her hand contaminating what could well be evidence and staring into the meat freezer. Yeah, there was certainly fucking meat in here — and she couldn't say what it was. Or... who. "I think it's... a torso? There's definitely a fucking belly button on this thing. I don't think animals have belly buttons. Do they?" The psychic medium scoffed at the absurdity in her own ask, her hand gripping taut onto the door and lifting the flashlight higher in the hand she'd freed up to stare into it.

The fae's head whipped around when the leader of the Boo Crew announced his exit, eyes narrowing to daggers that could have slashed him in half, biting out, "Hey! Where the hell are you going? You wanted to find out what was haunting this place, right? And shouldn't we call the police if this is a corpse?!" Yelling it up the basement's stairs while he was taking them two at a time wasn't their brightest idea, but they were dubious that Mrs. Dennison was wearing her hearing aids, anyway.

He threw a finger out to hush Salem before she said too much. "Uh, hi there, Mrs. Dennison," he said, his voice cracking more than he would ever have cared to hear at his age. "We, uh. Didn't find anything! Haunting, that is. Just like always, things seem..."

He elbowed Salem in the side, urging her to back him up. "Things seem all good! Right, Salem?"

Contented, Graham continued his soft circuit of the museum, using his duster when called for. The doll with one eye missing? Loved a tickle. The cursed broach from the Victorian era? Left alone. The witch’s finger kept behind glass? Dust the glass, but don’t look at the item. Easy enough. But when a voice Graham didn’t recognize called out through the halls, he jumped nearly out of his skin. When his soul returned to his body, he froze. Was this a new haunt coming to roost?

A quick glance at the clock allayed his fears. No - the museum’s opening time had officially passed. Al had likely unlocked the front door, as he was meant to. Graham shuffled forward, making a mental note about the urgent need to hire a greeter or ticket taker. “Hi, sorry, yeah -” he called out.

“That’s me - as in, I’m the owner. Sorry I -” Graham paused as he approached, a smile spreading across his face. “Oh, hi! You’re - sorry, I never caught your name. Performer, Christmas time, the library. I didn’t end up making it to your show. I was going to, but we literally had a burst pipe in the basement here. Brutal work.”

Kittiya knew that they were giving their old friend a hard time — it came naturally to them after a lifetime of rigid expectations, nailing them down in unrecognizable shapes and tormenting their psyche with a badgering of get-togethers and what-have-yous. "I don't believe my job and Alvaro's are comparable. But I haven't really met the man." They were one of the only team members of the Boo Crew that didn't work for the museum — they got an ear-splitting headache if they walked too deep into the narrow hallways. Something procured inside of those walls was trying to get in through their body as a vessel and out of the inanimate object it had grown attached to, she supposed. Descending into the basement, goosebumps riddled her arms from the sub-zero temperatures that weren't moderated by Mrs. Dennison's air conditioning, and she held her breath, idling for anything to jump out at her. Normally, if a spirit wanted to commune, the psychic medium would get a feeling.

"I'm not feeling anything. What's back here?" There were a convoluted amount of doors for a basement. It spelled out one of those horror films where you opened the wrong one and either never came out again, or discovered someone's deepest, darkest secret. And as she wandered deeper into the basement, Kittiya's nose was assaulted with that wretched smell. It was metamorphosing from mothballs into venison. "Does Mrs. Dennison let someone... store deer meat down here?" Swapping hand to hold the rods in both, and ignoring that it threw a wrench in Graham's requested experiment, she followed the pungent odor, the hum of a freezer unit in a back corner and shunned out of the light attuned to her ears. It was where the scent was practically eye-watering, and their hands fumbled for the handle to the door.

He followed Salem deeper into the basement, his face screwing up at the stench. "Oh, god," he muttered, still dutifully sweeping the light from side to side. "What is that?"

His eyes followed Salem's gaze to the freezer. It was cracked open just enough to let some internal light spill out and a deathly cold emanate out. Inside, there was clearly poorly-packaged meat of some sort, rotted and spoilt from the unsealed freezer. The scent made Graham retch.

"Oh, shit," he muttered. Salem was probably joking - chances were higher that this meat was truly some sort of game that Mrs. Dennison hadn't properly cured or stored. But one could never be totally certain. "Well, I'll leave this to your expertise," he said, backpedalling towards the exit. "If you're not feeling anything spirit-y around, I say we call it a day."

"What's that thing doing for you?" The question comes as Alfie lifts the camera again, walking backward to track Graham's movements down the lens. He's showing off some new flavour of alien tech and his instinct to document it is initially driven by curioisty.

Alfie settles the viewfinder into his eye socket comfortably, closing the other eye to focus in on symmetry. His index finger's light on the trigger before the flash goes off, murmuring a Camera loves it to the other. Two birds, one stone; might've been a passing comment about legitimising his practice, but Alfie took it as all the more reason to snap a few photos.

He turns the handle to a room that's stale musk sucker-punches him square in the nose, closing it swift and unceremonious within a few regret-filled seconds. "What's a seasoned ghosty doin' lurking in a house this big?" His knowledge of the paranormal—the veil between this life and the next—is limited to blockbuster bastardisations of something that seems complex and reverent.

"Oh! Uh, yeah. This is a magnetic audiogram." He demonstrated by sweeping the device, which had two small prongs jutting out of what appeared to be a walkie-talkie, across the hallway in front of them. "Ghosts don't always have physical forms, but their energies will mess with the magnetic fields of wherever they reside. So this thing can pick up on those anomalies and turn them into sound. If it beeps, we've got a ghost." He illustrated again, but the small whine of the machine remained constant.

Graham shrugged at the other's question. "Well, you're likely right, to be fair. Supernatural occurrences are actually much rarer than most people think. It's why the museum is so special." He waved the audiogram across again. "But, there are any number of things that could be lurking. Mrs. D mentions some odd bumps in the night and the occasional moved object - a knocked over candle or whatnot.

"That could be something, or it could be nothing. But if it's something, probably just a run-of-the-mill ghost. Someone who forgot they were dead, walking an old pathway over and over. Eventually that can affect the real world. Now if things were flying, or if she was finding stuff hidden, that could be a poltergeist or something worse. Vengeful spirits, for example..." Graham shuddered. "Nasty things. Probably above my paygrade. You can blast them back across the veil, but usually they anchor to an object and that's how you end up with haunted stuff."

Of course, they could ‘imagine’ things. 

Currently such thoughts lead them to fairies. They’d always liked stories about fairies. Like any sane boy, they’d a crush on Tinkerbell. They weren’t so sure ghosts were included in the Peter Pan stories. 

“Oh, for sure!” 

Possessed? 

Rys was certain they’d seen the poster, but not that they’d actually read everything correctly. Or… had read it completely. That was very on point for them. Their parents would sigh at how often Rys got into things because they’d signed an autograph before reading the full message. 

“I’m always happy to help!” Which was the full truth. 

Even if ghosts, apparently. 

Rys shivered. “A ghost spotter… has it… has it ever gone off?” he asked. Meanwhile they were praying that it wouldn’t go off now. 

"Only a few times," he said, keeping his focus on the display as it lit up with a green light. "Luckily, never for anything too terrible. A few small spirits, easy enough to talk away. One of 'em took a small candle ritual to pass on to the next plane, but that was the worst of it." He glanced behind him and offered the device out to Rhys. "Take a look for yourself. Just keep an eye on that little static line - if it starts to spike, or if the lights go red, we've got something."

Vyvyan took pause in her stride, the resounding huff earning a tilt of her head, asking, "Are you alright? Really, I wouldn't mind to take some of them back." Her back to the door and holding it until he sounded as if he had regained his composure, there was a minute twitch of her lips, indiscernible if she was electing amusement from his words, or something else. "A bit of a Scrooge, then?"

Falling into step with him, she was silent for a moment, debating whether her own response was worthwhile of conversation, or not. Her tendency to shrink herself down in the presence of others preceded her. "I can't say there was ever any big celebrations when I was growing up, but... I miss the beautiful lights." Craning her head in the direction of their face, Vyvyan added, "Do you mind if I ask if I at least look the part?"

He closed the distance to the desk in front of him and slid the precarious stack of books onto it, careful at every moment as it teetered and tottered. He turned to survey the woman he was helping and tilted his head. "I'll confirm that. Seems like you've picked up all the holiday spirit I've left behind outside the building."

His eyebrows quirked up at her offer. "Oh, that's awfully kind of you to extend to a Scrooge." He smiled. "What's the show? Are you a performer?"

"You don't pay me enough to teach the entire team fucking classes. And do I look like a teacher to you?" Their voice lacked the accusatory edge their words implied, eyes narrowing to slits as they gawked at their employer. Sure, there remained a bratty streak in Kittiya Meechai of a former prima ballerina — someone who cut the throats of competition ( figuratively... most likely ) and succeeded their parents' expectations of them, while making quick work of their own revenge from the shadows. A hand rested on the curve of their hip, snatching the rods out of his hand with their free hand, an exaggerated sigh escaping.

"I'm only doing this for you because I like my job. If I go to sleep tonight smelling butterscotch candies, I better not wake up to find myself being baked by some demonic kitchen witch, or something." They followed at the heels of their boss without another word, however, loyal to their cause. No one could ever say that Kittiya was a complete cold-hearted bitch, but anyone who came to their would-have-been wedding and saw mascara making tracks down their face would've known that.

He chuckled at her concerns. "Might be able to," he mused back as they reached the bottom of the staircase. "I can't guarantee any spirits here will like modern technology though. If something's haunting Mrs. Dennison, I'd bet it's some sort of ancient thing that hates modernity." He took a confident step forward, all the while swinging the light. "But if something moved in between now and the last time I was here, it would probably be a real issue. But I think you're likely right - she's probably got cataracts and hallucinates stuff."

"Thank God for that," he mumbles, entirely sarcastic, as the other declared the basement free of any particular haunts. As if it wasn't obvious to him anyway. Alfie's not exactly the open-minded kind when it came to dimensions other than the one he stood in. Ghosts were a firm you're fucken cooked in his books, which made him the perfect accomplice for a different kind of hunt. "You do this shit for Missus Dee often?"

It's a perfect exercise in practicing patience, which he doesn't have very much of to begin with. But Graham's friendly, he's making an effort, and Alfie's trying to meet him in the middle. He's moody on a good day; testy Alfie with the short fuse and the tattoo of a rose lit up in flames, large and loud, caressing the curve of skin between his thumb and his forearm. It was his first legal reckless decision and a reminder that lives on in daylight. An identifier he can't, and doesn't, risk by nightfall.

"Oh, yeah mate, I got time. No worries," he offers, sincere despite the way his expression is unchanging. Stoic and firm, unfazed by a climb back upstairs, his head on a swivel to take in the cracks travelling up walks, pushing through old coats of paint, and the browse through a couple of rooms with the punctuation of the camera shutter in a direction the other wanted him to document. "She alright if these take a few days to develop?" He could do it overnight, but he had somewhere to be in the next couple of days. "Not like we're gonna get anything meaningful but... dunno, maybe she can use 'em if she ever wants to sell or something."

"She's adamant she's got something somewhere, but I haven't found anything." He shrugged. "But you never know when a spirit is going to move in, so it's worth the time to check. That, and she's a monthly donor to the museum, so I feel like I kind of owe it to her to visit every so often."

Graham's eyebrows furrowed a bit, but eventually gave way to a simple smile. "Oh, no, you're fine," he replied to Alfie's question. "I don't think anything Mrs. Dennison does takes less than a few days. And that's assuming she even remembers asking you to take any pictures." He chuckled, a small rattle of a laugh in his chest. "But if she forgets, I'll take them. Nice to have some proof that my services are legit."

IF EVER A FAVOR WAS NEEDED, Annaki was the person to ask. It was rare that the happy-go-lucky blonde would ever say no to someone were it in their power to actually lend a hand, which was exactly why something as simple as ensuring someone wasn't left locked behind a door was met with effortless agreement, besides the fact that the her grey eyes had turned wide and full of interest as soon as why he was venturing down into the basement. Ghosts and everything spooky or creepy-crawly gave her the heebie jeebies, especially after her still unexplained experiences from last year, despite her girlfriend's general interest in what could be deemed of darker subject. Still, there was something curious about the topic of ghost hunting. Those same wide eyes were waiting for Graham when his voice rang out from the opposite side of the door, which she promptly shoved open with a thin shoulder, looking up at him with her glued on bug-eyed gaze. "So, there wasn't anything? Nothing at all went beep boop on any of those gadgets?" Technology, quite frankly, was beyond her if it was anything more complicated than a Tamagotchi. "I wouldn't want to get stuck down there, either, even if there aren't any ghosts to keep you company. That makes me think, do you find any ghosts to get lonely? I mean, I think I would get lonely if I didn't have anyone to, like, ever talk to if I was stuck in some old person's basement. I would probably try to make as much noise as I could, too, just to see if I could find a buddy." Giving an energetic nod, their shoulders then sank, voice dropping to a whisper. "What do I do if we do find a ghost in another room? Do I introduce myself?"

The second question pulled a dry chuckle out of him. "I mean, you could. But if it can respond, we're already in too much trouble." He pulled out a small flashlight and started shining it on their path. "Ghosts that are stuck in patterns, we can help. Just gotta remind the spirit it's dead and then it'll move on no problem. If they become self-aware, that's when you get hauntings, possessions, that kind of thing."

The blue light of the flashlight swept side to side. "Thanks for helping, by the way. I was... surprised when Kittiya said you'd be taking her shift today, but. Glad to have you for the day."

"Is it really necessary for me to come all the way down here to this... death trap?" She was a footage analyst, not a miracle worker. Let alone one of Graham's investigator on the Boo Crew. Most of Kittiya's job was remaining behind the camera or explaining the episodic pieces to the camera. Dealing with people was not their strongest suit, and why playing the role of a fortune teller was equal parts a delight and a curse. The customer service aspect of it all was the malediction here, make no mistake.

Her hands gripped onto her arms, smoothing up and down to generate warmth that didn't exist inside the old biddy's house. Mrs. Dennison was a crotchety old woman who couldn't hear either of them for shit, and looked like she was a hair from accusing the fortune teller of swiping one of those antique, ugly fucking collectible eggs that was sitting in her display case. She's a good egg, her ass.

As the woman passed their field of vision, Graham slapped a bright, performative smile on his face that faded a bit as soon as she turned the corner. "Eh. Better than like. Fish." A shiver went down his spine. "And that's not a random pull. The Nightingales had a spirit in their wine cellar that was pickling all their fine wines. Whole place smelled like herring. It was..." Another shiver shook him silent.

He pulled out a small flashlight that shone blue when he clicked it on. "Alright, just stay tight. If those rods start spinning, we'll ask 'em if a spirit is around. I highly doubt we'll find anything, though."

Quick to help, eager to help. Maybe... well, why? Why was he helping again?

Didn't matter, he nodded eagerly and smiled. "With like... keeping doors open?" Or fighting ghosts.

He wasn't so sure he could do the latter.

Absolutely not in fact. Rys was the first to run to the other side of the place, staying together be damned. He was sure the ohter could handle himself, whereas Rys... he didn't have a brave bone in his body.

Nowhere to be seen.

"Wat was that device?" he asked. Curious as a cat, not brave, but curious.

And that curiosity more than bravery would ensure he would follow despite his fears.

"Thanks, by the way." He led Rys out the front door to begin their final checks. "I know it was a weird request -- 'Looking for someone to help make sure I don't get possessed.' Honestly, I was surprised anyone responded to the poster. But I'm glad you did."

He pulled the device out at Rys's question. It was a small, handheld beeper with two antenna, across which a wire ran. "It's an EMF reader. Spirits don't have physical form, usually, but they do mess with magnetic fields. So this thing will tell us where those... anomalies are strong." He blinked for a second, realizing the denseness of his explanation. "It's, uh. It's a ghost spotter."