[center][h2]Boston, MA[/h2] [h3]16:25 - Sunday, June third[/h3][/center] Abigail ran her fingers back through her hair, sweeping the cinnamon locks back out of her face. She briefly though about hunting down a hair tie, but the last one she had seen was supposed to be in front of her on her desk, and it certainly wasn't there now. She sighed, and glanced back at the file Constance had prepped. Most of the photos showed a fairly decently kept suburban home, certainly lived in. The exterior had a little bit of overgrowth and some fading or chipped paint, but otherwise looked good. The inside was annoyingly bright-coloured, decorated by either an eighty year old grandmother or a cat lady, either one of which had an obsession with cows. Two floors and a basement, everything neat and in order. Nothing in the photos gave her any sense of a haunting, but normal cameras stood no chance of picking up most spirits except in rare circumstances, and these looked more like real estate pictures than anything else. She set the photos aside and scanned over the report, in Courtney's neat, tight script. Eileen Booker, her husband Frank, and their two kids Mike and Bobby, had been living in the house with no problems for almost a year. After a remodel of the kitchen, however, they began noticing unusual things. Items not where they were left, Doors opening on their own, faucets running when no one had used them that day. Standard stuff. Bobby, six, had reportedly seen someone moving about on the second floor in a hurry, but never gave a good description. They had been informed of her rates, and were happy to pay, considering they had had two amateur teams and a priest come through with no success. The priest had been unable to find anything, so had done what Abigail called a “general rinsing”, not targeted at anything specific and usually ineffective against all but the most basic spirits. Cho Investigations, however, was [i]not[/i] an amateur group. Several major landmarks had confirmed her work, a slew of people were pleased to have been “confirmed” haunted for tourist income. Those places had had to pay extra, since she would prefer helping spirits out, but the owners had insisted she leave them there, even after she had explained the dangers of doing so. At any rate, the Bookers had agreed to her five hundred a day plus travel costs. Given the very basic sounding nature of this job, she'd only need to bring Brett for camera work and Therese for keeping the civilians out of her way. And cash was cash. Courtney knew enough about heir work to know not to pass duds onto her desk. Every case had to go through at least one local team's efforts [i]after[/i] calling CI. If the locals couldn't deal with it, [i]then[/i] it was brought to Abigail's attention and she figured out how to proceed. This was a new process, put in place after several weeks last year had been wasted on investigating nothing except duds. Generally those were either over-excitable housewives or people who wanted to be “famous”. They were usually disappointed to find out that CI didn't participate in the television programs, and only recorded events for their own liability insurance and as a record. The phone in the main office rang, and as always Courtney answered it before it had a chance to do it a second time. The office itself was the first floor of Courtney's house, which had been inherited from her grandmother. Situated in Dorchester, not but a block from a police station, it was a decent location. They definitely benefited from being able to point crazies towards the cops, and they were [i]hardly ever[/i] vandalised. They both lived on the second floor, where the kitchen was. Courtney had rented the third floor cheap to some college kids, who occasionally poked their heads in but otherwise left Abigail alone, which was fine with her. While she was musing, Courtney came through the door into her office, with an unusually hurried pace. Abigail could feel a lot of tension, worry, and a vague sense of fear coming off of her. “What's up, Courtney?” she asked. Courtney knew she'd already have picked up on the mood. “That house, the one in the file?” Courtney shook her head. “I was doing some background on it. We can't take that job, Abigail.” The psychic sat up a little straighter and cocked her eyebrow. “Why? What's wrong with it?” “The county library there just rang me to give me [i]their[/i] report. It was built in 1880, and was torn down and rebuilt in the Twenties after the police found...Well, it sounds like they've got at least a few murders, and maybe more that were [i]sacrifices[/i]. Last three owners just packed up and left after a year and a half each. Like, to the day, eighteen months.” Abigail pursed her lips. Demonic possession was no joke. Last time she had tried to deal with it, Brett had been hospitalised for three weeks and it had taken the local priests [i]and[/i] the sheriff to keep her and the victim contained. “Are we sure it's demonic? It could just be a wraith.” Courtney shrugged. “It's possible, I guess, but I don't like thinking about you guys heading into a demon thing again. Also, they said they've been there what, thirteen months? Things are probably just starting. Your call, though, Abigail. You're the one that actually deals with them.” “I appreciate the concern, Courtney. But that sounds like a place that [i]needs[/i] to be dealt with. Call up the team and tell them we're headed to Tennessee.” [hr] [center][h2]Just outside of Fayetteville, TN[/h2] [h3]08:30 – Wednesday, June sixth[/h3][/center] Abigail stared bleakly over her steaming cup of shitty diner coffee at the local priest, Father Evans. If she looked as bad as she felt, it was almost as bad as he did. Neither of them seemed to want to move much, and every attempt at eating the greasy breakfast in front of them elicited winces. The rest of the team had already taken off, save Courtney, who was finishing up with the local PD. There were moments of the last few days that Abigail [i]wished[/i] she could forget, notably the keening, inhuman screams from a boy no older than ten, but she had to admit, it had finally been a win. “So,”, said Father Evans, in his thin, reedy voice. The man looked to be only around sixty, though it was hard to tell through the strain and weariness of this morning. “This is what a real psychic does?” “Mmm,” she shook her head and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “This was way more intense than usual. And I don't call myself that. Medium's probably a better term, though I'm a psychic too, in some aspects.” “Well,” the older man stared into his eggs, deep in thought. It took him several moments to piece together what he meant to say. Abigail was willing to grnt him the time, taking the opportunity to get more of the burnt caffeinated rink down her gullet. “I have to report to the archdiocese. Of course.” He shook his own head at the thought. “I'm not a licensed exorcist, so I don't know what they'll make of my testimony. But you'll be coming out of this glowing in the church's eye if I can help it.” He stared her in the eyes, his a clear hazel. “I don't think I could have saved that boy alone.” “I don't think I could've either, Father. To be honest, I'm still not sure exactly how we managed it.” She set down her coffee, and tried a bite of bacon. Far too crispy, but the salt helped. “I know my team is taking a month vacation afte this one. I don't know if I'll [i]ever[/i] shake this headache.” “Well, in this parish, at least, you're welcome any time. Let me or Sister Robinson know if there's anything you need before you leave, we'll be more than happy to provide.” He gestured at her with his fork. “I know the family would like to thank you before you take off.” Abigail shook her head emphatically. “I appreciate it. They can pass on the thanks to C, if they want. I can't handle that sort of emotional feedback right now.” “You know...” Abigail winced, and her tone became slightly more 'polite.' “I know, Father, because I've heard it before and I can feel it coming from you. 'God gave me a great gift and I could do more with the proper organisation.' I've heard it before. While I appreciate your position, and logically might even agree with you? I will never work directly for the church.” “Ah well.” The priest threw up his hands playfully and looked towards the ceiling. “In this one you put a lot of pride, eh, Lord?” He chuckled, and picked at his eggs a bit. “You do the Lord's work, even if you won't accept our help, Abigail. I will keep you in my prayers from now until my time is done.” [hr] [center][h2]Boston, MA[/h2] [h3]02:34, Thursday June 28th[/h3][/center] No one else was home, which left Abigail in a right mess, as they had [i]also[/i] left several bottles of whiskey in the cabinet and she was having one of her 'bad nights'. She sat, her arms splayed out, most of her torso spread along the card table in the kitchen. She knew she was drunk, possibly the most drunk she had ever been. It was hard to tell. Attempting to move sent a bottle crashing to the floor, but the sound of breaking glass only [i]barely[/i] registered in her ears. All she could really hear was the emotions and surface thoughts of most of Boston, echoing around her head like she was standing in an arena packed to five times its capacity. The whiskey was barely cutting the edge off, and she was too drunk to call Courtney and try to get something stronger. The cacophony was driving her mad. It had been going on for more than two hours, now, and with no way to make it stop, she was beginning to have the bleeding effect, where she lost who [i]she[/i] was in the noise, and just became a conduit for the crowd. She screamed incoherently and threw an empty bottle across the kitchen. However, instead of shattering, there was only the dull thunk of glass on flesh, and then a weirdly echoing giggle. All of the sounds ceased all at once, leaving Abigail stunned to see a young girl, maybe ten years old, leaning against her refrigerator. She was blonde, with a cherubic face, willowy limbs, and a bright blue sundress on. Abigail blinked several times, shaking her drunken head, but the image wouldn't leave, so she decided to tackle the problem head on. “Yer not...Yer not normal. What happened? You need to be buried?” Abigail's words slurred significantly, and she wondered how much she had actually had. The girl laughed, and the sound chimed off of the metal in the room. “No, silly,” she said, “I'm here to help you.” “What d'you mean? Nobody can help me. Got nothing but the living and the dead runnin' around in my head.” She paused for a second. “Heh. That rhymed.” “I'm here to help because you help so many others. My name is Hannelore. Some call me the Watcher.” Abigail's head snapped to attention, and her eyes narrowed at the girl.l she had seen that name twice, [i]ever[/i], in her research. Hannelore was a psychopomp, perhaps [i]the[/i] psychopomp whose presence mutated to help everyone deal with what they were seeing. The Grim Reaper, Cu'Sith, Nephthys, the Valkyrie. All were rumored to stem from Hannelore herself, and were considered, among those who were in the business, if not a part of her, then at least servants of hers. And apparently the ancient embodiment of death was standing here in her kitchen. Fixing herself tea, as it seemed. The small girl took the seat across from her, and Abigail sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “You've been having some problems, Abigail. Not a lot of people you can relate to, even among your close friends, hmm?” The little girl sipped her tea and kicked her feet back and forth. “I mean, I guess?” Abigail was not prepared for this. “Why are you so interested? You're just the guide, not the guard.” Hannelore laughed, and Abigail saw shadows dance and skip at the sound. “No, you're quite correct, I am only a guide. My reach doesn't fully extend here. But [i]you[/i],” the psychopomp gestured at the medium with her tea cup. [i]Come to think of it, we don't have any tea cups.[/i] “You are one of the mortals who is of the greatest use and help to me, which is why I do not like seeing you in distress. Unfortunately, “ she sighed. “I cannot erase your gift. Not only is that beyond my power, but it is what makes you so useful. Instead, I can only offer you direction.” Abigail's eybrow twitched up. “What do you mean, direction? Are you giving me a [i]quest[/i]?” “Nono, nothing like that. But here in the next month or so, the town of Lost Haven, Maine, will need your help. Several places will, actually, but that one is the one you can actually [i]prevent[/i] more tragedy.” “And the others?” Hannelore fixed her with a dead stare, and Abigail felt the full weight of time and life in her guest's eyes. “There, you can only put them to rest.”