ideal career: pretentiously educated victorian gentleman who somehow makes a career out of debunking fraudulent spiritualists
I show up to your seance, scare the ghosts away by loudly exclaiming “hmmm, sounds like BULLSHIT” at every opportunity, then write a lengthy piece for the newspaper in which I not only call you a charlatan but manage to make fun of your taste in clothes and terrible showmanship
the only medium I’ve never managed to debunk is a woman who lives a scandalous life travelling by herself, contacting the dead in private sessions for wealthy patrons. whenever we find ourselves in the same city we trade passive aggressive barbs in public and have fuming hate sex in private. I sat in on one of her sessions and saw something I couldn’t explain, something that shook me to my very soul and made me doubt myself like nothing ever had. she terrifies me.
travel to a world of dark bargains struck by moonlight, of haunted towns and hungry woods, of talking beasts and gingerbread golems, where a young mermaid’s voice can summon deadly storms and where a river might do a lovestruck boy’s bidding but only for a terrible price.
if it happened at all, it happened like that 