Aftermath

In the wake of the séance, Sylvie and her friends are left to make sense of what happened, having been left with more questions than answers, and to figure out what still needs to be done. Along the edges of town, the Fog has begun to slip back in.

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The fog has begun its slow drift from the cold bay, threading through the dark streets of Duskhaven Point. It moves quietly, slipping between houses, gathering low along the edges of the town, until it reaches a place where the lights have not yet gone out. An unlikely group remains there, drawn together longer than they'd intended, the air still holding a charge from what was called. The candles have burned low. A spirit was called, and a spirit answered. Below the windows of the studio, the fog lingers. So light a candle, snuggle up, and follow me to Duscaven Point, where cozy meets uncanny. The candle flames burn low on the table. No one has moved. For a moment, the studio is completely silent. Then, Aura exhales, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. Yes, I have a key to the attic. It's in my office. Paige shifts uneasily beside Thalia. Goldie leans back in his chair, hands clasped loosely on the table. Thalia leans forward, resting on the edge of her seat. I'm going up there with whoever else. Ora turns toward her with a smirk. Zero percent surprised. Thalia shrugs, unapologetic. I'm fascinated by the unknown. Goldie shifts again in his chair, shaking his head slightly. I'm afraid I'll be sitting this one out. Paige hasn't moved. Her hands are folded tightly in her lap. I she falters, then shakes her head. I can't. Aura rests a hand on her shoulder, her voice softening. You don't have to. Sylvie finally speaks, her voice calm but steady. Ora, go get the key. Ora looks at her, caught between protest and hesitation. Sylvie lifts a hand gently. Please? Ora exhales, then turns on her heel and heads toward the hallway. Elias steps back from the table, his gaze moving between the group. Thalia and I will go up. He looks to Sylvie. Are you coming? Sylvie nods, already set. Ora returns a moment later, a small flashlight and a silver key in hand. She presses the flashlight into Sylvie's palm. Elias takes the key from her and asks where is the attic? Our gestures toward the back of the studio. Down the corridor, stairs are just past the storage room on the left. Sylvie and Thalia exchange a quick look. Something shared. Then Sylvie turns, giving the flashlight a light tap against her palm. All right, let's go. They head toward the hallway. Behind them, the candles have burned low into soft pools of wax, their flames just barely flickering. Elias opens the attic door with a slow scrape. Cool, dry air drifts down from the dark above, dust stirring in the beam of the flashlight Sylvie holds. Thalia reaches for the switch beside the door, and a single bulb flickers to life overhead. The attic reveals itself, low rafters, exposed beams, and long rows of forgotten things pushed toward the edges of the room. Limited light illuminates the edges of old furniture, stacks of folding chairs, and more cardboard boxes than could be counted. The smell of mothballs and dust hangs heavy in the air. Tholly appears past Sylvie's shoulder, her eyes bright with curiosity. Holy Elias steps inside first, ducking slightly beneath one of the beams. Sylvie follows, her footsteps careful on the old floorboards, and Thalia slips in between them, moving ahead of them. It's a space that time doesn't touch. Sylvie moves slowly between the boxes, the flashlight beam passing over old labels and worn edges. Okay, we're looking for a cedar chest. They spread out to search. A quiet couple of minutes pass. Then, Thalia's voice calls from a back corner. Over here. Sylvie and Elias join Thalia and she gestures towards a large wooden trunk next to a stack of boxes. Sylvie hands the flashlight to Elias to illuminate the dark corner. The chest is simple, a heavy cedar box, its brass hinges dulled with age. A thin layer of dust coats the lid. Sylvie kneels and brushes some of the dust away with her palm before lifting it. The hinges creak. The scent of cedar rises, clean and warm against the dry attic air. Inside, everything has been tucked and folded with care. On top rests a small square of white lace. Sylvie lifts it carefully. A child's first communion veil. Beneath it lies a pair of tiny gloves, the fingers delicate and narrow. Thalia crouches beside her, her voice softer now. She was so little. Sylvie sets the veil gently aside. Beneath it sits a small book. She lifts it, a thin hardcover, edges softened with time. The Velveteen Rabbit. She opens the book carefully, holding it up into the flashlight beam. Inside written in looping script Julia, Christmas nineteen twenty six. Sylvie pauses for a moment, then closes the book and sets it beside the veil. A small teddy bear rests beneath it, its fur worn nearly smooth, one ear repaired with careful stitches. Elias bends down beside Sylvie to get a closer look, something quiet passing across his face. Sylvie reaches deeper into the chest. Her hand stills. Then she lifts the final piece free. A box. She lifts the lid carefully, revealing a dress. Blue cotton, the fabric surprisingly well kept. She unfolds it slowly, the material falling open in her hands. For a moment no one speaks. Sylvie runs her fingers lightly along the collar. Thalia leans closer, almost whispering. Wow, it's here just like she said, her blue dress. Sylvie nods faintly. Elias watches in silence. The dress shifts slightly in Sylvie's hands as the attic air hums briefly. A subtle change settles over the space. Not a sound, not movement, just a quiet awareness, the feeling of being watched. No one says it out loud. And then, from the studio below, a chair scrapes softly across the floor. The studio door opens. Elias enters first, holding the door open as Thalia slips in quietly, Sylvie just behind her, the blue dress folded carefully over her arm. Sylvie and Elias return to the table. The candles have been reduced to soft pools of wax, their flames now extinguished. Thalia lingers near the front of the studio, just beyond the door for a moment, quiet. The room shifts as they reenter. Ora straightens, her eyes moving immediately to the dress. You found it. Sylvie moves to the table and lays the dress down gently between the candle remnants. Paige leans forward without thinking, her voice low. She was wearing that the day they moved into warehouse. Sylvie looks at her. How do you know? Paige shakes her head faintly. I'm not sure. I just do. Thalia, hands tucked into her hoodie sleeves, comes to stand beside the table with the rest of the group. Goldie, peering down at the dress, asks was there anything else up there? Sylvie gives Thalia a gentle pat on the back before answering. There were other things a book, a toy, things from when she was little. She gestures toward the dress. So why did she only mention this? Sylvie doesn't answer immediately. She closes her eyes briefly, steadying herself, letting the room fall away for just a second. Then it's a portal. The word settles. Goldie blinks. Uh what? Sylvie opens her eyes, her hand resting lightly on the fabric. It's how they find each other. Elias' gaze lowers to the dress, something in his expression sharpening. Yeah, makes sense. Objects like this, they can hold connection. It may be a way to bridge the two spirits to let them find each other. Aura crosses her arms, looking thoughtful. So what will you do with it? Sylvie's gaze drifts toward the dark windows. Something in her expression settles. Bring it to her. To Leslie. She looks up, meeting Aura's gaze. Goldie taps his fingers lightly against the table. At warehouse? Sylvie doesn't hesitate. Yes. The word lingers in the room. No one speaks. The fog reaches the windows. Morning light filters through the front windows of the lantern, fogged faintly at the edges against the pale dove gray of March. The cafe is humming and warm, the air carrying the familiar, comforting scent of coffee. Roasted, nutty, grounded. Sylvie stands behind the counter, portioning coffee into small paper bags for sale. The scale clicks softly beneath her hand as she measures coffee beans, then tips them into the grinder. She presses the button. The machine whirrs to life, loud in the otherwise quiet room. The smell deepens immediately as the beans break down. Richer now, fuller, with a light vanilla sweetness to the roast. Sylvie lingers for a second after the grinder stops, breathing in the scent. Then she pours the grounds into the bag, folds it closed, and sets it aside with the others lying neatly along the counter. Outside a car passes slowly, tires hissing over damp pavement. The bell above the door rings. Sylvie looks up. One of the lantern's regulars, Dan, steps in, shrugging his jacket higher onto his shoulders as if the cold followed him in, already fishing for his wallet as he moves to the counter. Morning Sylvie answers simply. Good morning. Dan sets his wallet down, giving her a look that's just slightly too serious for this early in the day. He orders as usual. Sylvie nods, punching the order into the register. Dan hands her a bill, raising his eyebrows slightly, a hint of a smile. Oat milk, Sylvie. The edges of her lips lift playfully. I remember. Sylvie turns to the espresso machine already moving seamlessly through the motions. Grind, tamp, lock. She reaches for the milk without looking, her hand landing on the carton of whole milk. She pauses, shakes her head once, barely perceptible, and swap it for the oat milk. Dan watches this happen. That was close. Sylvie doesn't turn. You worry too much. He chuckles. History suggests I should. Steam wand hisses, the sound sharp against the quiet. Sylvie finishes the drink, sliding the cup to him across the counter. You're safe today. He takes a slow sip, then tips the cup in approval towards Sylvie. There it is. Sylvie lets out a soft laugh, turning to rinse out the pitcher. He gives her a small nod, then turns and heads for the door, the bell ringing softly behind him as he steps back out into the morning. The cafe settles back into quiet. Sylvie turns back to the counter and continues the task of grinding and bagging coffee. As the grinder hums, Sylvie lets her mind wander, losing herself in the steady rhythm of the task. The late morning crowd has thinned, leaving the lantern in a brief lull before the lunch rush. Sylvie stands behind the counter, restocking cups. Her movements fluid and easy. The bell above the door rings. Thalia steps in, hood up, her dark hair in two long braids poking out. How is getting up this morning for you? I definitely did not sleep. Sylvie glances up, a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. Good morning to you too. Thalia disappears into the office to drop her bag and grab an apron, then returns to the counter, tying it as she goes. I kept dreaming about that attic. She runs her fingers lightly along the edge of the counter and the dress. Sylvie's gaze lingers on the foggy window glass. Yeah, me too. The bell rings again. Goldy steps in, pausing just inside the doorway, like he's deciding whether or not to commit to the day. I thought about not coming in today. Thalia nods. And yet And yet here I am. He gestures vaguely around the cafe, then moves behind the counter, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a cup of coffee. After a beat, he turns to look at the women. So that was a night. I'll admit I didn't think anything was going to come of it. Sylvie wipes her hands slowly on a towel. Yeah, you were wrong. Goldie watches her for a moment. Thalia does too. Do you still think taking the dress over there is a good idea? Sylvie doesn't answer right away. She adjusts a stack of cups that doesn't need adjusting. I think it's the only idea. Thalia leans lightly against the counter, her lips pressed against her knuckles. When are you going? Sylvie reaches for a porta filter, tapping the spent grounds into the knockbox. The sound lands sharper than it should. I don't know yet. Goldie watches her, one eyebrow lifting slightly. You're still going, though. Sylvie doesn't look up. Yeah. Thalia studies her. You sure about this? Sylvie stills for just a second, then sets the porta filter down. No. That lands. The bell rings again. A customer steps in. Thalia pushes off of the counter, already moving to the register. Hi, what can I get for you? Before she can slide the ticket into the rail, two more customers enter. The rhythm of the lunch rush takes over, pulling them into motion. The conversation falls away. After her shift, Sylvie arrives home and moves through the house without turning on the lights. The late afternoon is dim with rain clouds, the room settling into that soft gray in between, where nothing feels fully awake or asleep. She sets her keys down absently on the kitchen counter, then pauses. She moves back through the entryway toward the stairs. Upstairs the air is cooler. Quiet, except for Ashby's nails clicking lightly as he follows her. She moves down the hall and stops at the last door. Gran's room. She turns the doorknob. The room holds itself the same way it always has, orderly but not rigid. Nothing out of place, nothing disturbed. A faint scent lingers in the air, soft and herbal. She stands just inside the door for a moment, looking at Grand's things, feeling for her presence. She moves further into the room. Her fingers brush lightly over the edge of the dresser, a small dish of jewelry, a book left where it was last set down that she hadn't noticed the last time she was in the room. Things that don't feel abandoned just paused. Sylvie's gaze drifts to the chair near the window. A sweater rests over the back of it. She reaches out and lifts the sleeve between her fingers, rubbing the fabric absent mindedly. The bed is neatly made, she sits on the edge of it, the mattress giving slightly beneath her weight. For a moment she just sits there, hands in her lap, breathing, not thinking about the attic or the dress, or what comes next, just still. Then her eyes drift toward the window. Outside the sky is deepening, the gray light draining slowly from the day. Looming as always in its short distance away, warehouse. Sylvie lets her eyes settle on the foreboding structure. There's no question in her expression now. No searching, just awareness. She exhales. Hails slowly, then presses her hands lightly against the bed and stands. Sylvie comes down the stairs slowly, her hand brushing lightly along the banisters she moves. In the living room, the dress rests where she left it, folded over the back of her chair. She pauses there for a moment, just looking at it. Ashby moves back to his bed, curling up under the window. Sylvie crosses the room and lifts the dress carefully, gathering the fabric over her arm the way she did before. At the door, she hesitates just long enough to take a steadying breath, then steps outside. The air has cooled into the damp early spring chill that settles in after sunset, carrying the faint smell of thawed ground and bay wind. The lane is quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn't feel empty so much as spread out. Sylvie steps off the porch and crosses without thinking, her boots shifting from gravel to pavement. A light flicks on across the way. Elias steps out onto his porch, already watching her. He closes the door behind him and comes down the steps, meeting her as she reaches the middle of the lane. Neither of them speaks at first. Somewhere in the distance a car approaches, the sound soft against wet pavement, then turns off into a drive up the lane. A branch taps faintly against something unseen. Elias glances at the dress, then back toward the house. You're sure? Sylvie keeps her eyes forward. Yes. They reach the edge of the property, the ground giving slightly underfoot as it shifts from pavement to yard. Warehouse rises in front of them, dark and familiar, its windows reflecting what little light remains in the sky. Sylvie slows slightly as they reach the steps, sensing a shift. Along the bayside edge of the yard, something low and pale filters between the trees, but they don't see it, not yet. Sylvie and Elias climb the steps to the house. The front door opens with a slow creak, the wood resisting before giving way. The air inside smells of beeswax. Sylvie steps inside first, her boots quiet against the floor. Elias follows, the door closing behind them with a groan. The entry is dimly lit by wall sconces, the staircase rising along the far wall, disappearing into shadow. Sylvie pauses just inside the door, the dress pressed against her chest. Will you take me to the room beneath the widow's walk? Elias rubs his neck with one hand, then leads the way to the staircase. They climb two stories. The steps creak beneath their weight as they go. The air at the top is different, cooler, heavy with a draught that moves through the hallway in slow, uneven breaths. A short corridor stretches ahead, the ceiling sloping slightly with the pitch of the roof. Elias leads her to a door at the far end. It's smaller than the others, planer. He pauses just long enough to glance at her, then turns the doorknob. The door opens inward easily. The room beyond is dim, the last of the evening light filtering through a pair of narrow windows set into the far wall. The ceiling angles downward along both sides, the shape of the roof pressing into the space. The walls are bare, the paint yellowed and peeling in places. A small day bed sits against one wall, neatly made, though the linens are faded. A narrow table and chair stand starkly near the windows. The draught slips through the room, stirring the edge of the curtain. Beyond the glass, the outline of the widow's walk rises just overhead, its railing cutting a dark shape against the sky. Sylvie steps inside slowly, the floorboards shifting softly beneath her boots. At first there's just silence, the room holding itself around them as if waiting. Sylvie steps forward, the dress gathered loosely in her hands. She closes her eyes, drawing her energy upwards, then pushing it down, letting it move with her breath. It settles and she feels the shift. Leslie The name spoken deepens the shift, and Sylvie feels an opening in the veil. There is silence. Then there is a hum to the air. The light near the far wall seems to bend slightly, indicating that something is moved into the room with them. A shape begins to form. Just a suggestion first. Then the outline of a woman, indistinct as though seen through old glass. Sylvie's voice softens. I have something for you. It belonged to Julia. She lifts the dress a little. The fabric falls open, catching what little light there is. At the name, Leslie's figure grows more apparent, energy becoming resonant. Sylvie takes another step toward the apparition. She's been trying to reach you. I think this dress is an opening for you to reach each other. For a moment, Leslie's face becomes nearly clear, a presence that feels like it might hold. Then something shifts, first energetically, then the figure's face turns slightly away. Listening. The fabric in Sylvie's hand stirs slightly. The figure of the woman reacts. There's hesitation. A pulling back. Sylvie frowns, taking another step without thinking. Wait the figure wavers, thinning at the edges. Leslie The shape holds strain now, as if caught between staying and leaving. Her head turns back, not towards Sylvie to the dress, and for a moment her face comes back into view. She looks stricken. Her mouth opens, forming the word No. The shape of the woman fades, and she's just gone, as if she had never fully arrived. Sylvie stands where she is, the dress still held in her hands. Elias still stands near the door, eyes wide in spite of himself. What did she say? Sylvie doesn't answer. Her gaze stays on the space where the figure had been, then drops slowly to the fabric in her hands. A long breath. Something interrupted the connection. Outside the windows, the low pale something has reached the house from the trees, creeping along the ground, kissing the edges of the house. Sylvie moves to the windows, gazing down at the fog. She looks down at the dress again, which feels now like a question half formed in her hands. That's all for now from Duskhaven Point. Sleep well, keep your porch light lit, and don't linger too long in the fog. Duskhaven Point is written and narrated by me, Melinda Janet, with sound design and production by Joel Newman. Until next time.