Day 2: Acclimating

I had an interview this morning for a job as a paper girl at the local newspaper, the Dorsey Daily. I'm a little annoyed that I have to start over at the bottom of the totem pole when I was second only to the editor-in-chief back in Bridgeport, but at least I got the job. My boss is a woman named Joanie MacDuff, and most of my coworkers are women too, so work promises to be a fun little estrogen-fest.

After my interview, I went for a walk around the north end of town. I found an interesting old barn in a misty field.

The place felt rife with mystery. I could practically feel eyes watching me from the boarded up windows. There was even a water well up on the roof. I'll have to remember to ask Joanie if she knows anything about that. It's kind of an odd design decision. I wonder if it links back to any of the town's origins? Maybe the early settlers here had superstitions regarding the storage of their water, or they didn't want it to be contaminated by ground-dwelling creatures. Hmm...

Anyway, while I was exploring I happened into Gypsy's Landing Park along the river, and discovered the fortune-teller's caravan. I was excited: psychics may not always be genuinely talented in and of themselves, but they do tend to have an “in” on the supernatural and otherworldly occurrences in the vicinity, and often make great sources for leads. So I figured I'd go give this one a try.

Total waste of money! After spending over 100 simoleans, I walked away with nothing more useful than advice “not to ask a ghost for healthy living tips.” The man who read my palm was a total charlatan, and probably not even a real gypsy. He looked more homegrown Anglo-German descent than Romani, despite his costume, which even under dim lighting was obviously bought at a store during Halloween. So much for that lead! I guess if this town is hiding supernaturals, I'll have to find them on my own.

After my laughable fortune-telling, I decided to jog home, since my funds are getting tight and I really can't afford any more cabs. What with packing and the move, I haven't had time to fit in a good jog for almost a week, so it was nice to stretch my legs and get some fresh air moving through my lungs.

That is one definite advantage to this little town: less pollution. The mountain air is refreshing and clean, and even a little crisp for May. Must be the altitude.

On my way back to my little redneck paradise, my cell rang, but I was enjoying the exercise so much I didn't bother answering it. I checked it when I got home, though. It was my Aunt Maria. She and Uncle Saul were just wondering how I was settling in. I called her back, of course, and entertained her with descriptions of the tiny little backwoods town I had discovered. She didn't say as much, but I could tell she was worried about me. She and Uncle Saul are always so anxious when it comes to me. I swear, it's like every time they look at me they still see the quiet, shy, traumatized ten year old I was when I first came to live with them. I'm not that girl anymore. I mean, sure, I still think about mom and dad. I even cry for them sometimes, late at night when I've had the dream again, and I wake up with that awful face in my mind and the smell of phantom smoke lingering in my nostrils. But I'm hardly the breakable china doll Aunt Maria takes me to be. I'm a grown woman, almost thirty years old, with a career (or the shredded remains of one, anyway) and goals of my own.

Of course, my goals are probably part of the reason she worries about me. She and Uncle Saul are staunch Catholics, and resolutely refuse to admit the possibility of the existence of anything supernatural. That used to be a real point of contention between us when I was a teen, especially that time when I got in an argument with Father David after mass. My cousins used to tease me incessantly: Spooky Sofi, they called me. That only bothered me until I saw my first episode of X-Files. Then I considered it a compliment. Like Fox Mulder, “I want to believe”.

And further, I'm determined to find proof and share it with the world. I know there are others out there, other like me, frightened children and jaded adults who have seen the creatures that go bump in the night and who are teased mercilessly by others until they doubt what they know to be true: that supernaturals exist, and that there are some things science cannot explain, or hasn't explained yet, and that those things prey on us, on our blind ignorance and innocence. I know they're out there. I've seen them, at least once, and I won't rest until I've proved it to all the well-meaning but ignorant people like my aunt and uncle out there who refuse to believe in anything they can't see and touch.