Aboard the Jumping Jack
"Well, Jill wasn't wrong, my actual passion and profession is collecting... Stories, Events, Extra-Things, things that make your fur twist or your scales rub wrong. As if an invisible hand pushed your mind to see something... Something Different. Something Paranormal"
Riddle spoke differently now, it was slower, methodical. As if putting on a well-loved suit that fits perfectly, but the ritual of putting the clothes on was the key. Not to check if it fits, but to enjoy a different taste within the ritual.
"... A shipwright, Groassus, described it well enough that I wrote it in the beginning of my book, 'Ghosts of Akito'-"
She pushed aside the book she had been writing in and produced from her leather bookbag another book, one pristine and rich in purple color. It's letters seemed to be a mix of gold and black filigree ink. She opened the cover and the spine creaked, as if it had never been opened yet, fresh off the press.
"Keep in mind, Mr. G is human, and his word choice reflects that. Ahem,
'Imagine your in a room, sitting on the couch, staring at a beautiful painting. That's your world. The room. and the Painting. Most people are content with just that.
Some people, like you and I, want to look behind the Painting. What lays hidden. You move and adjust the Painting enough to see the hole behind it. You realize then, in that moment, if you are the person to sheik away from the unexplainable. The Unfathomable. The things outside the walls of your world...
Or if you are the kind of person to wonder, and set the painting aside.'"
She let the pause linger in the air, fermenting. It took a few moments longer for everyone to realize she had ended it there.
She flipped a couple pages.
"This one is short. A precursor anecdote. Interesting enough, I got this here 'Tale from another human. She didn't want 'er name 'tah be used, so she is ScoopWhoop here. Ahem-
'When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we’d find a cup that hadn’t been there the night before. Mother had left them there, worried that we’d get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us. Among the homes’ original furnishings was an antique wooden chair which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, toward us. Sometimes she’d manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall. Mother just wanted to be near us. Years later, long after we’d moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse’s original occupant, a widow. She’d murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she hung herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse’s living room, with a woman’s body hanging from a beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.'"
Towards the last couple sentences, Riddle's voice had decreased in volume to a haunting whisper.