GraceFall [ONC 2024]

7

The Fenton district, Faraday City ...

The residents called this place 'Old Town' and there was no irony involved in the name. Some of these buildings dated back to the Revolutionary War and Betty suspected some were even older than that. How it had survived in this state, she couldn't begin to imagine, with the modern skyscrapers of the rest of Faraday City surrounding it, looming over the ancient brick buildings. They remained in almost perfect condition, staving off every attempt to gentrify the area and Betty felt a little thankful for that.

Her search had revealed a copious number of people that purported to know more about psychic powers than anyone else, but one name seemed to crop up more than others. Not front-and-centre, but mentioned, in passing, as though even bringing attention to the person would bring down the wrath of the gods upon their heads for destroying a beautiful relic of a bygone age.

Madame Misstery. A stage name, obviously, but one that, were the name spoken out loud, it would come in a whisper, with heads turning this way and that to ensure no-one else heard. The name had seen mention in texts from long ago, and in recent web articles. Betty doubted it was the same woman, however. More likely a pseudonym passed down from master to apprentice over the years, keeping the mystery, as it were, alive.

That wasn't to say it wasn't possible. In a world where people often defied gravity, could call upon the powers of the elements and run faster than the human eye could perceive, the idea that someone could live for centuries wasn't quite as far-fetched as common sense would allow. Betty still doubted it. The thought of living forever terrified her. Mortality, to Betty, was a gift. It gave weight and substance to empathy. How small people must look to someone who had seen empires rise and fall?

To say she felt a little disappointed, upon finding the correct address her late-night dabblings had procured, would come as more than a understatement. A small building, little more than a shack, nestled between two muscular brownstones that sat either side like protective golems. A nondescript door and blacked-out windows made the place look abandoned, but for a small, old-style sign that swung upon rusted chains. And the sign held only a pentagram and the word 'Readings' upon it.

Betty half-expected the door to swing open at her approach. Sensing her presence and showcasing the arcane wonders that awaited within. It didn't and Betty had to resort to the ancient method of knocking upon wood that could once have felt the rap of knuckles from British Redcoats. When no answer came, she resorted to hammering with the heel of her fist. She had little time to wait around. There were others she could seek out.

"Alright! Alright! Enough with the banging!" The voice croaked from within, followed by the sounds of numerous locks turning and bolts sliding aside. "Do you know how long it takes to get here from the back room? Of course you don't! Children today. No patience!"

After a while, the door opened a crack, allowing a woman with a long, hooked nose to peek outside. She looked at Betty's feet for a long time, before curling her lips downward in distaste. Then her rheumy eyes moved up Betty's body until she stared, intently, over Betty's left shoulder. Another second or two passed as the old, old woman smacked her lips, as though tasting something unpleasant.

"My name is Betty Burns. I'm a reporter for the Daily Bulletin and I'm writing an article on psychics and psychic powers." Betty held out her office lanyard, dangling her credentials close enough for the half-blind woman to see. "I hear you are the foremost authority on such things."

"Heard that, did you?" The old woman squinted one eye, her long chin rising and falling as she chewed upon her gums. "What makes you think I'm the one you look for? Hmm? Could be I'm just an old woman wanting to live a quiet life without ruffians battering down my door!"