Two days after relocating to Strona, Isaiah had his first therapy appointment as a citizen of the town. He had visited the local doctors numerous times during his rehabilitation period, but now instead of driving for several hours, all he had to do to see them was to take a tram to St Wilda’s, a medical institution specializing in cases related to spirits. It was a dignified building only a few stations away from his flat, its white and pale blue walls radiating tranquility.

The day of the appointment didn’t start well. While the ointment helped, the pain in his back did not fully subside, coming and going throughout the early morning and constantly shifting Isaiah between brief bouts of sleep and prolonged periods of blankly gazing at the ceiling. The physical pain felt almost inconsequential compared to the psychological stress brought on by the dream. To put a rotten cherry on top of the garbage pile, the weather was unusually cloudy for spring, exacerbating his bad mood. Nigel’s fluffy strawberry pancakes were the only bright spot in an otherwise unremarkable morning.

After registering at the main desk of St. Wilda’s, Isaiah made his way up the stairs to the office of doctor Whicket. An unspeakably kind and nurturing woman in her late forties, she was put in charge of his rehabilitation. Every appointment was to start with a check-in to see what problems Isaiah was dealing with, and she would direct him to the appropriate specialists to deal with them separately.

“Good morning Mr. Hargraves,” she said calmly as he entered the room. “Do sit down.”

The experience of being in her office was soothing in itself, stepping through the doorway akin to entering some sort of sanctuary. The walls were covered with bookshelves holding seemingly endless tomes of information. There was little natural light, but lamps bathed the space in a pleasantly dim orange glow. Bowls of chocolates and dried fruits spread their sweet aromas from the large table in the middle of the room. And next to it, the most comfortable couch Isaiah ever had the pleasure of sitting on, reserved for patients. He made himself at home as doctor Whicket brought her notes and planted herself into her armchair.

“How are you doing today?” she asked.

“Not too well I’m afraid. I’ve got some nasty pain in my left shoulder blade. I’ve also been having bad dreams. Last night was the second one this week.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the doctor said, genuine sympathy in her voice. “Would you like to talk about the dreams?”

“Not a lot to talk about,” Isaiah grumbled. “They’re terrible. At least last night it was something from my own life. I really hate it when I dream about his victims.”

“The frequency of the dreams is a bit worrying,” Whicket said, cradling her chin with her thumb and index finger. “Have there been any changes in your life these past few days that might be provoking this?”

Isaiah immediately remembered Bubba’s photo. The night after he first laid his hands on it, he dreamt about Doran. The very next day, he relived his worst memory. It was certainly possible that exposure to a lingering spirit might have stirred something inside him.

“Well, I did just move to a completely new town after spending my whole life in the capital,” he said.

“Empirically, this does not tie in significantly with increased spiritual pains,” she replied. “Although our sample size for making such conclusions is admittedly miniscule. Are you sure there isn’t something else?”

The last thing Isaiah wanted was to mention the photo, only to be told that he should stay away from it. But he quickly realized that he was being immature. No matter how invested he was in solving this case, his own well-being had to come first. If the photograph was getting in the way of that, it had to go. He needed to be content and healthy, both for Nigel and himself.

“Actually,” he started, “I encountered an object that has a lingering spirit attached to it. Maybe that has something to do with it.”

“Difficult to say,” the doctor sighed. “I’m sure you’re tired of me saying this Mr. Hargraves, but I do hope you appreciate what an anomaly you are. A lot of the things you’re dealing with are being recorded for the first time because you’re dealing with them.”

“It’s an honor,” Isaiah said with a weak chuckle.

“This object, what is it?”

“A photograph. I actually took it upon myself to track down who the lingering spirit is.”

“I can’t say that I’m too happy to hear that,” she frowned. “I understand that your sense of duty and obligation to your work is incredibly strong, and that I can’t expect it to just disappear now that you’ve retired. But I would like to see you take care of yourself more.”

“It’s my last case,” Isaiah said. “I promised it to my husband.”

“That, I’m happy to hear,” the doctor smiled. “It means you’ll honor it.”

With that, she jotted down a few more notes and sent Isaiah on his way. On his schedule for the day: a session with his therapist, hydrotherapy for his muscles in general and acupuncture for his shoulder blade specifically, and a check-in with his spiritual counselor to practice mantras to be used in the event of another nightmare. Several hours later, he was done for the day, feeling slightly relieved but knowing that, come next week, he’ll probably have something else that’s going to require attention when he returns to St. Wilda’s. That was just the way his life was now, and he needed to get used to it.

Upon finishing the appointment, he didn’t go straight home. He had another thing on his to-do list for the day, something related to his investigation.

Talking to Bubba was all well and fine, but it was only a start. With the information available to him, Isaiah could now dig deeper into the backstories of the people his landlord mentioned, find out if they had surviving relatives or acquaintances in the area and set up more interviews. To do all this, he needed to do what he always did when conducting investigation: look into the town’s public records.

After descending via the funicular and taking another tram ride, he was now standing in front of Strona’s Archive. It was a somewhat dull, square building located across the city hall on the lowest level of the town. Isaiah had come prepared, notebook and pencil at the ready. Births, deaths, weddings, newspaper articles, phone numbers – all of these could potentially provide useful details.

The simplicity of the building’s exterior concealed a nearly maze-like structure inside, with dimly lit, carpeted hallways branching out into several directions. The smell of old paper and wood permeated the entire place. Most of what was behind the countless doors was off limits, accessible only under very specific circumstances. Following the labelled arrows on the walls, Isaiah eventually found what he was looking for. A double glass door with a metal sign stating “Public records” above it. He ran his fingers through his hair, as if making sure that he was presentable, and then walked in.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany console, and obviously deeply invested in reading something, was a shriveled looking woman. She wasn’t that old – 50 years tops according to Isaiah’s guess – but she looked like she had spent at least 15 of those years pickling in a jar of vinegar. When Isaiah approached her, she lifted her gaze from the piles of papers she was handling. Behind spectacle lenses the size of small ashtrays, she observed him with her squinty, frowning eyes, her mouth pursed as if she was suckling on something sour.

“Good day,” Isaiah said courteously. “I would like to take a look at the public records.”

“Under what authority?” the archiver said curtly.

“Authority?” Isaiah asked, then continued when he realized that he wasn’t going to get a response. “I wasn’t aware that I needed any authorization to view public records.”

“You thought that just anyone can waltz into this place and look at confidential information?” she said, her tone becoming snippier.

“With all due respect, ma’am, I am not asking to view confidential information. I want to look at your public records. Which are, under Line 6, Section 2 of the Information and data collecting act, available to any citizen upon request.”

That seemed to catch her a little off guard, but she parried quickly.

“So you think you’re familiar with the laws, do you?”

“I should be,” he remained calm. “I’ve worked for the capital police for eight years.”

“Well, if you had taken the time to look outside of your backyard,” she said with a satisfaction that could not be concealed, “you would know that the municipality of Strona has additional amendments to the Act. Which state that any and all information in the archives is available only to those granted permission.”

“Permission from whom?”

“Does it matter?” she hissed. There was more than just your typical public servant sass to her voice at this point.

“It does,” Isaiah pressed on, maintaining his polite tone, “because I need to know who I have to ask in order to be able to enter your archive.”

“Well, if you’re so well acquainted with the laws,” she said with a finality, “I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding out. Good day to you sir!”

Isaiah just stood in front of her dumbfounded for a second. She returned to her papers, then gave him a piercing look when she noticed he was still there.

“I said good day!”

That was the end of Isaiah’s first visit to the Archive.