Field Report, Week 3: Exploration of the Haunt

Poincaré and I spent the week observing and studying the Sin-Eaters in their natural habitat. In particular, we watched a church that appeared to serve as a regular meeting place for the krewe. Over the past few weeks we tracked the Sin-Eaters to this location on five separate occasions. The number of krewe members varied with each visit. Sometimes the entire krewe came to the church; other times it was as few as two. In one instance, one of the Sin-Eaters (the woman with the necklace of skulls) even stayed the night after everyone left. 

 

The church was located on Freeman Avenue in Cincinnati's West End neighborhood, amidst a slightly rundown area that was a mixture of residences and small businesses. We suspected that the church was some sort of secret headquarters. I would later learn the Sin-Eaters call such places "haunts." Assuming the place was a base of operations for the krewe's ghost hunting activities, one could only imagine the treasure trove of information waiting inside. Though it was potentially a great risk, I decided that entering the church was a necessary next step in our studies. However, I first had to make my due preparations.

 

Research time. Poincaré and I began at Cincinnati's City Hall, where we paid a visit to the Public Records Office. We spent several hours pouring over property records, blueprints, and inter-office memos, all in an attempt to gather intelligence concerning the place I'd be walking into. Much to my elation, we tracked down an old set of blueprints for the church. The floor plans didn't indicate anything unusual, though there was a large basement that certainly caught my eye. We also found a paper trail of real estate transactions and deeds. The church has been known by many names, and its ownership has switched hands many times over the years.

 

 Originally, this building was the First German Reformed Church, constructed in 1850 by German immigrants as an Episcopal place of worship. In 1918, it was changed to the First Reform Church in response to changing demographics and anti-German sentiments following World War 1. In 1970, it became the Freeman Avenue United Church of Christ, but only lasted five years before closing its doors. After that, the building was abandoned for eighteen years before it was purchased by Seven Hills Neighborhood, Inc. in 1993. Seven Hills, a social services agency, had intentions to remodel the building. However, funds dried up and the renovations never happened. The church remained unused and in disarray. It was facing possible demolition until the timely intercession of Over-The-Rhine Adopt (OTRA). OTRA was a nonprofit program seeking to preserve derelict properties of historic value by finding them new owners. In 2011, the church was put in the hands of three real estate developers who were told to bring the building up to city compliance. Renovations were underway until late 2012. For some inexplicable reason, the developers quickly sold the church to a small property management company called Trioditis Unlimited.

 

Poincaré and I were unable to find much information about this company, other than the fact that it was founded in 2012 by someone named Bryce Radke, a native Cincinnatian on record as the business' president and CEO. There was no current address or telephone number for either he or his business. Trioditis Ultd. appeared to have no significant assets or operations, and the church was the only property in its ownership. In truth, the company seemed to be barely solvent, and Poincaré speculated that it was simply a front of some sort. We did uncover paperwork indicating the issuance of a building permit to have finish work done in the church's basement. However, there was no evidence that a city inspection ever took place. Furthermore, I would later come to learn that Trioditis is one of the Roman names for Hecate, a Greek goddess of crossroads and the Underworld. 

 

Armed with new information, our next order of business was to study the building itself more closely. I wanted to verify that the church had no security systems in place, magical or otherwise. Though the church seemed utterly abandoned and unsecured at first glance (considering half of the windows were broken), I didn't wish to make any assumptions. Using the trackers still on their vehicles, Poincaré confirmed that none of the Sin-Eaters were in the vicinity, and then I went to work casing the church. I looked through the windows but my vantage points were quite limited. As far as I could tell, there were no magnetic reed contacts along the doors. I didn't see any PIR sensors (passive infra red) in any of the interior corners or walls, nor did I view a control panel anywhere. I also saw no evidence of magical defenses in place. I carefully combed the outside walls and doors for any semblance of occult symbols or materials, but there was nothing supernatural, at least nothing that I recognized as such. Besides some harmless graffiti and peeling paint, the walls were bare. 

Still, these findings didn't necessarily mean anything. Alarm systems and magical defenses don't always advertise themselves. Therefore, my following course of action was to perform some reconnaissance by proxy. I was hesitant to do this, but I needed my cat's help. With promises of top-of-the-line tuna as a reward, I coaxed Alexander the Great, my fae pet, to explore the insides of the church. He easily slipped in through a window missing a few of its panes, while I observed from a distance away. I held my breath in worry and anticipation. No alarms went off, nor did I detect any magic activate. None of the Sin-Eaters made a sudden appearance. Alexander the Great re-emerged a few moments later, no worse for the wear. 

 

In addition to scrutinizing the church, I panhandled in the neighborhood for the next few days and took the opportunity to converse with locals about the church. Few people seemed willing to stop and indulge the questions of an old hobo. Of those who did stop and talk, none had anything good to say about the place. I was told by several people that the church had a history of strange happenings, going as far back as the mid 19th century. There were old tales about bizarre noises, weird lights, sightings of apparitions, and shadows standing in the broken windows. The church seemed cloaked in a mystique of ghost stories and urban legends. If it was true that the church was haunted, then this might explain why ownership constantly changed, and why the Sin-Eaters had taken an interest in it.   

 

Once the locale had been surveyed to my satisfaction, I prepared to make my ingress that very night. Poincaré, ever concerned for the welfare of his liege, tried to convince me to let him take my place. He reasoned that there were too many unknowns and variables involved in entering a Sin-Eater Haunt, and the potential dangers were too great to risk the life of hobo royalty. However, I assured my faithful companion that all would be well, and I argued that a good leader must lead by example; I could hardly let my vassals do all the perilous work. Also, though I didn't voice this aloud, my curiosity wouldn't allow me to sit tight. I had to see what was inside that church.

 

Sometime after 12am, once we'd confirmed via the trackers that none of the Sin-Eaters were in the vicinity, I made my way into the heart of darkness.

 

The front doors of the church were locked, but I was nonetheless able to effortlessly slip in through one of the many broken windows on the property. Much as expected, the interior of the building was a ruinous mess. I entered into the nave of the church - a large room with a high vaulted ceiling and numerous clerestories (windows above eye level) ringing the tops of the walls. Any furnishings and decorations had long ago been stripped away, leaving bare walls and lots of empty space. The floor was littered with rubbish and rotting wood, and the air was still and stale. To my left was what had once been the presbytery, which no longer sported an altar but still had the remnants of a stained glass window high above. To my right was the lobby, beyond which were the front doors, and over the lobby was a dilapidated balcony that appeared unfit to hold anything heavier than a child. Despite its deplorable condition, the church conveyed the impression of having once been a visually striking place of worship. And underneath that... I experienced an inexplicable feeling of dread, not unlike what I felt when near the Jacquess Family mausoleum in Wesleyan Cemetery.  

 

It took my eyes a few moments to adjust. There was dust everywhere, and I could soon discern numerous trails of footprints scattered across the floor of the nave. It was obvious that the church was being visited on a regular basis. I followed the footprints and used my walkie-talkie to update Poincaré on my status. The trails led me down a short hallway and up to a closed door. If my memory of the blueprints was accurate, this was the entrance to the church basement. However, while the church itself was old, the basement door most certainly was not. It was much newer than the rest of the structure and seemed very solidly built; probably reinforced. Not surprisingly, this door had been installed fairly recently. It appeared that our research subjects didn't want people snooping down into the cellar.

 

I briefly studied the door and found no evidence of mystical protections. After a few nervous breaths, I activated my Contracts of Artifice and politely asked the door to unlock itself. The door agreed and a second later, I heard several satisfying clicks. I thanked the door and cautiously pulled it open. It was then that I noticed them - strange glyphs carved into the frame of the door - markings that were entirely unfamiliar to me. They had many of the features of Enochian, as well as Koine Greek and Coptic Egyptian. If I had to venture a guess, I would hypothesize that the glyphs were a mishmash of the three languages. In an occult sense, the symbols were gibberish and not likely to have any true power behind them. Still, I stared at them for a few panicked moments before deciding that they were (likely) harmless. As I proceeded through the door, I was pleased to discover that it seemed I was correct.

 

Rather than utter darkness, the basement was bathed in an eerie soft blue light; a light so cerulean that it was ethereal. The basement staircase was short, and as I descended I felt a sudden drop in temperature, to the point where my breath actually became visible. When I reached the concrete floor, I saw that the light was originating from an electric lantern in the corner. My eyes were drawn to another door on my left. I approached this door as stealthily as I could manage, listening for any strange sounds emanating from the other side. There was nothing. Unlike the first door, this one was not locked to intruders. 

 

I entered a room that, at first glance, reminded me of a Lord Sage's library or wizard's sanctum. I was a moderately large quadrangular chamber with walls of brick that were partially painted off-white in slipshod fashion. The ceiling was not very high, and it was curved where it met the walls, giving the entire room an arched contour. Lines of glyphs, similar to those at the door of the basement, where written upon the walls and ceiling; more lines than I could possibly count. Cluttering the sides of the room were numerous shelves holding all manner of books, baubles, devices, bottles, boxes, scrolls, and other knickknacks. I spotted several tables, also cluttered with items, a small sofa, multiple lounge chairs, and even a tiny bar/kitchenette area stocked with copious amounts of rum (the drink the dead like best). There were also a few mattresses stacked in one of the corners. There were half-melted candles everywhere, as well as several more electric lanterns. It was clear that the Sin-Eaters did more than just conduct business here; this was also a place where they rested, and perhaps spent recreational time.

However, what drew the majority of my attention was the floor at the center of the chamber. The central floor was empty of items and furnishings, and the concrete had been painted black. Upon the blackened concrete was a massive magical circle. It seemed to be hermetic in design, encompassing several smaller circles and an immense triangle, coupled with hundreds of mystical symbols and characters. As with the rest of the room, much of the writing in the circle was indecipherable to me. All I could divine was that the symbols had a distinctly Greek flavor, with elements of other languages thrown in. The entire design and everything in it was painted in some kind of reflective substance that glistened in the light of the electric lantern, making the circle seem as though it glowed with its own inner luminescence. The circle initially seemed very sophisticated; I'd only seen its like in the Hollows of Autumn Court sorcerers. Para-doxically, however, the parts of it that I could understand also registered as highly flawed, even perhaps completely made up. The best comparison I could provide is that the circle didn't strike me as auth-entically mystical. Instead, it felt like it was the product of someone without magical training. Someone portraying their idea of what a magic circle probably looks like.

 

I conveyed all of these sights to Poincaré over my walkie-talkie, and then engaged in a brief inspection of their supplies. I wasn't shocked to find that a vast majority of the items in the Haunt were related to death in some way, shape, or form: animal bones, calavera skulls, some marigold flowers (symbols of death), calacas dolls, urns, coffin screws, glass displays of pinned Ascalapha Odorata (also symbols of death), soap made from the rendered fat of the dead, and all sorts of morbid artwork. There were even several small shrines dedicated to saints or gods of the afterlife, such as Legba and Santa Muerte. In addition, there were a multitude of books about death by various philosophers, books of ghosts and hauntings, medical texts, religious texts, and ponderous volumes concerning funerary practices and death mythologies from hundreds of cultures. Most of it was mundane information, if highly specialized, with little overt mystical potential. I also noted many bottles and flasks carrying all sorts of substances. Some had grave dirt, some had salty water (tears, maybe?), and others had body parts preserved in formaldehyde. Some had substances I simply couldn't identify. 

All told, I spent only about ten minutes in the Haunt. I took at least a hundred pictures and I made certain to leave everything exactly as I'd found it. With all my documentation done, I excitedly headed out.