Stella is reassured by Dr Thorne’s credentials but is immediately struck by the opening of the sleep centre coinciding with the start of her nightmares. She has attributed her terrible dreams to one particular story she covered last summer but of course the incident hit many members of the community hard. And if there is such a thing as a collective consciousness, why not a collective unconsciousness?
Dr Thorne mentions an outbreak of ‘disordered dreaming’ in early 1925, so Stella would have reacquainted herself with any local news items from that time period which stuck around on the front page. Anything that might have gotten under the community’s skin, so to speak.
( And of course Stella brings her beloved camera!)
You recall a slightly sensationalist article about an ‘epidemic’ of vivid dreams around that time - the sort of thing you’d normally only encounter in spiritualist magazines. The author was an American called Fort with a bit of a reputation for that sort of thing.
roll your Occultism for me?
If the traditional medical world noticed anything, it doesn’t really show up in the press.
In April, a coalition of churches and philanthropists appeal for donations to support the city asylum, which has become oversubscribed - the problem seems to fade within a few months, though. In October, at a gala dinner, the director of the asylum thanks various benefactors, and mentions a large number of cases of mania which thankfully responded quickly to modern psychiatric treatment.
There also seems to have been a surge of artistic activity around that time. You remember attending quite a number of exhibitions and concerts in the summer, and being struck by the fashion for scenes of ‘Atlantis’, towering cities and surrealist scenes suggestive of oceanic depths and the timeless antiquity of the seas. You can easily dig out your notes of the time. Artists often mention being inspired by dreams, but it was unusually pronounced in the first few months of that year. What’s more, as you extend your search beyond your own local papers, you find a similar pattern elsewhere - even abroad.
Stella’s mind is starting to feel a little dizzy. The more she researches, the weirder the connections that are forming in her head (and yes, perhaps she does need more sleep). There is one more thread she can’t help pulling though, and Stella will visit the public library on the off chance she can find anything relating to this author Fort that might tie things together.
Stella rolls 3d6: 2 + 1 + 1 = 4 against her Occultism
Fort began a career in journalism back in the late 1890s, in New York. An interest in outlandish stories grew into a serious pursuit of phenomena without scientific explanation, and he became a full-time writer on this topic, relocating to London a couple of years ago to access the British Museum archives. He’s published three books along these lines, which you easily get hold of - The Book of the Damned, New Lands, and a novel called The Outcast Manufacturers. The novel is nothing much to speak of, but the other two are rich collections of inexplicable events with criticisms of attempts at scientific rationalisation. He suggests - satirically, you think - the notion of a “Super-Sargasso Sea” where all lost things go, occasionally emerging again heedless of space or time.
Alongside these are occasional articles. One dated August 1925 reports what Fort describes as an ‘outbreak of somnambulistic art’ in the spring of 1925. He lists numerous artists, musicians and poets who claimed to have awoken from deep dreams to find themselves at work on elaborate compositions. In one case, a New England sculptor named Henry Wilcox, the dreamer had completed a detailed bas-relief with antique-seeming inscriptions before waking. The work (thought to be a representation of Poseidon) was exhibited to a mixed reception, and stolen from a gallery two months later. Fort pieces this together with other events around the globe:
“Here was a nocturnal suicide in London, where a lone sleeper had leaped from a window after a shocking cry. Here likewise a rambling letter to the editor of a paper in South America, where a fanatic deduces a dire future from visions he has seen. A despatch from California describes a theosophist colony as donning white robes en masse for some “glorious fulfilment” which never arrives, whilst items from India speak guardedly of serious native unrest toward the end of March. Voodoo orgies multiply in Hayti, and African outposts report ominous mutterings. American officers in the Philippines find certain tribes bothersome about this time, and New York policemen are mobbed by hysterical Levantines on the night of March 22–23. The west of Ireland, too, is full of wild rumour and legendry, and a fantastic painter named Ardois-Bonnot hangs a blasphemous “Dream Landscape” in the Paris spring salon of 1926.”
He finishes with a suggestion that the earthquake detected throughout the Pacific coasts around that time was accompanied by a ‘quake’ in the collective unconsciousness, causing a particular series of impressions to arise in the minds of people around the world, and particularly those already accustomed to drawing on subconscious influences.
(Naith is pretty busy at the moment, so I’ll carry on a bit and he can flashback later if required)
You each arrive at the hospital in your own time. The bleak weather doesn’t encourage lingering, and you’re glad to get through the doors into the hall. The old manor retains some of its atmosphere - there are paintings on the walls and what must be some of the original furnishings. Well-worn chairs are ready for visitors to rest, and thick rugs cushion your footsteps and rapidly leach the grime from your shoes.
Would it be worth renaming Aurore’s fiance from her backstory given the name? - Renamed Roger to Cameron.
Aurore Courbet was extremely stressed as her arranged horse and carriage arrived late. The carriage-driver had some excuse about the farrier reshoeing the wrong horse first but she put it out of mind. At least it wasn’t an automobile. Ever since that night, she could barely stand the sight of one, let alone get in one.
She had been sent the ad after she tried to return a negative RSVP for the upcoming Smitherby’s Auction in Washington. Her long dear friend Dana Francis said that it would be unacceptable for her to miss it. She decided to apply, and found Randall, a seemingly charming and intelligent man.
As the carriage rolled along towards the university, she glanced over her belongings; her trusty hip flask filled with one of Cameron’s latest acquisitions, a strong scotch brought over under the cover of night, alongside a small photo album Cameron had commissioned of them. Finally, tucked at the bottom, Cameron’s favourite phonograph record and the small portable phonograph. She hoped that Randall would not take issue with it, just something to help her get to sleep too.
Stella’s glasses have fogged up, coming into the relative warmth of the hall. She drops her bag, quickly wipes the lenses and places them back on her nose, then looks embarrassed at the mess her shoes have made of the rug. Not being one to wait, she will try and find a bell to ring.
There is a wide reception desk near the door. A besuited fellow with a porterly air has turned to look as you arrive. Nearby, a couple of nurses have paused to ask the receptionist about something.
The porter spots your cases and emerges to greet you. “Good morning, sir, madam. I see you have some luggage. Might you be here to see Dr. Thorne?”
“I’m taking part in the study on dreaming too, yes.” Stella nods and smiles at the porter and McQueen. “I’m assuming we’re not the only ones?” She glances back towards the main entrance, curious to see if any other participants are arriving.
“That’s right, ma’am,” he says. He picks up her bag and McQueen’s suitcase with apparently little effort. “A gentleman arrived first thing - at the crack of dawn, you might say. I’m sure the others will be joining us soon.”
He takes a couple of minutes to get you both signed in to the hospital.
makes a reaction roll…
“-m-o-n-t… I’m sure I’ve seen that name in the papers.”
“You wouldn’t be with the Post, ma’am? The lady who broke that scandal about the bus company last year?”
Duncan savouries the fresh air a moment longer before entering the reception area himself, observing the overnight bags he moves to join others he assumes are part of the test before his gaze catches the lit cigarette.
He tries to hide gritting his teeth in agitation at this and opts to stand on the other side of the room, deliberately not looking at the fire hazard any further.
Absentmindedly he rubs his arm where a scar itches and waits for the porter to finish his conversation.
A nurse catches sight of Duncan, hesitates, and approaches with a look of concern. “Good morning, sir. Won’t you sit down? Are you here to see one of the doctors?”
Stella looks genuinely pleased to meet someone who is not only interested in current events but actually remembers the name of a journalist writing about them.
“You have a great memory! Yes I work for the Post, since straight out of school. Was happy to put my head over the parapet for that story. Monopolies are never a good thing in my opinion, Mr…?”
(Stella also makes a mental note of McQueen’s name, which she recognises but is only 98% sure is the same Vincent McQueen, writer of… actually what would his latest novel be called @RogerBW? )
@Suz
“Wellerby, ma’am. Thomas Wellerby. A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I left Bennington close on twenty years ago, but my sister always gives me the Post when I visit. A fine story, that was.”
You get a sense of - righteous approval? - from him. It was a sorry saga of mismanagement, feathering nests, and whittling away at employee contracts that wrought havoc on services and haemorrhaged passengers. A number of heads rolled after three weeks of truly brutal coverage in the Bennington Post. A lot of people were grateful for your efforts dredging up the murky details, and it looks like he’s one of them.
@Naith
Aurore has the chance to settle her thoughts as the carriage wends its way through the snowy streets towards the hospital. The driver makes up for his lateness with tactful silence and a smooth command of the vehicle, despite the conditions. True, the carriage would benefit from some insulation, but you can’t have everything.
@Asydic
You’re distracted from your inspection by the arrival, in quick succession, of a determined-looking man in a fashionable hat, and a woman taking in the scene with a practiced eye as she heads inside. Both carry luggage. The odds are good that these two will be joining the study with you.
@RogerBW
The receptionist smiles apologetically as she notes down your details. “Mr. Wellerby can be very enthusiastic,” she murmurs. "Don’t mind him. The study will be taking place in the East Wing, just over that way. "
let me know if you want to ask her anything
you can chat or ask questions if you want, otherwise Wellerby will take you over to the East Wing