Thomas’s Thursday night odd encounter(Thomas)

August 15, 2025

Date: 2025-08-14 23:40

(Thomas’s Thursday night odd encounter(Thomas):Thomas)

[Thu Aug 14 2025]

In the low–lit, concrete–walled alcove of BUNS&GUNS/span
This concrete box hums with electricity. The air carries a strange mix of/span
scents: scorched ozone, gun oil, and the unmistakable comfort of steamed/span
bread.

Overhead, a single bar of flickering LED lights casts the room in a cold,/span
surgical pall, broken only by the vending machine’s alternating glow: warm/span
orange on one side, icy blue on the other. A tiny vent buzzes in the corner,/span
doing little to clear the hybrid scent of snack steam and cordite./span

It is about 60F(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Church and Lake/span

(Your target discovers a ghost anchored to an old music box in an antique shop. The ghost desperately wants to deliver one last message to their still-living grandchild before they can move on, but the message reveals a dark family secret that could destroy the grandchild’s life.)

An old antique shop in Bayview — not terribly far from wherever Robert was. The sign on the door suggests that it is hosting a special assembly of items provided by a Mr. Algernon Kitt, who operates a brokerage and antique store in Redstone. Indeed — when Robert is on the phone, the proprietor is on a conference call with Kitt and a familiar voice. Robert can hear Thomas, just thanking the owner here, a Mr. Nolan, for his help in locating some object. Nolan says to the phone, “I have a customer before he hangs up.” Looking up, he smiles at Robert. “Good evening,” he tells the man. “Can I help you find anything?”

Robert was working a shift tinkering with inventory and offerings in the depths of BUNS&GUNS/span, to create prototypes for print while thinking about new dumpling recipes. As such, he smells a variety of ways – like gunmetal, like gunpowder, like grease and… Chinese take-out? He’s not exactly clean, either, and is armed to the teeth alongside it. Perhaps paranoia. Perhaps he was cleaning his guns between everything else. Still, the signs of labor linger across him as his booted feet thump gently down the concrete sidewalk. He draws to a halt in front of the open door, curiosity piquing his features – and, amusement, when he sees and hears Thomas, drifting his way on in.

“Good evening, Mr… Kitt?” He guess after a glance at the sign. Not Mr. Nolan; no nametag, of course. “No, no. Just browsing. I spotted the door open.”

“No,” Mr. Nolan tells Robert. Thomas — and Kitt — aren’t here. They were (are?) ghosts in the phone. “But Kitt helped me with these items,” he says, gesturing to a small set-out section. “He asked me to display them; apparently, the mists have been a little close around his shop, lately, and he said that some of them…” There’s a pause. “Some of them don’t react well,” he explains, “when the mists are high.” As if on cue, a record player begins to play: it’s a strange, reedy voice. “That one won’t stop,” Nolan explains.

The record player continues: “Robert…” it says, in between the crooning of some 1930s era big band hit. That’s definitely not normal: Nolan doesn’t even seem to hear it.

Robert nods, faintly. Still, his amusement remains. Thomas’s voice he heard – Kitt was an incorrect conclusion from the sign outside. It’s replaced by faint curiosity as the man talks and makes a ‘hnh’ noise of thought. “Interesting. Like when the cars jam or skid when the mists arise? Good thing you chose Bayview, then,” He remarks in casual offhand. He pauses for a moment at the word.

And why would Nolan react to a random name as part of the spin of the song? Why would Robert Perhaps the name is just part of the song, or he misheard something. Nevertheless.

He reaches up to flick it down. “Oh? Not even while it’s unplugged?”

Robert flicks down his sunglasses, for clarity.

“It’s a wind-up,” Nolan says to Robert. “But– as you can see.” He gestures to the player, which seems to continue. “Robert… I need your help.” It’s like an undertone, beneath the sound of the music. “Always the same song, too,” he says. “I’ve tried a different record. It’s haunted, obviously,” he says to Robert. “Which: there is a market in haunted objects, of course. I would just prefer they not be -here-.”

“I need your help,” comes the whispered voice beneath the croon.

Robert makes an ‘ah’ noise at someone’ words, continuing distractedly as he shifts to study the music player. He reaches over towards it. “May I?” He asks about touching it, the sunglasses helping hide the tightening of his eyes and allowing his lips to merely turn to thoughtful purse instead of concern. Academic questions follow. “Where was it acquired? How old was it it? And does it overwrite the record when you put it in, or does the record remain the same after you remove it?”

Robert makes an ‘ah’ noise at Nolan’s words, continuing distractedly as he shifts to study the music player. He reaches over towards it. “May I?” He asks about touching it, the sunglasses helping hide the tightening of his eyes and allowing his lips to merely turn to thoughtful purse instead of concern. Academic questions follow. “Where was it acquired? How old was it it? And does it overwrite the record when you put it in, or does the record remain the same after you remove it?” Inquisitive. Interested.

“Of course, of course,” Nolan says. “And it overwrote the record — rather destroyed it, the needle scratching into it,” he explains to Robert. “It was a rather rare record, too: they don’t make them in that size any more.” The music plays, and the pace picks up a little. It’s more frantic: “Help me,” comes the record. “My name is Alphonse, and I need your help, Robert.” There’s a wobble, shaky, in the record player.

Robert reaches down to gingerly lift up the record. To study it for identifying marks, labels, delicately lifting it up with hands and shoulders from a squat as he hefts it up into the air. “Troublesome. Perhaps you might, in the future, consider using blank disks cut to size?” He murmurs. “Then you won’t have to worry about such destruction. And 3d printers are quite capable of setting materials that won’t damage things. The miracles of modern technology.” He tilts his head.

“Or not selling dangerous occult items that try to talk to people, Mr. Nolan.”

“This is New Haven,” Mr. Nolan says to Robert, a little crotchety. “That’s the entire market, sir,” he says. He doesn’t seem to hear it, but as Robert lifts the player, it continues to play.

Beneath the music, “My grandson. My grandson is here in the city, and I need you to get him a message.”

The record player has markings — one of them, a marker’s mark. A. Rothwell 1933.

Robert answers with a long world-weary sigh. Not anger; just depressed. “So it is, Mr. Nolan. So it is.” As he gently lowers the record back down to the table with subtle clunk, murmuring more to himself, “A. Rothwell, 1933.” He glances over at the man.

“How about it?” He offers. “I give you time on my store’s three-dee printer for replacement records and certain other items in exchange for this player that’s giving you so much trouble?” He considers.

“Did a Mr. Rothwell pawn this item to Mr. Kitt recently?”

Does Robert know anything else about this Rothwell?

“Let me look,” Mr. Nolan says. He begins to flip through yellowed pages. “Kitt bought it from a Boston broker…” He flips a page again. “He bought it from a broker whose address says — huh. Well, he must not have updated, since the broker still has a Biringan address,” he says. “But he bought it from a Richard Rothwell in 1969. Says it belonged to his father.”

“My grandson thinks he’s Rothwell,” comes the record player. “But he’s not. None of us are,” the voice warbles. “Tell him the truth.” Richard Rothwell — that’s a name that Robert might recognize. He made a fortune in shipping, trading on the family name, and his son, A.R., runs the company now. A.R. — Alphonse Richard Rothwell? — is that the grandson? “None us are,” the record player says. “We don’t have to be part of that damned legacy.”

Robert nods, faintly, as the offer of bartered purchase is pushed aside, carefully wiping his hands down upon his shirt after touching the item. “Ah. And so around and around it comes.” He murmurs. “Must not have been that important to the grandson.” He faintly says, another glance given to the record at his side. He sighs, his hand coming down to settle upon his hip as he recalls the local politics and history to mind.

“The Rothwells are an interesting family, aren’t they? Building their own caste system out of supernaturals.” He remarks in casual aside. “Rich, though. It seems to be effective for them so far. But fortune so often seems built on cruelty to the individual. Something in the blood?”

“I don’t do modern things,” Mr. Nolan offers belatedly to Robert. “But I’d let it go for a song. Since,” he says. “It won’t stop singing one.”

“Something in the blood,” the record player agrees with Robert. “He needs to know that he isn’t like that. He doesn’t have to act like that,” it says. “His father didn’t, I didn’t … he doesn’t. He thinks he’s some demon’s child, but it’s really the cross he got when he was christened.”

“Which one do you want on record? You can have any one you like, that exists, as long as it’s… what, this is 11-inch vinyl? So thirty minutes?” Robert guesses at another glance at the player. “It won’t be an original, and it won’t be pure polyvinyl chloride – it’ll be a different kind of plastic and then have a layer of it pressed atop for the appropriate sound, but it’ll be lighter and less prone to shattering.”

He sighs, faintly. “People do get so cross, sometimes. It’s as if everything old must be holy and baptized, instead of recognizing new changes, new developments in life. But I imagine our seller was trying to change the course of things.” He taps his cheek in thought. “Do you mind giving me the original seller’s phone number? I think there’s something to this thing he may have missed.”

“I’ll take Isle of Capri for it,” Nolan says, finally. “Isle of Capri, When I Grow Too Old To Dream, and dealer’s choice. Three records and you can have the player,” he says to Robert. “I don’t have Richard Rothwell’s number listed — it was 1969,” he says. “But I see the business, it might still be open. A.R.R. Shipping.” It is — it has an address here in town. A.R. Rothwell splits between New Haven and Boston.

“Thank you.” Robert politely answers someone, fishing out his phone. He dials in a number. It begins to ring. “Hey, Chapper?” He remarks into it. “Make me three pressed vinyl surface records, nonstandard, eleven inch, playing at typical speed – 33 1/3 RPM – and put on Isle of Capri on one, I Grow Too Old to Dream, and then … ahh, Caribbean Blue on the third.”

The other end talks. “Sure, boss, what do you want on the reverse?”

He pauses for a moment, pursing his lips in thought. “Load it with some of Joplin’s less known works – Gladiolus Rag, Pine Apple Rag, and Bethena: A Concert Waltz. Deliver it to the antique store belonging to Mr. Nolan down the street from Buns&Guns when you’re done with them, and move it to the front of the line. Pick up the antique record player from him in exchange.”

“You got it. Should be banged out in a week.”

The man hangs up with a soft click of his phone, turning his gaze back to the owner with a smile. “Thank you. I think I have some other phone calls to make.” Specifically, to that A.R.R. shipping.

“Thank you.” Robert politely answers the antique dealer, fishing out his phone. He dials in a number. It begins to ring. “Hey, Chapper?” He remarks into it. “Make me three pressed vinyl surface records, nonstandard, eleven inch, playing at typical speed – 33 1/3 RPM – and put on Isle of Capri on one, I Grow Too Old to Dream, and then … ahh, Caribbean Blue on the third.”

The other end talks. “Sure, boss, what do you want on the reverse?”

“You got it. Should be banged out in a week.”

Robert sure does — but perhaps during business hours. For now, record player in hand, he is away, one less artifact on the street and one more piece of chaos, perhaps, to cause in the hearts of the supernatural.