When the bizarre strikes, you call the Professional.
The office is nothing like the police chief's.
This place is just plain weird.
Walls adorned with occult signs and symbols, with spartan furniture that would make a Norwegian minimalist balk and all sorts of strange talismans hung from the walls.
The man himself is sat there, perfectly upright.
His eyes are dark and focused on me, his face completely without emotion.
He wears a black jacket, black shirt and black trousers with black leather shoes.
His black hair is cropped short, a prominent widow's peak showing.
Everything about him is just wrong - but, apparently, he is the best of the best in these situations.
I sit, and he makes a small gesture for me to speak. So I start talking.
I start talking about the things I've seen - about the fog at the docks, about the graffiti that's been following me - and he just sits and nods, calm as ever.
Eventually, I stop rambling and he leans in a little more. I get a better glimpse of his eyes now - I could swear they were slightly golden. But looking again, I see only hazel. The talismans seem to shimmer in the dim light - hard to tell if they're moving, or if my mind is just playing tricks.
He smiles again, and takes my hand in his.
"I swear to God," I mutter, "this stuff is evil. It's demonic. They said you were an expert."
"As much as I appreciate the challenge, Miss Quince - and I truly do appreciate this," he replies in a baritone that doesn't match his general figure, "every 'supernatural' event I have ever encountered are forged by the most mundane elements. Humans - beautiful, unique snowflakes that we are - are perfectly capable of generating the boundless evil of this world."
He smirks again. "No supernatural outsourcing needed, no demons need apply."
He reaches into a cabinet, and starts drawing out equipment.
A notebook, a pen, a Swiss Army Knife and an electronic tablet - one which I can see is loaded with scanned occult and scientific texts.
"What, no PK meters?" I hazard a joke. "No ghost monitors?" He stares directly at me and begins to speak.
"You haven't slept properly in two weeks. You have two children, both of which are worrying you. You are bulimic, and afraid of the unknown. You also suffer a mild form of athazagoraphobia, explaining your recent attempts to write a novel - resulting in the lack of sleep. Have I made myself quite clear?"
I nodded a little, and he stood up smoothly before moving to the door.
"My name is Aloysius Gribardsun, but names are quite superfluous. Now, take me to see these symbols that follow you."