Title: Mysterious Tales of the Strange and Uncanny

Author: GoodMorningMoon

Rating: T, probably

Summary: The Toronto Telegraph's new column, "Notes on the Supernatural," causes quite a stir in Station House Four, for several reasons. A series of stories linked by a common thread. Starts early in S11.

Notes: I recently got reminded of Leonard Nimoy's In Search of... series, and had an idea. Well, a lot of ideas. I'll be posting each chapter as it's done.

I've been rewatching S11 and S12 and it's struck me that we are seeing a different Crabtree from the one we saw in earlier years: the whimsy and the flights of fancy aren't nearly so common anymore. The only episode in both of the two seasons where his oddball theories on the supernatural are highlighted is the one that's not canon, and he's genuinely grieved at being proved right. And even in the canon episodes he's a lot more serious and weary than the youthful, dotty Crabtree arguing passionately that it was vampires, or zombies, or Martians, or mole people, or...

These interconnected stories are my way of exploring how and why his thinking on these topics may have evolved, and what happens when someone takes his musings and promotes them as unvarnished truth. (Plus people get hurt now and then, because I'm fascinated by turn-of-the-century medicine and how people take care of each other in times of crisis.)

I'm very much interested in (and grateful for!) your reviews—you can help shape this series. As always, thank you for your encouragement and feedback. It means more than you know.

Prologue: April 17, 1905, 8:00am

"Would you get a load of this bollocks," Inspector Brackenreid crowed over the bullpen of Station House Four, waving the morning's copy of the Toronto Telegraph at the constables at their desks.

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Constable Higgins, glad for a respite, however brief, from the tedious work of peering at fingermarks through a magnifying glass.

"Apparently the editor of the Telegraph has seen fit to give space to a new column about matters of the supernatural."

Constable Crabtree brightened. "Has he, then, sir?"

"He has indeed. By some Eastern European chap. One Bonifaciu Verbiceanu, M.D., Ph.D., Esq." Brackenreid snorted. "Sounds like a made-up name to me."

"What?" Crabtree sat up straight in his chair and scowled.

"Well, technically, sir, all names are made-up…" Detective Murdoch ventured, pausing on his walk through the bullpen toward his office. He was in a good humour that morning, more amused than irritated by the typical stationhouse banter. Had he glanced at Crabtree, though, he would have seen that George did not share his amusement at all.

"Quiet, Murdoch!" the inspector declared, glancing at him with a mirthful affection in his eyes that belied the gruff words themselves. "As I was saying, the Telegraph has hired on quite a live one!" he continued. "Yammers on about all this spooky claptrap like he's Crabtree. Listen to this." He put on his wire-rimmed glasses, and began to read. "'In this week's column on matters of the supernatural I should like to address the phenomenon of automatic telepathic writing. I am inspired by the work of the distinguished W. T. Stead, an Englishman with a deep interest in the study of Spiritualism. In his most recent work, Letters from Julia, Mister Stead has channeled the words of someone we on this Earthly plane would consider deceased. Mister Stead's dead friend Julia—'"

Higgins' attention had wandered back to the fingermark, but the familiar name caused him to look up, distressed. "Doctor Ogden is dead?"

"Higgins, do you ever listen to anything?" Crabtree snapped.

Brackenreid snorted, and continued. "'—Julia transmitted a number of missives through Mister Stead from the Great Beyond, by taking control of his body so that he might commit her words and thoughts to paper. One might initially be sceptical of the veracity of such letters. However, the detail the letters offer about the nature of existence once the soul departs the body convinces this reader beyond the shadow of a doubt that Mister Stead's role in the authorship of this work is purely as a conduit for Miss Ames's spirit, her essence—' Crabtree! This bugger's as much of a happy-dafty as you are!"

"Now sir!" Crabtree bristled. "I'm afraid I must disagree! I, I think there's a need for some scepticism here! 'Beyond the shadow of a doubt'? Dead people taking over the bodies of the living? The way this is written, it could lead to… to public hysteria!"

A few of the men, long accustomed to Crabtree's spirited defences of theories of the supernatural over the years, looked at him askance.

"What's this, Crabtree? This fellow"—Brackenreid gestured at the paper—"is too far out there even for you? Bloody Hell!"

Higgins was still quite alarmed. "So Doctor Og—" he tried, one more time.

"Criminy, Higgins!" George shook his head.

Henry was opening his mouth to speak again when all heads turned toward the front door. "Julia!" Detective Murdoch greeted his wife. "What a welcome surprise! What brings you to the station house?"

Julia breezed in, and kissed William on the cheek. "Hello, William! I was just—"

"Doctor Ogden! You're alive!" Henry blurted.

She smiled and blinked at him, taken aback. "Why, hello, Henry—I should certainly hope so!" she tittered. "Were there rumours to the contrary?"

"Well the Inspector was reading George's column in the Telegraph about how you wrote a lot of letters after you died…"

"What!" George sputtered. "My column? I'll have you know the author of that column is a—a"—his tone was contemptuous— "a 'Doctor' Boneface Verbiage, or whatever he calls himself, a gentleman I dare suggest does not exist anywhere but in the pages of the Telegraph. It's certainly not my work, Higgins, and truth be told, I'm a mite insulted you would think it so! Why, he promotes his ideas not as theories but as fact! And his style is so dry. Quite unlike my own thrilling page-turners, if I do say so myself!"

"After I what, Henry?" Julia was baffled, George's tirade hardly registering.

"After you died. Someone"—he rolled his eyes at George—"wrote a column about—what was it again? 'Telepathic writing.' Letters from Julia, a dead woman. I thought—"

Constable McNabb piped up. "Henry was not listening to the inspector's dramatic reading very carefully at all, Doctor."

Julia laughed. "Is that what happened, then."

"I did get the part about the telepathic writing!" Higgins protested.

"Like I said, bollocks," chuckled Brackenreid.

"It seems that someone with interests remarkably similar to George's has begun a weekly column in the Telegraph," said Murdoch, who was trying and failing to suppress a smirk.

"Sir! I—" George began.

"Is that so, George?" Julia asked.

"I shouldn't think I'd like to meet this gentleman," George fumed. "Though we may share some interests, he—quite irresponsibly, I might say—promotes his theories as if they were fact. If I were to write columns on such topics, my work would certainly be more even-handed and conscientious. And dare I say more entertaining as well! Frankly, sirs, I'm most offended by the comparison, and I'll thank you all not to make it again!" He stood up, picked up his helmet and donned it, and stalked out of the station house.

Looks of surprise were exchanged all across the bullpen. It was most unusual to see George so defensive. Clearly, something had struck a nerve.