Hey everyone, Dan here. Mark and I are excited to announce that we have a new audio drama podcast out today. Yes, you heard that right, it's the first podcast Mark and I are releasing since Archive 81. It's called Conversations with Ghosts, and it follows mausoleum attendant Mal Fleming as he tries to convince the spirits of Greybrier Cemetery to pass on. In each episode, Mal, who's played by Mark, sits down with a new ghost to build a portrait of their life, their death, and their afterlife, all to help them release whatever still ties their soul to this reality. It's a mix of New York City history, horror, and, in classic Dead Signals fashion, really fun sound design. We've got a preview of one of the episodes here for you on the Archive 81 feed, and you can hear the first two episodes in the Conversations with Ghost feed, which you can subscribe to anywhere you get your podcasts. New episodes will be released every week. Mark and I both really appreciate all your support over the years, and we think you'll like this one, so we hope you'll tune in. Here's the episode. My name is Mal Fleming. I am here to assist in your passage. Can you remember your name and the circumstances of your death? The tide comes and the tide goes and the tide comes and the tide goes. The city was once two cities and it is a city of water and tides. It's ever-changing and ever-moving. Are you aware of that, Malfe Fleming? I... No, I don't think I can remember my name and the circumstances of my death, Malfe Fleming. And are you aware that the tide goes and the tide comes and this city was once two cities? If you're referring to the fact that Brooklyn and New York used to be separate entities, then yes, I'm aware of that. does the tide bear any relation to... Were you a fishmonger, perhaps? I am not sure. Should I be? Is there a name you would like me to call you for the purposes of this conversation? Does it matter? I don't have to use a name, if you would prefer. Perhaps if you name me incorrectly, you will influence me into being someone I was not so as to fit the name. Like water filling. vessel. Better to have no name at all. Then I won't use a name. Now, is there anything you can tell me that would help in identifying you? Any memories that come to mind? Perhaps a loved one, or an occupation, even a date. Anything could be helpful. You are correct. Any help would be greatly appreciated. Nothing at all comes to mind? Of course things come, but they go ever so quickly. It's like trying to hold water in your hand. Well, if a memory does come, please let me know. It could be helpful. Yes, I will. I would like to be of help. At one point, I remember, I think I remember I remember remembering that I wanted to live here forever that it was a pleasant way to live or die but you are trying to get me to pass on why I will fade completely soon Caldwell's notes they they say it's a bad idea to let a ghost fade away he didn't say why but You are new. Ever so new. Perhaps you will learn more about us in time. Caldwell did. But he was here for a very long while, and he has not left yet. And who knows how much longer you will have, Mal Fleming. Anyone can die at any time, and then their story ends, and all that is left is epilogue. Working here does hammer that point home. Does working here frighten you, Mal Fleming? I strangely know if you had told me a few, well, weeks ago that this would be what I was doing. I would be either incredulous or terrified, but I do find the work fascinating. I don't think anything I've learned could be properly cited in a paper, but it's fascinating nonetheless. What a lovely thing to say, Malfe Fleming. Though perhaps you should be a bit more frightened. Why do you say that? I forget. Would you like to fade away completely? Is that... No. Uh, why not? The notes were... Something whispers to me about oblivion. About the things I might find there. Something talks of peace, of tranquility, of a black pool. of letting my bones erode like stones in the ocean Something tells me to let go to take the hand of the thing But I think the thing is lying Something tells me such things but there something in his voice, something wrong. A skull is always smiling, mouth-lemming. And who tells you these things? something who tells me that my name is known, was, will be. I do not know something's name, though. I do not... At times I think that the something is within me, and at times I think it is coming from outside of me. Borders are so porous. I am so sorry. I want to remember things. I really do. I am trying so hard. Are you angry at me? No. It's alright. Would you like to talk more about the something that... No. I would like to forget it. Most of the time I do. Understood. Is there a way that I can assist in your passage? I... I... keep trying, but it is a door, a door made of onyx that I cannot open. It needs something, a key, but I do not know what the key is. Perhaps the key is a memory. Perhaps it is my name. Perhaps I need to be more of myself in order to pass on, but I cannot grasp who I once was, and there's no one in the graveyard old enough to remember. But perhaps you do. Have you discovered something? Is that why you were here? Unfortunately, your tombstone is completely worn down. Caldwell's notes are, well, it would be fair to categorize them as lacking. Oh. Perhaps we can talk to Caldwell then. He is still here. Or did I make a mistake? Caldwell died a few months ago. I did not make a mistake. He is still here. We could talk to him. I have tried that. I would love to get more of a sense of, well, my responsibilities, but he has either passed on or he will... Oh. Oh, yes, of course. He will not talk to you. I am sorry. My memory comes and goes. Is there a reason why Caldwell won't talk to me? Do you have any other ideas to make me remember? If Caldwell won't... He will not talk to you, and in a few moments I will forget the reasons why. Caldwell is such an interesting name. It means cold spring. I am not sure how I know this. Our names important. Sometimes I think they are the most important things in the world, and sometimes I think they do not matter at all. I am so sorry. Mal Fleming. It is best to move on. All right. You speak English, so would it be safe to assume that you spoke English during your life? I... That is a good assumption, but I am not entirely sure it is true. When you're dead, your accent, your language, your way of speaking, it grows and changes, and this is an English graveyard, Mal Fleming. Mal Fleming. The more I say your name, the more solid it becomes. The easier it is for me to remember it. There's so many languages other than English. Understood. Given the age and place of burial, I'm going to lean towards English or Dutch, Lenape being a slight... The name of this city. Names again, always back to names. Before it became one city, it meant broken land. Brooklyn. That feels too obvious, too apt. And I'll lean towards Dutch. I recognize that gender is... Well, uh... But... Are you... How shall I put this? Does my voice make me sound like a man? Or a woman? At this point, I cannot even tell. It seems so... I wonder if that was the first part of me to fall away. the soft parts of my not body dissolving into nothingness. But listen to my voice. What do you think? I wouldn't want to say. I mean, I don't want to presume. Then do not presume. I do not think knowing would help me remember. Hmm. Do you know if you were buried in Great Briar originally or if your body was moved here When they founded the cemetery they moved a fair number of bodies mostly famous ones military heroes governors But they also I think they wanted the cemetery to look old even if it wasn so I have spent far more time dead than I have spent alive, Mal Fleming. I wonder if I did not pass on because I felt cheated out of a life. If I wanted to spend more time upon this earth, watching the city grow around me. Or if I was afraid of what might await beyond the door I now cannot open. Perhaps I was, I am, some great criminal, a devourer of flesh, my name infamous even now. But now I find it difficult to even remember the life after my life. The spirits that were my friends, my enemies, the conversations we must have had. Our interactions with the living as limited as they might have been. I do not remember how I came to be at Greybriar Cemetery, only that I have tarried far too long within its fallow earth. You're difficult to see. I keep thinking that I can make a detail out, but no matter how hard I look, it's all... Like seeing something under the water. Yes. Even your smell is faded. Truly? Most of the spirits, or at least the few I've encountered, they smell like... like when a thunderstorm is about to arrive. Petrichor, it's called. What a lovely name for a feeling. I am quite certain I did not know it until this very moment. But you... you barely give off anything. I am sorry. No, no, don't apologize for... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have... That was weird of me. Do I smell like iron to you? I... perhaps. A bit. Like the blood of a small creature? Like blood in the water? I... The stakes had to be long enough to come above the river so they could be seen. The traps themselves were rusted, jaw-like things, a trigger in the center, in their waiting mouth. And they would snap so fast and so hard, and they would cut. They were baited with the oil of the beavers themselves. the ones that had already died, yellow and fetid from their insides. And the beavers would come out in the winter, only in the winter, and the water was so cold in the winter. The beavers' screams sound like a whine, nothing human about it at all, but piercing all the same. And they did not die quickly. The trap would only snap on their leg, and they would scream and scream and swim to their den, blood in the water. But the traps were heavy and their legs were destroyed, and then they would drown, and their screams would be quiet. And then one could wait however long one wanted to pick up the corpse, and then the skinning would begin. The hats were so warm, though, the height of fashion. All the rich men in Europe had to have one. That sounds to me like a memory. Perhaps, Mouth Fleming But It is as if I am in the frigid water Looking for the corpse of a small creature And I am going deeper and deeper And the water is getting colder and colder And I cannot find anything Maybe Do you think that this is who you were? Perhaps how you died? I think that this is a story that I have heard I do not know if I heard it from another spirit or if it was a story I told myself. You sound connected to the story, if nothing else. I've heard many stories. Even if I do not remember all of them, I am sure I must have heard them. There is a story about New York being sold for $24. Have you heard that story? It was called Manahatta then. Manahatta became Manhattan, became New York, called for $24. It's a myth. Or rather, even if Peter Minowit bought Manhattan Island, and there's no written record of a transaction, the Lenape concept of land ownership was... I have heard the story. 60 guilders, $24, a handful of beads, and if a story is repeated enough times, That makes it, if not truth, it makes it history. Once you say a word enough, it becomes the new name. Manahatta became Manhattan, became New York, all for $24. It's history. I disagree. You have not been here long. And I have forgotten more things than you will ever know, Mal. I not I cannot quite remember your last name I apologize It all right Fleming There I have it again Like water flowing through my fingers. You continually bring up water. I do. Perhaps... You wake up on a beach, grit and sand and bird guano in your hair. You cough water out of your lungs Your clothes are wet and cold and far too heavy You know you're in a completely new place Outside of the context of everything that has come before But you have no idea how you know You have no memory of who you are, who you were How you wound up on the shore of a new continent But I wonder Does the past matter in this case? Just memory? Perhaps it is better to walk to this new land as a newly born creature, or to simply let the water wash you back to sea. What do you think, Mouth Fleming? I... I think that the past is important. I don't think that anyone can escape their... Let's call it context. History, your environment. It limits the choices you can make. And then, is it not freeing to throw away your past? Perhaps, in some cases, but learning from your mistakes, from... Anyway, it's impossible. You can never extricate yourself. Then you think that something of my past remains within me. Yes. Yes, I do. I think there's enough for your passage. And I think that your memory of trapping, I think that was real. You were very optimistic. Perhaps. You know, New Amsterdam was an interesting place. It's usually glossed over in histories of New York. People kind of rush through it so they can get to New York's donning as a metropolis. But it was fascinating. A commercial enterprise rather than a religious one. Polyglot and diverse from the very beginning. and it was a drunk city, even by the standards of the time, about one out of every five houses brewed beer, I think. I might be misremembering the specifics. And a lot of this was the fact that beer was safer than water. But still, I wonder what life would have been like in these, they weren't taverns, not yet, but in these houses where people got drunk and talked and reminisced and perhaps after coming back from trapping beavers. Do you remember what that was like? I remember warmth and smoke and the sound of laughter, but... I believe that you were there, or I am telling you a story in which you were there. And if you believe it... Then I can hold on to it, along with some other flotsam, and use it as a skeleton key to open a door made of onyx. That would be the idea. And I'm sorry, but can I ask, why is it an onyx door? It is simply what it is made out of. And then what happens when I enter that onyx door, when I pass on? Do I come into a new place, wash up on a new continent with nothing but half-remembered stories and false names? Or everything is returned to you, and you become who you once were. Or perhaps it does not matter, and my soul is used up. Rain into the ocean. Perhaps, but... It is better than fading away, I think. I hope. I think so, too. Good. Good. I would... Would you mind giving me a name so I have something else to hold on to? That feels like something you should choose yourself. No. The only name I can think of is Mal Fleming, and I do not think that would suit me. If you... Come closer. Whisper it. I want to be the only one to hear it. Of course. That is a very good name. No. Name redacted. Passage completed.
