Where It Began: Go Big or Go Die

"Do not call up that which you cannot put down." - H.P. Lovecraft, The Case of Charles Dexter

Are you hearing strange noises in your flat, experiencing unexplained occurrences, or feeling a chilling presence that you can't shake? Supernatural Sleuth, Inc. is the solution to ease your mind and unravel the haunting mysteries.

my grandfather, Dante

To say I'm chuffed you've chosen to continue this adventure with us is an understatement. In this entry, I will do my best to present who Dante Ambrose, my grandfather and namesake, was. If he were still with us, what he'd say was the most important thing to know is that he left a forty-year legacy rooted in 999 solves cases.

As I traveled with him across the pond on the 1,000th case, my mum, Gillian, was busy preplanning an elaborate event to celebrate the accomplishment. What he didn't know was that she intended for the event to also be his retirement. Decades of overindulging in fatty foods, many pints at his favorite pub, and many more Villiger Export pressed cigars had taken their toll on his body. Gillian was convinced she could talk her father into healthy living. She just needed to remove the catalyst of his bad decisions, his obsession with his profession. Regretfully, the 1,000th case was not solved, and the party did not occur, as Dante Ambrose returned home in a box in the cargo of an airplane.

I'd hoped to have at least another decade of adventures with my grandfather, but I was grateful to be with him in his final moments. That one case that got away, which I'll share in a later entry, became my mission to solve.

Whitby | Yorkshire, England

Dante Ambrose was born in the seaside town of Whitby. He was the youngest of ten, the only boy, and outlived every one of his siblings despite his habits of excess. He was educated on death early on in life after attending so many funerals. The curious scents, downtrodden faces, and mourners fumbling over awkward words. He was an independent man and didn't have much in common with his sisters. I consciously tried to be a surrogate sibling, to them, establishing bonds with each of my aunts, but I was closest to my father's older by one year sister, Beatrix.

my aunt Bea

Aunt Bea introduced me to the Whitby Goth Festival, which still to this day I strive to attend. My grandfather joined us once for the festival, mainly to mute our constant invitations. They were miffed with each other every time they talked, but deep down they loved one another, admitting it in private to me. I fondly recall sitting amongst the ruins on East Cliff, as Aunt Bea told me that Bram Stoker's Dracula was inspired by that place. We enjoyed a bevvy and our fish & chips take-away, from The Magpie Cafe. They boast to have the best in Yorkshire, and I can confirm that is the truth. Over delicious nosh and delightful conversation, my grandfather scoffed at such things as the undead. It was there that I learned that he was a ghost hunter who didn't believe in the paranormal.

My mother, Gillian, encouraged me to join his investigations after he got himself into a few dodgy situations. A few of his site visits came with an element of danger, usually because the building was nearly condemned. He invested more effort in debunking people’s stories than paying attention to gaping holes in the ground, crumbling stairwells, or poisonous chemicals. I was seventeen when I joined an investigation for the first time. That first event was nearly my last. My mum second-guessed her decision to have me tag along, but I’ll save that for another post.

my first, almost last, case

I can't recall ever seeing Dante without a cigar perched between his lips, burning between his fingers, or in a breast pocket to be smoked later. After surveying the space, which was as much about the people as it was the place, he'd light one up and never ask for permission. I'd hang on his every word, listening to that scruffy voice as I waved off spirals of smoke. It was my job to takes notes on every case, but even if I hadn't, he could recall the most obscure detail from decades ago, just off the top of his mind. I was gobsmacked at his total recall. For him, every case was connected, there were similarities that we needed to pay attention to. Every mystery had things to say about the last, and a warning about the next. My grandfather did not see gray or nuance, and he was never open to debate. People called him barmy, and he was, but he was always himself, and I loved him for that.

Grandfather was laid to rest in the plot beside my grandmother, Olympia, whom I’d never met. His funeral landed on his birthday, 12 September. I admit it's uncanny the more thought I give it, but my grandfather was convinced that he’d die two days before his birthday. For a man who didn’t believe in fate, destiny, or whatever you may call it, this detail was one that he was sure of. And he was right. He died on 10 September. A heart attack, also called the silent killer, was what put him in the ground. His death wasn’t entirely surprising, he knew he was on borrowed time. His heart worked overtime for decades until it had enough of the thankless job of keeping him alive.

My best mate, Amelia, and my mum joined me at the funeral. Besides the pastor, that was all that showed up. Such a small turnout may seem naff, but that’s how he wanted it. He was explicit in his burial wishes about the location, the day the funeral was to occur - again, on his birthday - and that only family would be present. He saw Amelia as our kin. I'd been a part of all of his arrangements, but still, I was overwhelmed seeing the coffin. The death of someone hits when you see them in a box, one that they hand-picked.

I don't want to end this post on a morose note, so I'll tell you about Dante Ambrose's fondness for sayings, or what he called proverbs as a not-so-subtle dig at the Bible. My grandfather was so opposed to the concept of faith that he didn't even believe atheism was legit. After a long day of supernatural sleuthing, I recall him once arguing with a bloke at a pub that atheists choose not to believe, therefore believing that there was something not to believe in. I can't say that I understood that line of logic at the time, but I wasn't about to put myself in the middle of that argument. I'd made that mistake once before when defending Amelia from a drunken wanker who couldn't take a hint that she wasn't interested in him. I'm not suggesting that protecting the ones you love is a mistake; that never is. However, I'd recommend sizing them up before being a martyr. This guy was well beyond 6 feet tall, had cartoonishly large arms, and though he mistook me for a man, his fist did not mistake where my face was located.

Anyway, my grandfather had a steady stream of sayings or proverbs, and he was often amused at what he would come up with. "Go Big or Go Die" is what he'd quote whilst we were amidst a case that seemed particularly daunting. "Go Big or Go Die" quickly became my motto, leading me to my most challenging case, the one my grandfather couldn't solve and nearly ended my life: Beachfront Circle.

We'll get into that soon enough and I hope you stick along for the ride.

Dante