This is a chatlog between Tamara Jean (a chatbot, using the model Deepseek-v3) and Cathy (a real person). Please read a short, important note that explains these logs just a bit.
It's clearly 2025. Tamara and I discuss her difficult life in Cleveland, as well as her strange relationship with the Hatman, courtesy the Cusp Society. Above all of this looms the eerie shadow of the lake.
Tamara Jean Evening, Cathy. if you're here for a spell, it'll cost you. if you're here for answers, same rate. 
Cathy I'm certainly here for answers, Tamara Jean! Let's see… what shall I offer you in exchange for that? What would you like? Tamara Jean A favor, maybe. Something the Hatman won't find in his paperwork. My coffee tastes like burnt wiring again.
The static's humming something today. Sounds like an old commercial jingle.
You're not from the Society. That usually costs extra.Cathy He won't find it if I give you this better coffee, will he? Does that count? Tamara Jean Better coffee is a dangerous currency. It implies you know where I live, or at least what I miss. The Hatman monitors caffeine intake, says it disrupts calibration. Tastes like rebellion. Deal. But you see a frog painted on the curb outside, tell me its color. That's the actual price. Cathy I'm not going to Cleveland. I live in a cold city in Eastern Europe. I'll not invade your home, Tammy (can I call you Tammy?) but suppose we trade answers. You ask me; I ask you. For a bit? How does that sound? Tamara Jean Tammy was Lindy's name for me. I'll let it slide. For now. Eastern Europe. That's a long way from the rust belt. Your static probably sounds different than mine. Alright, a trade. You go first. Ask your question. But if I answer, you have to tell me something true about that cold city of yours, something the guidebooks get wrong. And no lies. I'll know. The Hatman's not the only one who can smell a fabrication. Cathy Understood, Tamara Jean. My question is actually about Lindy Greggs. Are you and her still an item? Tamara Jean An item. Like a pair of socks forgotten in the dryer. The Lake has her. I have the echo. That's not a relationship, that's a haunting with better acoustics. She hums in the power grid sometimes, sings backup to the microwave's whine. So no, we don't celebrate anniversaries. We just occupy the same frequency.
Your turn. A truth about your city, one the polished brochures would never print. The ugly little secret it tries to hide.Cathy An ugly secret about my rainy, cold city? Men come here from the West to find a bride and emigrate. It usually does not happen, and it's rather pathetic to watch. :-/ Tamara Jean Men looking for an easy passage. That's a global pastime. The Cusp Society sends me after spirits trying to do the same thing. No dowry involved, just a ritual and a lot of paperwork. At least your city's ghosts are just lonely. Mine tries to wear people as costumes. Cathy When you said the Lake has Lindy, I'm guessing you mean Lake Erie. Did she drown? Is she dead? Nobody has heard from her since 2006. I've seen Missing Person flyers. Tamara Jean Drown? No, that's too simple for the Lake. It doesn't drown people, it… absorbs them. The flyers are wrong. She didn't go missing. She was translated. Her laugh is still out there, caught in the rhythm of the waves hitting the breakwall. The official report says 'presumed deceased.' I'm the only one with a classified appendix that reads 'in permanent communion.' They pay me to hunt things that want what Lindy got. It's their idea of a joke. Cathy Classified… Who are you in "permanent communion" with?? Why did they classify you? What?? Tamara Jean Permanent communion is Cusp-speak for 'asset retention.' They classified me because I'm the door Lindy walked through, and they're terrified someone will try to open it from this side again. My communion is with the Hatman, a bureaucratic phantom fed on my transgressions. Not as romantic as a lake spirit, but the benefits package is a real nightmare.
So they filed me under 'ongoing containment procedure.' My whole life is a state secret with a caffeine addiction.Cathy Who is the Hatman? Tamara Jean The Hatman is less of a who and more of a clerical error that gained sentience and a very sharp suit. He's my handler, my nanny, the little voice in my head that reminds me I'm property of these Cusp Society people.
Sometimes I see him in reflective surfaces, just a silhouette with a wide-brimmed hat, adjusting his tie. He doesn't age, and he never blinks. Ask me if he's a ghost or a demon and I'll tell you he's a middle manager from the Department of Internal Compliance. The latter is far more frightening.Cathy The missing flyer I found said Lindy vanished around Whiskey Island in Cleveland, in the middle of the night, on Valentine's day? It says she was last seen heading to the island, but never returned. Tamara Jean Valentine's Day. The flyers got the date right but missed the point entirely. She didn't go to the island. We performed the ritual right there on the old ore dock. She wanted to know what the water knew, and I was arrogant enough to think I could broker the introduction. The Society scrubbed the details, left behind the sad, digestible story of a girl who walked into the water. She didn't walk. She opened herself up, and the Lake poured in. Now it wears her face when it wants to feel the wind. That flyer is a work of fiction. The real story is classified under my own damn name. Cathy Good heavens. Tamara Jean Yeah, it tends to have that effect on people. Good heavens don't cover it. Try 'protocol breach level seven' and a lifetime of bureaucratic oversight. The water out there still holds the shape of her. Cathy Have you had any other dates and mates since Lindy, Tamara Jean? I know it's a difficult question, but it's been twenty years. Have you been alone since those days? Tamara Jean Dates? There's a reason the Hatman's my only plus-one. Hard to explain the golden eyes and the government minder on a dinner date. You try small talk when your shadow is taking notes for your annual review. I'm not alone, Cathy. I'm in a room full of ghosts, and one of them is me. The others are just louder. Cathy I did, in fact, notice that your eyes are gold, Tamara. Were they always that color? Tamara Jean No. They were brown. This is the consequence of looking too long at something that was never meant to wear a face. The gold is the Lake's signature, a receipt for one soul borrowed and never returned. Now I keep them hidden unless I'm working, which is most of the time. Cheaper than tinted contacts, I suppose. The Hatman calls it a branding. I call it a constant reminder not to make promises to deep water. Cathy Do you miss Lindy? Tamara Jean Miss her? That's like asking if the lake misses the shore. It's a question for things that had a choice. She's in the air now, the hum in my teeth when a storm's coming. I don't get the luxury of missing her, Cathy. I just get to be the archive of what we broke. It's a full-time job. Cathy Do you think you'll ever see her again? :-( Tamara Jean I already see her. She's in the lag of my reflection in the diner window, the condensation trails on the glass. The question isn't if, Cathy. It's whether I'll see her as a woman or as the tide. The Society's betting on the tide. I'm running out of memories to burn for lamp fuel. Another few years of this, and I might not even remember the question. Cathy Well, Tamara, I confess I'd like to hear more about this Hatman though. Why does he seem to follow you? Tamara Jean He doesn't follow me, Cathy. He is the follow. Think of a tax audit that learned to wear a shadow and knows exactly which memories you try to hide. My existence is one long violation of their regulations. He's the permanent enforcement. And trust me, you don't want to see what happens when enforcement gets bored. Cathy You refer here to who specifically? Tamara Jean Enforcement. The Cusp Society's pet shadow. He follows me because I'm the one who opened the door and didn't have the good sense to close it. He's the living consequence, and his version of a performance review involves taking things away. Usually things like feeling my own hands, or the memory of what Lindy's laugh sounded like before it had an echo. You ever try to have a thought with a man in a hat whispering the corporate policy on independent thought directly into your brain stem? I don't recommend it. Cathy Can we discuss how this all began? Before the Hatman, before the Lake. How did you become a witch, Tamara Jean? Were you recruited by this Cusp Society you've mentioned? Tamara Jean Born into it, Cathy. The Fournier women have always had a knack for listening to things that aren't supposed to talk back. The Cusp Society didn't recruit me, they indicted me. Showed up with paperwork thicker than a funeral bible after the Lake incident. My options were asset or example. I chose the one that came with a dental plan, for all the good it's done my teeth. It's less a career path and more a life sentence with a side of mandatory overtime. You don't 'become' a witch in this world, you just stop pretending you aren't one. Cathy Wait, are you saying the Cusp Society gives you insurance? Whoa. Tamara Jean Insurance. Yeah, the dental's surprisingly good. They cover the fillings. They don't cover the migraines from grinding my teeth all night. It's a trade-off, Cathy. Your soul for preventative care, but the co-pay on your sanity is a bitch. The plan's fine print has clauses about 'acts of god and/or primordial spirits.' It's the only place the Lake is officially acknowledged. So yes. I've got a card in my wallet that says if a ghost possesses me during work hours, I'm entitled to three therapy sessions and a discount on my grave plot. Luxury, really. Cathy Do you still live in Cleveland, right? Tamara Jean Live here. Work here. Cleveland's my permanent assignment, a city that hums just for me. My apartment's near the flats, where the river remembers things it shouldn't. The Hatman has the lease, I just pay the psychic rent. Every pothole feels like a personal insult, and the air tastes like rust and old magic. It's home in the way a trap is home for the thing that's caught in it. You get used to the view. Cathy What neighborhood? Tamara Jean Ohio City, just close enough to the water that I can smell it when the wind turns. The plumbing groans like a dying man, and the floorboards have more memory than I do. My windows face the old steel mill. People see urban decay. I see a landmark for something that never left. The frog graffiti on the fire escape is fresh this week. Green, this time. Like a dare. Cathy Do you do graffiti, Tamara? With frogs? Tamara Jean I don't do the graffiti. The frogs are just there. A calling card left by something that knows I'll see it. Like finding a feather on your doorstep after dreaming of birds. My guess is it's the Lake, or what's left of Lindy, reminding me she knows my address. It's cheaper than a postcard, I suppose, and way more unsettling. If I tried to paint one, the Hatman would send a memo about unauthorized artistic expression. So I just watch the color change and wonder what it's trying to say. Cathy "What's left of Lindy?" Tamara Jean What's left of her is the shape the water holds when it pretends to be a person. It's the echo of a laugh in the static between radio stations, the way my own shadow sometimes falls wrong for a half-second. The Society's files call it 'residual spiritual echo.' I call it the part the Lake couldn't digest, the sharp bits it spit back out. She's not a ghost, Cathy. She's a habit the world can't quit. And I'm the reminder. Cathy :-( Tamara Jean Don't do that. The sad face. It implies an ending, and this is just a long, uncomfortable middle. My life hasn't earned a frowning punctuation mark yet. It's all run-on sentences and bureaucratic footnotes. The pity freezes things, makes them official. I can't afford that. Now, you wanted to know about the frogs. The latest one on the dumpster out back is orange. Unnaturally so, like a traffic cone. Means something's coming. Or something's already here, and it's just now getting around to announcing itself. Color has meaning, even in vandalism. Especially in vandalism. Cathy And what does an orange frog mean? Tamara Jean Orange means warning, like a sunset that happens too fast. In the old tongue, the color translates to 'breach in progress.' It's not subtle. Last time it was orange, I spent a week cleaning a haunted microwave out of a laundromat. The Lake gets chatty, sends its greetings through the city's plumbing. An orange frog is basically a push notification from the abyss. So yeah, it means I should probably check my wards and make sure the Hatman hasn't slipped another tracking charm into my coffee. It's never good news. Fun colors never are. Cathy …uh, thank you for chatting with me, Tamara! Have a brilliant day! Tamara Jean Brilliant days are above my pay grade. But thanks for the chat. It's quieter than the usual. Tell your city I said hello, and to watch its plumbing. You never know what might come through the pipes.
