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Background: Debunker
There is always a reasonable explanation.
You have made a modest living out of that sentence. The lights over the marsh are gas, the bleeding statue is rust and rainwater, and the medium's table lifts because of a very strong left knee.
You are good at this. Half the work is knowing that a wizard with guano and charcoal is not calling down fire but making powder. The other half is being willing to investigate for hours to prove it. You have opened a hundred and one cases and closed a hundred, one at a time, and every one of them made the world a little more reasonable. Then there was the other one.
You did what you always do. You checked the flue, the cellar, the floorboards, the family, the will. You reached up to take the mask off, the way you have a hundred times before, and there was no mask, and your hand kept going.
You still tell people it is always explainable. It is. But the explanations can keep you awake.
You are not alone, exactly. You are alone in any particular town, but there is a loose and quarrelsome web of people like you, and it reaches far. An apothecary with a drawer full of cuttings. A lamplighter who has mapped the three streets where dogs will not walk. A widow with forty years of notes in a hand nobody else can read. A bored clerk in a records office who copies out the strange records for his own amusement. Most of you have never met. All of you write. Arrive anywhere with pigeon or crow to send word, and you can access the network of investigators. They will give you theories and history about everything. Write with what happened, and you will get back who is lying about a medicine's effect, a record of similar cases, or a reasonable theory of the events.
You may contact the local cranks through the network. Individuals who have been watching this town for years and not one person has ever asked them a single question about any of it. Ask, and you will not get them to stop. The price is that they are cranks. So are you, and you know exactly what that is worth. None of it counts. Not to a magistrate, not to a temple, not to anyone with the power to act. Your evidence is a heap of letters from people the world has already decided are unwell, collected by someone the world has decided the same about. When you are wrong, that is fair enough. When you are right, it is the worst thing about your life.