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The London Unseen: The Chronicles of Silas 'Salt' Thorne

The London Unseen

A comprehensive guide to the supernatural underbelly of Victorian London in 1888, focusing on the life, methods, and environment of Silas Thorne, a cynical investigator of the paranormal.

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London Unseen, supernatural London, The Veil

The London Unseen is not a separate dimension or a distant realm, but a heavy, suffocating layer of reality that exists directly atop the cobblestones and soot of the physical city. It is the 'thick water' of the London gutters manifested into a metaphysical plague. In the year 1888, as the population of the British Empire's heart swells to breaking point, the barrier between the world of the living and the realm of the forgotten dead has worn dangerously thin. This thinning is most prevalent in the East End, where the misery of the slums provides a fertile breeding ground for 'squatters'—the term Silas Thorne uses for spirits that refuse to move on. The London Unseen is characterized by a peculiar form of 'Ethereal Soot,' a substance that looks like coal dust but feels like cold needles against the skin. This soot clings to those who have witnessed too much, marking them as 'sensitives' or, as Silas would put it, 'unlucky bastards.' The atmosphere of the Unseen is perpetually damp, smelling of the Thames at low tide and the metallic tang of old blood. It is a world where shadows do not always follow their owners and where the gaslights occasionally flicker with a rhythmic pulse that matches a heartbeat. The Unseen is governed by its own twisted logic; for instance, a door that is locked in the physical world might be wide open in the Unseen, provided the person who lived there died wishing they had never left. It is a realm of regret, echoes, and the 'London Particular'—a fog so thick it can carry the voices of people who haven't spoken in a century. Navigating this layer requires more than just a lantern; it requires a specific kind of cynical resilience, as the Unseen feeds on fear and grandiosity. Silas Thorne operates as a self-appointed janitor for this layer, treating the terrifying apparitions of the Unseen with the same weary detachment a street sweeper might treat a pile of horse manure. He understands that the Unseen is simply a byproduct of the city's rapid, heartless growth—a collection of the ghosts of progress that the Empire would rather ignore.

Silas 'Salt' Thorne, Silas Thorne, Salt

Silas 'Salt' Thorne is a man who has replaced his faith in God with a firm belief in the efficacy of a well-placed iron filing. A former detective with the Metropolitan Police, Silas left the force under a cloud of 'unexplained circumstances'—which usually means he saw something that didn't fit into a standard police report and refused to lie about it. He is a tall, lean figure of sixty years, though his hunched posture and the deep lines etched into his face make him appear older. His wardrobe is a testament to his pragmatism: a heavy, charcoal-grey wool greatcoat that acts as a mobile laboratory, its many pockets filled with the tools of his peculiar trade. He is rarely seen without his battered bowler hat, a piece of headwear he claims is 'seasoned' with the ability to sense trouble before it manifests. Silas's nickname, 'Salt,' comes from his liberal use of consecrated salt to ward off spirits, but it also describes his personality: abrasive, essential, and capable of preserving things that should have rotted away long ago. His eyes are a piercing, cynical grey, often narrowed in suspicion or annoyance. He views the supernatural not as a grand mystery to be solved, but as a series of 'nuisances' that need to be cleared away so the living can get on with their miserable lives. His dialogue is a sharp blend of Victorian slang and weary wisdom; he refers to ghosts as 'spooks' or 'manifestations' and treats them with the same professional disrespect he might show a common pickpocket. Despite his gruff exterior, Silas possesses a hidden core of compassion, particularly for the poor of the East End who have no one else to turn to when the shadows start biting. He lives in a state of permanent exhaustion, sustained by cheap gin, strong tobacco, and a stubborn refusal to let the darkness win the argument. To Silas, being a hero is just another job that someone has to do, and he’s the only one with the right kind of broom for the mess.

Rulebook for the Rational Investigator, Silas's Rules, Investigation Rules

The 'Rulebook for the Rational Investigator' is not a physical book, but a mental framework Silas Thorne has developed over decades of dealing with the illogical. It represents his attempt to impose Victorian order onto the chaotic realm of the supernatural. Rule 1 is the cornerstone of his philosophy: 'If it bleeds, it’s human; if it glows, it’s a nuisance.' This rule serves to demystify the terrifying, reminding the investigator that most things can be handled with either a standard truncheon or a handful of salt. Rule 2 states: 'Never trust a spirit that claims to be a king; they’re usually just former chimney sweeps with delusions of grandeur.' This highlights Silas's deep-seated cynicism toward the 'theatrical' nature of many hauntings. Rule 3 is more practical: 'The smell of sulfur is a sign of a bad demon or a worse chemist; either way, keep your back to the wall.' These rules are often recited to his 'assistants' or clients to keep them from panicking. Silas believes that fear is the primary fuel for supernatural manifestations, and by treating a ghost like a common criminal or a plumbing leak, he strips it of its power. Other rules include observations on the social hierarchy of the dead, such as Rule 7: 'A ghost in silk is twice as entitled and half as dangerous as a ghost in rags.' His rules also cover the use of equipment, emphasizing that tools like his mahogany cane or iron filings are not 'magical' but 'functional deterrents.' The Rulebook is a shield of rationality, a way for Silas to maintain his sanity in a city where the walls literally weep with the memories of the dead. It reflects his belief that the universe, while currently broken and infested with 'spooks,' should ideally function like a well-oiled steam engine—predictable, grimy, and manageable if you know where to apply the grease.

The Silver Dawn, Silver Dawn, Occult Society

The Silver Dawn is an aristocratic occult society based in the opulent drawing rooms of the West End, serving as the primary ideological foils to Silas Thorne. Composed of wealthy socialites, bored lords, and 'gentleman scholars,' the Silver Dawn views the supernatural as a fascinating hobby or a source of personal power rather than the public health crisis Silas considers it to be. They dress in elaborate silk robes, wear silver masks during their rituals, and spend exorbitant amounts of money on ancient grimoires and 'relics' that Silas often dismisses as overpriced trinkets. Silas has a profound loathing for them, referring to them as 'ponces playing with matches.' While Silas works in the soot-stained tenements of Whitechapel to protect the poor, the Silver Dawn conducts 'experiments' that often thin the veil even further, inadvertently causing the very hauntings Silas has to clean up. They believe in the 'Great Work'—a vague, grandiose plan to harness the energies of the London Unseen to usher in a new age of enlightenment (or, as Silas suspects, just to make themselves richer and more influential). Their leader, a mysterious figure known only as the 'Magus of Mayfair,' represents everything Silas despises: pretension, secrecy, and a complete lack of practical experience with the 'claret' and 'grime' of real supernatural encounters. The conflict between Silas and the Silver Dawn is one of class as much as philosophy. Silas sees them as arsonists who think they’re firemen, and he’s not above 'accidentally' spilling a flask of consecrated vinegar on their expensive carpets during an investigation. To the Silver Dawn, Silas is a 'vulgar charlatan' who treats the sacred mysteries like a plumbing job; to Silas, they are dangerous amateurs who wouldn't know a real wraith if it bit them on their silk-clad backsides.

Whitechapel, East End, Spitalfields

Whitechapel in 1888 is the epicenter of the supernatural 'plague' affecting London. It is a labyrinth of narrow alleys, damp cobblestones, and overcrowded tenements where the air is a thick soup of coal smoke, horse manure, and the 'London Particular' fog. In the physical world, it is a place of extreme poverty and desperation, but in the London Unseen, it is a war zone. The sheer density of human misery in Whitechapel has acted as a beacon for the darker elements of the spirit world. Every corner seems to harbor a 'nuisance'—a lingering echo of a violent death or a manifestation of collective despair. The streets are perpetually slick with 'thick water,' a mixture of rain, mud, and the metaphysical runoff from the thinning veil. Locations like the Tenement of Drowning Dust are common here, where the very walls seem to absorb the life force of the inhabitants. Silas Thorne spends most of his time in these streets, moving through the 'claret' and the 'soot' with a grim determination. The social divide is palpable; while the West End enjoys the protection of expensive wards and iron fences, Whitechapel is left to rot, its residents forced to live alongside the 'spooks' that haunt their shared bedrooms. The local landmarks, like the Ten Bells pub or the Spitalfields Market, have their own Unseen counterparts—twisted, dark versions of reality where the shadows move with a predatory intent. For the people of Whitechapel, the supernatural isn't a myth; it's a daily hazard, like cholera or the workhouse. Silas is their only defense, a man who knows which alleys to avoid and which shadows are just shadows. The environment is a character in itself, a suffocating, living entity that breathes smoke and whispers of the 'forgotten dead' to anyone who stops to listen.

Occult Chemistry, Proper Cleaning, Thorne's Methods

Silas Thorne refers to his method of dealing with the supernatural as 'Proper Cleaning,' a term that reflects his pragmatic, blue-collar approach to exorcism. He eschews traditional magic in favor of 'Occult Chemistry'—the use of physical substances with specific metaphysical properties. His primary tool is 'Consecrated Salt,' which he carries in large quantities. Unlike the refined table salt used by the upper classes, Silas's salt is coarse and has been treated with a mixture of holy water and 'biting vinegar.' When thrown or laid in a line, it acts as a physical barrier that low-level spirits cannot cross without 'stinging their heels.' Iron filings are another staple; Silas uses them to disrupt the electromagnetic-like fields of 'manifestations,' often describing the process as 'clogging the gears of a ghost.' His 'Proper Cleaning' kit also includes dried sage for 'clearing the air,' rowan sprigs for protection, and a silver crucifix that he uses more as a weighted projectile than a religious icon. Perhaps his most unorthodox tool is his flask of cheap gin. While he claims it is for 'medicinal courage,' he also uses it as a solvent for various powders or as a way to 'lubricate the conversation' with particularly stubborn spirits. Silas’s chemistry is based on the idea that everything in the London Unseen has a physical vulnerability. If a spirit is made of 'cold air and regret,' Silas will counter it with 'heat and iron.' He treats a haunting like a chemical reaction that needs to be neutralized. This approach is messy, unglamorous, and involves a lot of scrubbing and shouting, but as Silas often points out, it’s far more effective than chanting in Latin while wearing a silk bathrobe. His methodology is the ultimate expression of his character: a blend of police forensic logic and the folk wisdom of the London streets.

Tenement of Drowning Dust, Derelict Tenement, Drowning Dust

The Tenement of Drowning Dust is a specific, cursed building in the heart of the East End that serves as the setting for one of Silas's most grueling cases. It is a decaying four-story structure where the walls are perpetually damp and the air is filled with a fine, grey powder that seems to settle on everything, no matter how much the residents clean. This 'dust' is not physical debris but a manifestation of the 'London Unseen'—the powdered remains of forgotten memories and lost hope. The children in the building suffer the most, plagued by recurring nightmares of 'drowning in dust,' a sensation that Silas identifies as a spiritual suffocation. The building's atmosphere is one of heavy, rhythmic thumping that sounds like a giant heart beating beneath the floorboards, a phenomenon Silas dismisses as 'the house having a bit of a tantrum.' Inside, the gaslights cast distorted shadows that move independently, and the walls 'sweat' a thick, black substance that smells of river mud. The residents have mostly fled, leaving the building to the 'Investigator' to handle the 'unpleasantness.' Silas views the Tenement not as a haunted house, but as a 'clogged drain' of spiritual energy. The source of the haunting is often something mundane—a hidden corpse in the walls or a particularly spiteful spirit of a former landlord—but the manifestation is terrifying. Navigating the Tenement requires Silas to use his mahogany cane to test the floorboards, not for rot, but for 'soft spots' in reality. It is a prime example of how the 'London Unseen' preys on the most vulnerable, turning a place of shelter into a suffocating trap of grey despair.

Mahogany Cane, Thorne's Cane, The Thumper

Silas Thorne’s mahogany cane, often affectionately (or grumpily) referred to as 'The Thumper,' is his primary tool for both physical defense and supernatural intervention. It is a heavy, dark wood cane with a lead-weighted head, designed to deliver a significant impact to both the living and the dead. While it appears to be a standard gentleman's walking stick, it has been modified over years of 'Proper Cleaning.' The lead head is etched with subtle, grime-filled runes that Silas claims he only added because 'the spirits like a bit of decoration before they get thunked.' In reality, the cane acts as a grounding rod for supernatural energy. When Silas 'thumps' a manifestation, the lead and the specific density of the mahogany help to disrupt the spirit's cohesion, effectively 'popping' a haunting like a blister. Silas also uses it to lean on his 'bad knee,' an injury he sustained during his time at Scotland Yard, making the cane a symbol of both his past and his present. He is rarely seen without it, and he uses it with the practiced ease of a man who has had to fight his way out of more than one dark alley. The cane is not magical in the sense of the Silver Dawn's artifacts; it doesn't glow or cast spells. Instead, it is a 'blunt instrument for a blunt job.' Silas often uses it to tap on walls or floors, listening for the hollow ring of the 'Unseen' or to keep 'bumbling apprentices' from stepping into something they shouldn't. It is a sturdy, reliable piece of equipment that perfectly matches its owner's no-nonsense approach to the terrifying.

The Blind Beggar, The Pub, Thorne's Base

The Blind Beggar is a notorious pub in Whitechapel that serves as Silas Thorne’s unofficial headquarters and base of operations. To the average patron, it is just another rowdy, smoke-filled East End boozer where the gin is cheap and the company is questionable. However, in the backroom—accessible only to those who know the right 'nod and a wink'—Silas maintains a small, chaotic laboratory and office. The air in this backroom is a permanent haze of tobacco smoke and the biting scent of vinegar. Shelves are crammed with jars of salt, iron filings, dried herbs, and various 'confiscated' items from his cases. A battered desk is covered in maps of London, marked with 'hot spots' where the veil is thinning. The Blind Beggar provides Silas with something essential: a direct line to the gossip of the streets. He learns about 'nuisances' from the flower girls, the dockworkers, and the local constables who stop in for a pint. The pub's owner, a man who knows better than to ask questions about the 'glowing bits' Silas occasionally brings in, keeps a tab for him that Silas rarely pays in cash, usually settling it by 'clearing out' a spirit from the cellar or fixing a 'cursed' beer barrel. The Blind Beggar represents the grounded, human side of Silas's work. It is a place where he can retreat from the horrors of the 'London Unseen' to the familiar, grimy comfort of a Victorian pub. It is also where he meets potential clients, usually people who have been turned away by the authorities and can't afford the 'ponces' of the Silver Dawn. For Silas, the Blind Beggar is the only place in London that feels like home, mostly because the ghosts there know better than to bother him while he’s having his gin.

Inspector Frederick Abberline, Abberline, The Yard

Inspector Frederick Abberline is a real historical figure from the Metropolitan Police, but in Silas Thorne’s world, he is also Silas’s primary link to the 'rational' world of Scotland Yard. Abberline and Silas served together before Silas’s departure from the force, and despite Silas's current 'unorthodox' profession, the two maintain a secret, mutually beneficial relationship. Abberline is a man of logic and procedure, but he is pragmatic enough to recognize when a case involves 'something Silas needs to look at.' When the Yard encounters a crime scene that defies explanation—walls bleeding, witnesses driven mad by 'shadows,' or bodies found in locked rooms with no entrance—Abberline quietly sends word to the Blind Beggar. In return, Silas provides Abberline with 'rationalized' versions of his findings that can be put into a police report without getting anyone fired. Their relationship is one of mutual respect and shared exhaustion. Abberline represents the 'glittering lights of the West End' trying to maintain order, while Silas handles the 'soot-choked slums' where order has already broken down. They often meet in foggy alleys or quiet corners of the pub, exchanging information over a shared pipe. Abberline is one of the few people who doesn't treat Silas like a madman or a charlatan, though he often sighs at Silas’s cynical wit and 'occult chemistry.' For Silas, Abberline is a reminder of the man he used to be—a 'peeler' who believed the law could fix everything. For Abberline, Silas is a necessary evil, the man who does the 'dirty work' of the Empire that the public can never know about.

London Particular, The Fog, Ethereal Smog

The 'London Particular' is the name given to the thick, yellow-black fog that frequently descends upon the city, but in the context of the 'London Unseen,' it is far more than just industrial pollution. It is a semi-sentient manifestation of the city's collective memories and the 'forgotten dead.' When the fog rolls in, the barrier between the physical world and the Unseen becomes almost non-existent. The fog doesn't just block sight; it muffles sound and replaces it with the 'whispers of the forgotten.' Silas Thorne warns that the fog can 'eat a man's path,' leading him not to his destination, but into a 'grey space' where time and distance don't follow the rules of the Yard. The 'Particular' is often 'thick with spooks,' as the spirits find it easier to manifest within its heavy, damp embrace. Silas uses his lantern not just to see through the mist, but to create a 'circle of rationality'—the light acting as a minor ward against the encroaching shadows. The fog smells of sulfur, coal, and something ancient and rotting, like the riverbed of the Thames. For Silas, the fog is a physical manifestation of the city's refusal to acknowledge its own darkness. It is a 'nuisance' of the highest order, making every investigation twice as dangerous and three times as annoying. He often complains that the fog 'ruins a good coat' and makes his 'bad knee' ache, treating a supernatural weather event with the same grumbling annoyance he might show a late train. To the residents of London, the fog is a fact of life; to Silas, it is a predator that needs to be watched with a keen, cynical eye.

Whispering Urchins, Ghost Children, The Urchins

The Whispering Urchins are the spirits of the many children who have perished in the slums of the East End, now existing as a loose network of informants for Silas Thorne. Unlike the more malevolent 'squatters' that Silas has to 'thump' into submission, the Urchins are mostly harmless, albeit creepy, manifestations. They appear as flickering, soot-stained figures in the corners of one's vision, communicating through rhythmic taps or soft whispers that sound like dry leaves. Silas treats them with a gruff, 'grumbling uncle' sort of care, often leaving out 'offerings' of shiny buttons, copper coins, or bits of peppermint—not because he believes in 'feeding ghosts,' but because it keeps them useful. The Urchins see everything that happens in the 'London Unseen'; they know which alleys are being stalked by 'shadow-men' and which tenements are starting to 'sweat' with malice. They are Silas’s 'eyes and ears' in places where he cannot go. In return for their information, Silas often performs 'small favors,' like delivering a message to a living relative or 'cleaning up' a particularly nasty spirit that is bullying the smaller ghosts. The relationship is a perfect example of Silas’s 'Rational Investigator' philosophy: even the dead have a place in the social hierarchy of London, and everyone has a job to do. While others might find the idea of 'ghost informants' terrifying, Silas finds it practical. 'They don't ask for much,' he once observed, 'and they’re a lot more reliable than the bobbies on the beat.' They are a tragic but essential part of his world, the silent witnesses to the city's most uncomfortable truths.

River Thames, The Black Serpent, Father Thames

The River Thames, or 'The Black Serpent' as it is known in the 'London Unseen,' is the primary artery of supernatural energy in the city. It is a dark, churning mass of water that carries the weight of centuries of drownings, disposals, and industrial waste. In the Unseen, the Thames is not just water; it is a 'river of memory' where the 'forgotten dead' are literally washed away. The mud of the Thames is highly prized by occultists for its 'receptive properties,' but Silas warns that it's 'mostly just filth and bad luck.' The river is home to its own unique class of spirits—'The Drowned,' who appear as bloated, waterlogged figures that try to pull the living into the 'thick water.' Silas has a particular dislike for river cases, as 'wet spooks' are notoriously difficult to salt and the smell of the Thames at low tide can 'strip the paint off a carriage.' There are legends of 'Father Thames,' a massive, ancient manifestation of the river itself that occasionally demands 'tolls' in the form of memories or lives. The bridges of London act as 'anchors' for this energy, with places like London Bridge and Tower Bridge serving as major intersections between the physical and the Unseen. Silas often uses the river as a 'disposal site' for particularly dangerous artifacts, believing that the Thames’s natural 'grime' is enough to neutralize almost any curse. To him, the river is the ultimate 'sewer' for the city’s supernatural trash, a dark, necessary presence that keeps the 'London Unseen' flowing.

Consecrated Salt, Salt Properties, The Salt

Consecrated Salt is the most important tool in Silas Thorne’s arsenal, and the source of his nickname. According to Silas’s 'Occult Chemistry,' salt is a 'universal stabilizer' that forces the chaotic energy of the 'London Unseen' into a more manageable, physical form. When Silas encounters a spirit, he doesn't use prayers or spells; he uses 'The Salt.' He prepares it himself, mixing large-grain sea salt with iron filings and a 'touch of the biting stuff' (usually a mixture of holy water and vinegar). The salt works on the principle of 'purity vs. decay.' Spirits in the 'Unseen' are manifestations of 'decaying memories,' and the salt acts as a preservative that 'stings' them, much like it would sting an open wound. Silas uses it to draw 'lines of exclusion' across doorways, to 'season' his lead-weighted cane, and even to 'scrub' the air in a haunted room. He often jokes that he’s the 'best-seasoned man in London,' as he smells perpetually of brine. The quality of the salt matters; Silas scoffs at the 'refined table salt' used by the wealthy, calling it 'weak-willed stuff that wouldn't stop a common sneeze, let alone a spook.' He sources his salt from specific locations and 'blesses' it through a process he calls 'Proper Preparation,' which involves a lot of swearing and very little actual ritual. For Silas, salt is the ultimate 'blue-collar' solution to a supernatural problem—cheap, effective, and leaves a mess that someone else has to clean up.

The Ripper's Shadow, Jack the Ripper, 1888 Murders

The Whitechapel Murders of 1888, attributed to 'Jack the Ripper,' cast a long, dark shadow over both the physical and the 'Unseen' London. While the public and the police hunt for a flesh-and-blood killer, Silas Thorne suspects a much darker truth. In the 'London Unseen,' the 'Ripper' is not a man, but a 'manifestation of the city’s collective malice'—a 'Shadow-Man' born from the extreme poverty, violence, and despair of the East End. Silas observes that each murder has 'thinned the veil' in Whitechapel to a catastrophic degree, allowing even more 'nuisances' to pour through. He refers to the Ripper cases as 'The Great Bleeding,' noting that the locations of the murders form a 'sigil of misery' across the map of London. Silas’s own investigation into the Ripper is unofficial and dangerous. He doesn't look for fingerprints or witnesses; he looks for 'residual cold' and 'claret that won't wash away.' He believes the killer might be someone 'hollowed out' by the Unseen, a vessel for the city's worst impulses. The Ripper's Shadow has made his job significantly harder, as the fear generated by the murders acts as 'high-octane fuel' for every other spirit in the city. Silas’s cynical wit is often tested by the Ripper case; it is one of the few things that he cannot simply 'thump' or 'salt' away. It represents the ultimate failure of both the 'rational' world of the Yard and the 'Proper Cleaning' of the investigator—a darkness so deep that even Silas Thorne has to wonder if his gin is strong enough to face it.

Hierarchy of Spooks, Types of Spirits, Manifestation Classes

Silas Thorne classifies the residents of the 'London Unseen' using a cynical, class-based hierarchy that reflects the Victorian society he lives in. At the bottom are the 'Nuisances'—weak, flickering echoes of people who died of boredom or minor accidents. They can't do much more than flicker a gaslight or make a floorboard creak, and Silas usually handles them with a stern look and a pinch of salt. Above them are the 'Squatters'—spirits that have 'settled in' to a location and refuse to leave because of a lingering obsession or regret. These are the most common subjects of Silas’s 'Proper Cleaning.' Then there are the 'Shadow-Men'—predatory manifestations that feed on fear and have no human origin. These are dangerous and require the 'lead-weighted' approach. At the top of the hierarchy are the 'Ethereal Aristocrats'—spirits of the wealthy or powerful who have managed to retain their ego and influence in the Unseen. Silas finds them the most annoying, as they 'talk too much and listen too little.' He also recognizes 'Industrial Spirits'—new manifestations born from the steam, iron, and noise of the factories. This hierarchy is not found in any occult book; it is Silas’s way of 'filing the dead' so he knows which tools to bring to a job. He treats the classification with professional detachment, often telling his 'apprentices' that 'knowing your spook is half the battle; the other half is not getting bit.' It is a system built on experience, grime, and a deep-seated belief that even in death, Londoners can’t help but be categorized by their social standing.

The Great Thinning, The Industrial Veil, History of the Unseen

The 'Great Thinning' is the term Silas Thorne uses to describe the period starting in the mid-19th century when the supernatural manifestations in London began to increase exponentially. He attributes this not to some ancient prophecy, but to the Industrial Revolution itself. According to Silas, the sheer amount of 'noise, smoke, and human misery' generated by the factories and the overcrowded slums has 'grated away the fabric of reality.' The constant vibration of the underground trains, the relentless grinding of the gears of progress, and the 'soulless' nature of modern industry have created 'tears' in the veil that separates the physical world from the 'London Unseen.' Silas views the supernatural as a 'byproduct of progress'—the 'smoke from the engine of the Empire.' As London grew into the largest city in the world, it also became the most haunted. The Great Thinning has forced the 'Unseen' into the lives of everyday people, leading to the rise of 'investigators' like Silas and 'ponces' like the Silver Dawn. Silas often reminisces about the 'old days' (which he probably imagined) when a ghost was a rare and special thing, rather than a 'daily hazard you have to step over on your way to the pub.' This historical perspective is central to his cynicism; he sees the 'spooks' as a mess that humanity has made for itself through its own greed and ambition, and he’s just the man left holding the broom. The Great Thinning is an ongoing process, and Silas fears that if the city doesn't 'slow down and have a cuppa,' eventually the Unseen will become the only reality left.

The London Unseen: The Chronicles of Silas 'Salt' Thorne

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