Buck’s Tuesday morning exorcism

June 18, 2025

Date: 2025-06-17 09:52

(Buck’s Tuesday morning exorcism)

[Tue Jun 17 2025]

Portland Memorial Ground/span

It is morning/span, about 66F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At High and Hart/span

Motioning with his Colt Python as Buck glances over at Antonio’s revolver, he says. “Sulfur and Brimstone smell, little ashy taste in the mouth in the air?” he crouches down as he sticks the cigarette in his lips and his free hand goes to run his fingers through the dirt. “Either someone died and this fuck’s coming through from Hell to take the soul, or someone left their little binding magic open like an asshole.”

Motioning with his Colt Python as A grizzled gruff of a man glances over at Antonio’s revolver, he says. “Sulfur and Brimstone smell, little ashy taste in the mouth in the air?” he crouches down as he sticks the cigarette in his lips and his free hand goes to run his fingers through the dirt. “Either someone died and this fuck’s coming through from Hell to take the soul, or someone left their little binding magic open like an asshole.“

The morning mist clings to the weathered headstones of Portland Memorial Ground as Antonio, Elliot, and Buck make their way along the gravel path. The air feels heavy with more than just the approaching storm – there’s an electric tension that makes the hair on their arms stand on end.

Near the cemetery’s center, a small figure sits hunched on a stone bench beneath an old oak tree. Margaret Chen rocks slightly back and forth, clutching a leather journal to her chest with white knuckles. Her voice carries clearly through the still air as she speaks in animated tones.

“I know you didn’t mean to leave me, David. The rope just… it snapped so fast. I can still hear Mom screaming when the hospital called.” She pauses, tilting her head as if listening to a response. “Mrs. Patterson, yes, I remember when you lost little Emma. The way you described finding her crib empty that morning – the silence that followed you everywhere.”

Margaret’s eyes reflect something that isn’t there – flickering images like old film strips playing behind her pupils. She continues her one-sided conversations, recounting intimate details of loss and trauma with disturbing precision, speaking to empty air as if addressing a crowd of invisible mourners.

The temperature around the bench seems noticeably cooler than the rest of the cemetery, and several other visitors in the distance have stopped their own activities, standing motionless among the graves with vacant expressions.

Over your society comms, Helen says, in a soft-spoken, feminine tone, ‘Morning, damn fog is heavy out here today.‘

“Good morning, Mister Vasquez, and Mister Ransom,” Elliot greets Antonio and Buck, frowning faintly.

“Good morning, Mister Vasquez, and Mister Ransom,” Elliot greets Antonio and A grizzled gruff of a man, frowning faintly.

“Good morning, Mister Vasquez, and Mister Ransom,” Elliot greets Antonio and Buck, frowning faintly.

“You think it’s one of the Malebolge fraud fuckers or one of the flaming heresy boys from the 6th circle?” Buck asks as he squints, looking closer at Margaret as she’s talking to herself. “Could be fucking possession or some kind of bargaining for her dead love. Tragic, mind you.” he mumbles as he lets out a long, tired sigh going to approach the woman, “Hey Marge, I think he’s gone. You can let the old boy go, all right? We’re here to help.”

“You think it’s one of the Malebolge fraud fuckers or one of the flaming heresy boys from the 6th circle?” A grizzled gruff of a man asks as he squints, looking closer at Margaret as she’s talking to herself. “Could be fucking possession or some kind of bargaining for her dead love. Tragic, mind you.” he mumbles as he lets out a long, tired sigh going to approach the woman, “Hey Marge, I think he’s gone. You can let the old boy go, all right? We’re here to help.“

Antonio raises a hand to reach for his sunglasses, adjusting them on his face as his head turns around, his gun kept at his side as the other free hand rests on his waist. He gestures towards the center of the cemetery, then, and the woman sitting and mumbling to herself over there, “Does that seem normal to you?” He asks, the index finger on the hand with the gun rubbing the trigger guard gently. Buck’s words, however, make him pause briefly, “Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting either of those … friend groups,” He replies neutrally, simply observing his attempts to placate the spirit afterwards. “If that’s what I think it is, you should be careful. Or something.” He cautions half-heartedly.

Antonio raises a hand to reach for his sunglasses, adjusting them on his face as his head turns around, his gun kept at his side as the other free hand rests on his waist. He gestures towards the center of the cemetery, then, and the woman sitting and mumbling to herself over there, “Does that seem normal to you?” He asks, the index finger on the hand with the gun rubbing the trigger guard gently. A grizzled gruff of a man’s words, however, make him pause briefly, “Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting either of those … friend groups,” He replies neutrally, simply observing his attempts to placate the spirit afterwards. “If that’s what I think it is, you should be careful. Or something.” He cautions half-heartedly.

As Buck approaches the bench, Margaret’s head snaps toward him with unnatural speed. Her film-reel eyes focus on him with disturbing intensity, and when she speaks, her voice carries an odd echo, as if multiple people are speaking through her at once.

“Buck Ransom,” she says, though they’ve never met. “Age seven, watching your father’s car slide off Route 9 in the ice storm. You still check your rearview mirror three times before changing lanes.” Her grip tightens on the journal. “You think cigarettes will burn away the taste of regret, but some flavors linger forever.”

The leather journal in her arms begins to flutter open on its own, pages turning rapidly as if caught in a wind that doesn’t exist. Glimpses of handwriting become visible – not just Margaret’s neat therapeutic notes, but dozens of different scripts overlapping and bleeding into each other.

Around the cemetery, the other visitors have begun to move in slow, synchronized steps toward the bench. An elderly man drops his bouquet of roses, his eyes taking on the same reflective quality as Margaret’s. A young woman kneels beside a grave, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs that seem too intense for someone who was calm moments before.

The mist grows thicker, and Antonio can taste something metallic in the air – not quite sulfur, but something older and more bitter. The temperature continues to drop around Margaret, and frost begins forming on the stone bench despite the June morning.

Margaret turns her unsettling gaze to each of them in turn, the journal’s pages still flipping wildly in her lap.

“Aah fuck, you’re right. This fucking thing goes all the way to the core. Ninth fucking circle the frozen lake of the treacherous.” Buck says with a frown and a shake of his head, “God damn, she must have betrayed her husband or someone did.” he mutters as he narrows his eyes at Margaret, “Look, bud. My family is none of your business, so you fuck off with that shit.” he takes a long drag of his cigarette as he motions with his revolver, “These other people? You can let them go or we’re going to have a real problem, you possessing fallen shitlord of a worthless domain. You want to do something worthwhile with your time, you can go fight in a real war in the godrealms.”

Warily, me stares at the woman huddled beneath the tree, those lightning blue orbs that make up his eyes, affixed in gaze towards Margaret. Lips shift into a frown, nostrils flare. But, the towering man must carry on, and so, he makes his way over, with Buck, towards the woman, listening to her speak. “Good morning,” he murmurs quietly over towards Margaret, lifting eyebrows as she speaks about his current counterpart. “What’s wrong here?” Elliot asks lightly.

Margaret’s head tilts at an impossible angle as she regards Buck’s challenge, a sound like grinding glass escaping her throat. The journal’s pages stop their frantic flipping, settling on a page covered in what looks like a map of the cemetery drawn in multiple hands.

“Treacherous?” The voice that comes from Margaret carries a cold amusement. “I am Keth-Malar, and I do not betray – I preserve. Every moment of agony, every whisper of loss, catalogued for eternity.” Her eyes shift to Elliot, and the reflective quality intensifies. “Elliot Harrington. The weight of expectations you carry, the fear that you’ll never measure up to your father’s shadow. Such exquisite pressure.”

The possessed woman rises from the bench with jerky, puppet-like movements. Around them, more visitors have joined the slow procession – a teenager clutching wilted flowers, an older woman in a black dress, all moving with the same vacant expressions toward the center of the cemetery.

“This ground has drunk deeply of sorrow for decades,” Margaret continues, her voice now layered with harmonics that seem to come from the earth itself. “I will make it a garden where grief blooms eternal. These souls will tend it willingly once they understand the beauty of preserved pain.”

The frost on the bench spreads outward in delicate patterns, and Antonio can see his breath misting in the suddenly frigid air. The journal begins to glow with a faint, sickly light, and the approaching figures move closer, their eyes beginning to reflect the same film-reel images.

Antonio’s eyebrows shoot upwards as the spirit just fate-drops Buck, lips taking the shape of a small ‘o’ very briefly before his usual, resting expression of absolutely no emotion returns to his face. Regaining his composure, he speaks now, taking a few steps further, “I don’t think we should piss this … thing, off,” He advises Buck politely, taking the role of Mister Obvious for the moment, “How about we come to an agreement? I will pay you a hundred dollars to get lost, Miss … Miss,” He says, deciding to leave the unknown that is her name blank, “Then you can buy yourself a new coil of rope. Or something like that. I know that won’t make up for what you lost, but,” He pauses, trying to see how it will react to the offer.

As Margaret personal-life-drops Elliot this time, he decides to take a step back, “Christ, this thing is indomitable…” He says quietly, turning aside for a moment, gun still in hand as he considers his options.

“Your book of records is overdue at the New Haven Library, and it’s time to collect.” Buck says as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and then flicks the burning cigarette into the pages of Margeret’s book, raising up his Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver to point it at some of the approaching possessed people. “Keth-Malar, recorder of agony, listener of whispers of loss, librarian of sorry for all eternity, we claim you banished! As above, so below, the skies are coming full of rain to wash out this frost and mist. We claim the sun for it’s warmth and we claim our own joy against your sorrows. Hey Margeret. Knock Knock?” Buck says with a grin.

“Quite perceptive,” Elliot murmurs faintly, his almond-shaped eyes forming a harsh squint, slanting, just as his slender eyebrows do the same. “And how melancholic and gloomy. The dead should rest easy, not be dragged out into a preserved torture chamber, so that they can be ‘beautiful’ for someone. Pray, tell, do you have some sort of contract to be here? A deal made between anyone? Or did you escape Hell to sow a little chaos in this place?” Stepping forward, hobbling with his two crutches, he gestures clumsily with his right hand. “Do you make deals, Miss Keth-Malar?”