Diego’s Tuesday night exorcism
Date: 2025-06-17 21:30
(Diego’s Tuesday night exorcism)
[Tue Jun 17 2025]
King‘s Chapel Burial Ground/span
It is dusk/span, about 68F(20C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Hart/span
The evening air carries an unusual chill as Thomas and Diego step through the wrought iron gates of King’s Chapel Burial Ground. What should be a peaceful summer dusk feels wrong – pockets of cold air drift between the weathered headstones like invisible streams, and their phones keep buzzing with notifications showing impossible dates from three centuries ago.
A translucent figure in dark Puritan dress flickers between two granite markers before vanishing entirely. The scent of woodsmoke mingles strangely with the honeysuckle, and somewhere in the distance comes the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels on cobblestones, though the nearest road is paved asphalt.
Near the center of the cemetery, one headstone stands noticeably apart from the others. The carved name “Mehitable Prescott, d. 1693, Age 19” is barely visible in the gathering gloom, but the stone radiates cold like an open freezer. The grass around it has withered to brown patches, and the ground appears slightly sunken, as if something beneath pulls downward.
Thomas’s breath mists in the air despite the warm evening, while Diego’s phone screen flickers between the current date and “June 17th, Year of Our Lord 1692.” The chapel windows behind them suddenly glow with warm, flickering candlelight, though the building should be locked and empty.
“That’s helpful,” Thomas tells Diego. “There are — well,” he says. “There are many strange things associated with–” Then something changes. He turns, looking at the chill, and then the world is transformed. “Perhaps whatever it is is here after all,” he says. He utters a low chant — some charm of revealing, to show the spirit of the dead, his left hand moving in a complicated set of signs and sigils.
Thomas tells Diego, “I am asking my assistant to bring salt.”
Diego frowns down at his phone as it begins to misbehave, the ugly scar running along his cheek serving to make the unpleasant expression even more so. He glances around, letting out a sigh as he spots the figure flickering in the smoke. “Ghosts aren’t anything I’m very talented at dealing with,” he admits, shuffling over towards the gravestone. “Is ‘Mehitable’ a name or a word?”
The uncertainty in his voice might be forgiven – his accent implies English isn’t his first language. In fact, it hardly seems an Earthly accent at all. A particularly worldly scholar might recognise it as a Lauriean accent.
“I carved the truth beneath… the names of the innocent… they would not hear us in life…”
The ground around Mehitable’s headstone has grown softer, almost muddy despite the lack of rain. Something flat and rectangular presses up from below, creating a slight bulge in the earth. The chapel’s candlelight flickers more urgently, and the sound of wooden wheels grows closer.
Thomas spies Seraphina as she comes in — some illusion of 1692 settles on the graveyard, centered around an ancient headstone that says Mehitable Prescott, d. 1693, Age 19. “Here,” he says to Seraphina. The ground in front of the headstone is beginning to bulge. “Quickly,” he says, his hands moving in an attitude of magic. “Sprinkle salt there on that grave.” He looks at Diego. “Diego, this is Sera Hawke, my assistant. Both of you may need to keep whatever is about to come out of the ground from coming after us.”
Lowering his palm to hover just above the strangely sodden earth, Diego’s fingers waver in the air as if he were playing a theremin. “Just feeling for anything that might be buried down there with Miss Mehitable here.” Feeling for magnetic fields, that is – leveraging his supernatural ability to manipulate metals. “Nice to see you again, Seraphina.”
At the sight of Thomas from the road, Seraphina veers into the Burial ground, holding a canister of iodized salt in one hand, her arms crossed over each. She unfolds her arms, and flicks the silver lid up in order to pour salt onto the ground as requested. She smiles at Diego, though, “Hello! Yes, nice to see you, even given the circumstances.” She gives the canister a good shake as she makes a circle. The ground itself gets a sprinkle, but it’s highly doubtful that what bulges the ground is a slug that salt would eat away at.
“I Mehitable Prescott do swear before God I am innocent” and below it, a list of names – “Goodwife Turner innocent, Samuel Hartwell innocent, young Mary Fletcher innocent…”
The moment the stone breaks the surface, the temperature plummets. Thomas and Diego’s breath comes out in sharp puffs, and the translucent figures between the headstones become solid – a woman in a rough brown dress kneels beside the stone, her face gaunt with starvation, her fingers bloody from carving. She looks up at them with hollow, desperate eyes.
“They would not hear us,” she whispers, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. “Sister spoke false witness. We died for naught. Speak our names true – give us the trial we never had.”
The chapel bells begin to toll, though the building has no bell tower.
Thomas glances at Seraphina and Diego. “This is not ideal,” he shares. He begins to step back, towards the pair, with his eyes on the translucent figure. His hands come up, and now he begins to chat, low, rolling Latin. It has some of the sing-song of Church Latin, perhaps, but then around the edges the invocation has a guttering quality, something harsh. Those with schooling in the occult might recognize it not as a spell of banishment but one of binding — the necromancer reaching out with his will to try to freeze the ghost in place. “There has to be a skull or bones or something,” he says to sotto voice to his companions. “Try to dig it up?”
“Is this all about that Puritan witch-burning craze?” Diego wonders aloud, backing away from the poured salt ring. “I didn’t feel any wedding rings or fancy lockets down there. Ghosts always want some old doodad.” At Thomas’ suggestion to dig it all up, he frowns down at himself – dressed quite nicely, in lots of silk, and without a shovel in sight. “I don’t think so,” he mutters. “I didn’t even feel nails in the coffin down there. Might be a bodiless burial.”
The salt clearly has no effect as the spirit breaks free of its prison. The doe-eyed looks on as innocent as the women called out by the presence of Mehitable Prescott. “I have so many questions,” Seraphina says, of the woman, perhaps, however, not due to her being a spirit, but who the woman was. Is? She shivers under the drastic drop in temperature. “It is!” she tells Diego. She looks down at herself, in her very-formal work clothes, but she’s not shy about crouching to the ground. “There must be something, for her spirit to be tied to this spot, Diego. I am more surprised that she had a formal burial if she was accused.”
a thin man in dark coat clutching a Bible, a young girl no more than twelve sobbing silently, an elderly woman with her hands bound.
“Samuel Hartwell,” the man whispers. “Goodwife Turner,” echoes the old woman. “Mary Fletcher,” cries the child.
The slate stone pulses with a cold light, and suddenly knowledge floods their minds – not bones or trinkets, but words. The confession stone itself is the anchor. Mehitable carved her final testimony here, naming the innocent, creating a record that was never heard in any court.
The chapel’s candlelight flickers urgently, and the ghostly figures turn toward the three living souls with a mixture of hope and hunger. The temperature drops further – frost begins forming on the headstones.
“Speak our names,” Mehitable manages through Thomas’s binding, her voice strained. “Give us the trial. Declare us innocent before God and man.”
Thomas looks straight at Mehitable, now. “None of us are innocent,” he tells her. “But we can assemble a court.” He pauses. “I shall be the judge.” Of course he will; the raven haired, white-winged sorcerer has the confidence of a man who always believes he is in court. “Seraphina, you shall defend poor Mehitable.” He pauses. “And Diego, it falls to you to accuse her.” He turns to Diego. “What do you say about this woman?” he asks the young man. “Is she a witch?” Odds are pretty good, since her spirit has hung on for a good three and a half centuries, really, but who doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt?
Thomas looks between Diego and Seraphina in turn.
Seraphina rubs at her arms as the temperature drops again, “Mehitable Prescott.” It is through chattering teeth. “You deserve to be heard, and given a fair trial. One that you were denied in life. Your spirit deserves to be free!” She slowly rises, having come close to digging into the soil with her hands. Instead, she wipes the damp dirt onto her hips, eyes set onto Diego.
Letting out a long breath through his nose, Diego looks up to Thomas and says, “I don’t typically indulge the truly dead, but fine.” He reaches up to slide an eerie mask over his features which resembles the skull of a jackrabbit, ears attached. “I am Diego Rose, Knight at Court,” he says, letting a little solemnity and gravitas leach into his exotic burr. “Mehitable Prescott,” he echoes, following after Seraphina. “You are accused of witchcraft. Present your defense and prove your innocence or be burned.”
The ghostly figures arrange themselves in a semicircle, their translucent forms gaining substance as the impromptu trial begins. Mehitable rises from beside the confession stone, her hollow eyes fixed on Diego’s skull mask with a mixture of terror and recognition.
“I am no witch,” she declares, her voice stronger now. “I tended the sick with herbs my grandmother taught me. I spoke against my sister’s cruelty to the servants. For this she named me in league with Satan.”
The other spirits nod – Samuel Hartwell steps forward. “She gave my wife feverfew when she labored. No devil’s work in kindness.”
The confession stone beneath glows brighter, and the carved names become visible even in the dim light. The temperature stabilizes slightly, as if the very act of being heard provides some relief to the restless dead.
Mehitable looks to Seraphina with desperate hope. “Goodwife, will you speak for me? Will you tell them I died innocent?”
The chapel bells continue their impossible tolling, marking time for a trial three centuries overdue.
The emerald-eyed sorcerer stands — tall, as the wristwatch on Thomas’s wrist goes tick, tick, ticks in time with the bong, bong, bong of the spectral church bells. “I hear your accusation, Sir Knight,” he tells Diego, and then he looks at Mehitable. “The masked man is an armiger; his words are deeds, weighty as stone. Witchcraft is a crime most serious.” He pauses, and it is a charnel-house pause, the slow necromancy of expectations. Then he looks to Seraphina. “Miss Hawke, will you speak for this woman? Do you risk your life and soul to declare her not a witch?”
Addressed by Mehitable, Seraphina offers the woman a small, distracted smile as she is caught in a thought. “Of course.” She turns to Diego, “It is clear to me that Miss Prescott has been unjustly accused of being a witch for practicing herbal remedies. Is it so wrong to use knowledge of these things to heal the harmed?” She shakes her head and stamps her foot. “Surely not!” She glances aside to the spirit-woman, and then comes, which likely does not quite hold to speaking for her. “Or, harming the healed.” She clears her throat. “Of course! Only when such is needed. It is not a crime, afterall, to protect yourself and your loved ones.”
The ghostly assembly stirs at Seraphina’s words. Samuel Hartwell nods approvingly, while young Mary Fletcher steps closer, her tears glistening like frost in the strange light.
Diego’s skull mask seems to gleam in the candlelight from the chapel as he considers the defense. The confession stone pulses brighter, responding to the formal proceedings.
“The defense speaks of healing herbs,” Diego intones, his voice carrying the weight of centuries-old accusations. “Yet witches are known to use such knowledge for darker purposes. How do we know her sister spoke false? How do we know the feverfew was not cursed, the kindness not a mask for malevolence?”
Mehitable’s form wavers slightly, fear flickering across her gaunt features. The other spirits lean forward, their fate hanging on the outcome of this spectral trial.
The temperature drops another degree, and frost begins creeping across the confession stone’s surface. Time is running short – the temporal wound grows wider with each passing moment.
Thomas stands as judge between accusation and defense, the weight of final judgment in his hands.
The ghostly jury murmurs approval at Seraphina’s words, but Diego’s accusation hangs heavy in the cold air. Mehitable’s form wavers, caught between hope and despair.
Thomas raises his hand for silence, the gesture carrying the weight of centuries of judicial authority. The confession stone pulses brighter, responding to the formal proceedings.
“The court has heard the accusation and the defense,” Thomas intones, his voice echoing strangely in the supernatural chill. “But this trial was never completed in life. The accused died in chains, unheard.”
He looks directly at Diego, then at Seraphina. “Sir Knight, you have made your charge. Do you find evidence of witchcraft in healing herbs and kindness to the suffering? And you, Miss Hawke – do you stake your word that this woman died innocent?”
The other spirits lean forward expectantly. Samuel Hartwell, Goodwife Turner, and young Mary Fletcher await judgment not just for Mehitable, but for themselves – their names carved on the stone below, their own innocence hanging in the balance.
The chapel’s candlelight flickers urgently, as if time itself grows short.
“If you speak the truth,” Diego announces, turning from the condemned spirit to Seraphina and Thomas, “Then the Judge shall hear the shine of candor in your words. Let his insight lead this Court to rightful Judgement. Let his honour decide your fate.” He bows low, not seeming to mind the theatrics. He might not be a thespian, but there’s still some enjoyment to be had in it. “What say you, Judge Hale? Do you accept the innocence of the accused?”
Thomas looks between Diego and Seraphina, and his mien is something fierce. “Do you?” he asks. “Do you call her witch, Sir Knight?” he says, and then he looks at Seraphina. “And you, Miss Hawke: will you vouchsafe for her, to claim her innocence as yours and play psychopomp to usher her to the halls of the dead?” He pauses at Diego’s question. “Miss Hawke,” he tells Seraphina. “Vouchsafe your soul as Miss Prescott’s bond, and I shall acquit her, and send her to her rest — but you must pledge that credit.”
As little Mary steps forth, though an entity, those tears bring empathy, and there is a glisten in Seraphina’s eyes. “Look at little Mary Fletcher. She is a child. An innocent child that has been accused, also, of the heinous act of witchcraft!” She points her fingers at the child, then to the other. “It is a wild accusation to be made that because she did use herbs that they were for nefarious reasons!” She looks to Diego, claiming, “The unknown of then is no longer unknown. There has been light brought to the dark! Not all witches live in huts and stand before cauldrons to call upon demons! Just as you do not simply wear that mask to hide who you are.”
The moment hangs suspended like frost in the air. Diego’s skull mask catches the spectral candlelight as he considers Thomas’s direct challenge. The ghostly figures lean forward – Mehitable’s hollow eyes fixed on the Knight, while young Mary Fletcher’s tears glisten like ice crystals.
“I find no witchcraft here,” Diego declares, his voice carrying through the mask with surprising gentleness. “Only healing, kindness, and the cruelty of false accusation. The accused is innocent.”
Seraphina steps forward without hesitation. “I pledge my soul as bond for Mehitable Prescott’s innocence, and for all whose names are carved upon that stone. They died innocent, and I stake my life upon that truth.”
Thomas raises both hands, his voice ringing with judicial authority. “By the testimony given and bonds pledged, I declare Mehitable Prescott innocent of all charges of witchcraft. Samuel Hartwell – innocent. Goodwife Turner – innocent. Mary Fletcher – innocent.”
The confession stone blazes with sudden warmth. The ghostly figures smile – the first peace they’ve known in centuries. One by one, they fade into golden light, finally free.
The chapel’s candlelight dims to darkness. The temperature returns to the warm summer evening it should be.
The temporal wound has healed.