Eloa’s Saturday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-06-21 18:46
(Eloa’s Saturday evening exorcism)
[Sat Jun 21 2025]
Cape Cod Memorial Ground/span
It is afternoon, about 80F(26C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Autumn and Washington/span
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across Cape Cod Memorial Ground as Eloa approaches the cemetery’s wrought iron gates. Yellow police tape flutters in the warm breeze, cordoning off a section near the older graves where weathered headstones lean at odd angles. A single patrol car sits parked on the gravel path, its occupant nowhere to be seen.
Detective Sarah Chen emerges from behind a cluster of oak trees, her notebook in hand and a puzzled expression on her face. She waves Eloa over with obvious relief. “Thank God you’re here. We’ve got something that doesn’t add up.” She gestures toward a patch of disturbed earth near an ancient, moss-covered headstone. “Dr. Margaret Whitmore, 52, local historian from the university. Groundskeeper found her body three days ago, right here at dawn.”
Chen flips through her notes. “Here’s the thing – no signs of violence, no obvious cause of death. Coroner’s preliminary says it looks like she just… drained. Like something sucked the life right out of her. But get this.” She points to scattered items around the grave: an open leather-bound book with pages fluttering in the breeze, melted candle stubs, and what appears to be a small glass vial shattered against the headstone. “She was conducting some kind of ritual. At night. Alone.”
The headstone itself draws attention – older than the others, its carved inscription barely legible: “E.T. 1692 – May God Forgive.” Fresh scratches mar its surface, as if something had clawed at the stone from within.
Walking around the memorial ground, Eloa frowns as she looks around, feeling as if she’s walking into a crime scene. She blinks at the detective listen to the story and nods her head. “Is it possible was attacked by vampire and drained of blood while trying ritual?” She asks in broken English.
Detective Chen shakes her head, consulting her notes again. “That’s what I thought initially, but the coroner found no puncture wounds, no blood loss at all. Her blood was still there, just… thin. Watery. Like it had been diluted.” She crouches down near the scattered ritual items. “And there’s something else weird. The groundskeeper said he heard chanting around midnight three nights ago, but when he came to check at dawn, the grass around this grave was completely dead in a perfect circle. Now look at it.”
The grass around the headstone has indeed withered to brown stubble, forming a ring roughly eight feet in diameter. Within the circle, the earth appears slightly sunken, as if something had been pulling at it from below.
Chen picks up a fragment of the shattered vial with a pen, holding it up to catch the light. “This had some kind of red residue in it. Could be blood, could be something else. The book’s in Latin – way above my pay grade.” She glances at the leather tome, its yellowed pages still open to a page covered in elaborate diagrams and spidery handwriting. “University says Dr. Whitmore was researching colonial burial practices. Apparently she’d been asking a lot of questions about executed witches and where they might have been secretly buried.”
A cool breeze stirs the leaves overhead despite the warm afternoon, and the shadows seem to shift strangely around the weathered headstone marked “E.T. 1692.”
“I suppose witch can also drain if need. also wight eat people.” Eloa frowns as she leans in to study the vial. “Eloa no read Latin can call in Latin expert?” Eloa asks softly.
Detective Chen nods thoughtfully. “A wight… hadn’t considered that. And yes, I can get someone from the university linguistics department down here.” She pulls out her phone and dials. “Professor Martinez? Chen here. I need someone who can read medieval Latin at the cemetery… Yes, the Whitmore case.”
While Chen speaks, a sudden gust of wind flips several pages of the open grimoire. The book settles on a different page, revealing a detailed illustration of a human figure connected by flowing lines to a skeletal form emerging from the ground. Latin text surrounds the drawing in tight, cramped script.
Chen ends her call. “Martinez is sending Dr. Rebecca Foster – she’ll be here in twenty minutes. Specializes in ecclesiastical Latin and…” She pauses, looking uncomfortable. “Occult manuscripts.”
As if responding to their conversation, the temperature around the grave drops noticeably. The withered grass circle seems to darken further, and a faint scratching sound emanates from beneath the headstone – barely audible, like fingernails against wood. The sound stops as quickly as it began.
Chen’s hand instinctively moves to her service weapon. “Did you hear that?” The carved letters on the headstone appear slightly deeper than before, though it could be a trick of the shifting afternoon light filtering through the oak branches above.
Eloa’The dead be restless,’ Eloa whisper, ‘her eyes stick on the headstone like glue, shiver run down her back. Air get heavy, push on them, cold, even with wind in the tree. ‘Something… something want out.’ Her eyes, big with fear and then strong, jump from the stone to the book, then to Detective Chen. ‘The scratch… the cold… this not just happen. We got more than old bones now.’ She take big breath, her small self get strong. ‘We need prepare. Now. Before what try claw free do it.’
“Free… me… the binding… weakens…”
Eloa shivers as she listens to the words
Detective Chen’s face goes pale as the whispered words fade into the afternoon air. She draws her weapon, though her hands shake slightly. “That… that wasn’t the wind.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
The scratching sound returns, more insistent now, accompanied by a low grinding noise as if stone were shifting against stone. The headstone marked “E.T. 1692” begins to rock almost imperceptibly, tiny fragments of old mortar crumbling from its base.
The open grimoire’s pages flutter wildly despite the still air, finally settling on a page titled “De Vinculis Animarum” – even without Latin knowledge, the repeated word “sanguis” stands out in the text. A detailed diagram shows a ritual circle with symbols that match the faint markings now becoming visible in the dead grass around the grave.
Chen backs away from the headstone, her radio crackling to life. “Unit 23, what’s your status?” The voice is distorted, filled with static that sounds almost like distant screaming.
The temperature continues to drop, and Eloa can see her breath misting in the suddenly frigid air. The shadows cast by the oak trees seem to be reaching toward the grave, stretching longer than they should in the afternoon sun.
“Whatever you did to get free,” Chen mutters, staring at the disturbed earth, “it’s not finished.”
‘Eloa need bind,’ Eloa mutters, her eyes fix on the grimoire, ignoring the cold and the scary sounds. Her hand move fast, grab a piece of charcoal from her pouch. She bends low to the ground, start drawing hard on the dead grass, follow the picture in the book. ‘Not help burn world,’ she add, talking to herself more than Chen, the Latin word ‘sanguis’ echo in her mind. ‘Bind demon. Not let free.’ The circle grow fast, strong lines against the weak grass, a shield against the dark coming from the grave.
“No… not again… I will not be caged…”
Detective Chen watches in stunned silence as Eloa works, her radio continuing to emit distorted static. The grimoire’s pages suddenly slam shut with a sound like thunder, then immediately flip open again to a different page – one showing a counter-ritual with warnings written in red ink along the margins.
The headstone tilts further, revealing a gap in the earth beneath it. A pale, skeletal hand pushes through the soil, fingers ending in blackened nails that scrape against the stone. The temperature plummets even more, and frost begins forming on the nearby grass despite the warm afternoon.
“The woman… she gave me… strength…” the voice hisses, growing stronger. “But not enough… need more… need the living…”
Chen raises her weapon toward the emerging hand, though her training never covered shooting at graves. “Eloa, whatever you’re doing, do it faster!”
The charcoal circle Eloa is drawing begins to glow with a faint silver light where her lines intersect the original ritual markings in the dead grass. The emerging hand recoils slightly from the light, smoke rising where the glow touches the withered earth.
‘The book change!’ Eloa gasps, her eyes big on the grimoire, then on the glow. ‘Counter… need counter!’ She scramble, trying to copy the new drawing, her charcoal fly fast over the grass. ‘This bind you, not let you out!’ she shout at the grave, sweat on her face from the cold and the hurry. ‘No more strength for you! No more living!’
“REVERTERE” – Return.
“You need to speak it!” Chen shouts over the howling wind that has suddenly picked up around the grave. “The Latin word!”
The spirit of Ezekiel Thorne makes one final desperate lunge toward Eloa, but the completed binding circle flares with blinding light, holding him back. His form wavers, becoming translucent as the original binding reasserts itself.
“Speak the word!” Chen repeats urgently.
Eloa says “Revertere “
Eloa screams it out some more, “Revertere!!”
“The anchor is broken. The witch sleeps again.”
Dr. Foster’s car can be heard pulling up to the cemetery gates, arriving just as the supernatural crisis resolves itself.
‘Is good!’ Eloa says, relief flooding her face as the light pushes the spirit back. She pants, hand on her chest, her eyes wide and shining as the ghostly form shimmers and starts to disappear. ‘He go back!’ She watches until the last bit of the spirit is gone, then looks at Chen, a big, shaky smile on her face. ‘Is finish!’ she whispers, slumping with relief.
The binding circle’s silver glow fades as the last traces of Ezekiel Thorne’s spirit sink back beneath the headstone. The temperature begins to return to normal, and the unnatural wind dies away. The grimoire’s pages flutter once more before settling on a blank page, as if the knowledge within has served its purpose.
Detective Chen holsters her weapon with shaking hands, staring at the now-quiet grave. “I’m going to need a very creative incident report.” She looks at Eloa with newfound respect. “How did you know what to do?”
Dr. Foster approaches from the cemetery entrance, a leather satchel in hand. She’s a middle-aged woman with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses. “Detective Chen? I came as quickly as I could. What exactly needs translating?” She pauses, taking in the scene – the withered grass circle, the scattered ritual components, and the two women who look like they’ve just survived something extraordinary.
The headstone has settled back into its original position, though the fresh scratches remain as evidence of what transpired. In the distance, the normal sounds of late afternoon return – birds chirping, traffic from the nearby street, the rustle of leaves in a natural breeze.
Chen picks up the grimoire carefully. “Dr. Foster, I think we’re going to need you to help us understand exactly what Dr. Whitmore was trying to do here.”
‘Oh, Eloa just… Eloa just try,’ Eloa says, brushing at her dusty hands and avoiding Chen’s gaze. A faint blush touches her cheeks as she looks at the arriving Dr. Foster with open curiosity, her gaze fixed on the expert’s satchel and glasses. She stays silent, letting Chen take over, her attention now fully on the new arrival and what she might reveal. ‘Would like learn more about book.’ She admits.
Dr. Foster adjusts her glasses as she examines the grimoire, her expression growing increasingly grave. “This is a 17th-century binding manual – extremely rare. Most copies were destroyed during the witch trials.” She carefully turns the pages, stopping at the ritual diagram. “Dr. Whitmore was attempting a ‘Colloquium Mortuis’ – a conversation with the dead. But look here…” She points to smudged corrections in the margins. “She made a critical error in the incantation. Instead of simple communication, she created what’s called a ‘soul anchor.'”
Chen takes notes as Foster continues. “The spirit would have been able to drain her life force to manifest physically. Quite dangerous.” Foster glances at the binding circle Eloa drew. “This counter-ritual… it’s remarkably accurate for someone without formal training. Where did you learn this?”
The cemetery has returned to its peaceful afternoon state, but the evidence of the supernatural encounter remains – the withered grass, the scratched headstone, and the lingering sense that something significant has been resolved.
Foster closes the grimoire carefully. “I’ll need to take this back to the university for proper preservation. And Detective, I’d recommend sealing this case file under academic research protocols. Some things are better left undisturbed.”