Chara’s Saturday evening ghost banishing
Date: 2025-06-21 19:42
(Chara’s Saturday evening ghost banishing)
[Sat Jun 21 2025]
At Haven Field/span
It is afternoon, about 80F(26C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Autumn and Washington/span
The afternoon sun beats down on Haven Field as Constance and Chara walk along the dark stone pathways. What should be a peaceful stroll through the well-maintained park feels oddly unsettling. The brass heating pipes that emerge from the grass at regular intervals emit a low, discordant humming that seems almost musical, creating an eerie harmony that makes the hair on their arms stand up despite the warm weather.
Near the central fountain, an ornate iron bench sits at a strange angle, clearly moved from its original position beside the path. Scuff marks in the dirt suggest it was dragged several feet, though no maintenance workers are visible anywhere in the park. The geometric flower beds show signs of recent disturbance – several tulips have been uprooted and replanted in slightly different positions, breaking the mathematical precision of their arrangement.
A faint outline in the grass catches the eye, barely visible unless viewed from just the right angle. The pattern resembles surveying marks or architectural measurements, forming part of what might be a much larger design spanning the entire park grounds. The fountain’s mechanical cycling seems to stutter occasionally, as if something is interfering with its precise operation.
The distant factory hum from the surrounding Redstone borough continues its constant backdrop, but the brass pipes’ discordant tones weave through it in a way that makes both women’s skin crawl. Something is clearly wrong with Haven Field’s carefully maintained order.
Chara looks around the public park noting the dragged park bench primarily moving over to examine it “I was feeling it… somewhere around here.”
Constance takes a deep breath, glancing around at the Redstone locale. She sits down on the iron bench. “Wonder who fucked around with the park?”, she wonders, curiously. “Usually ghosts or whatever can’t really do anything like THIS…The fountain seems messed up, too.”
As Constance settles onto the displaced bench, the brass heating pipes throughout the park suddenly shift their discordant humming to a higher pitch, creating an almost mournful wail. The moment she sits down, the bench lurches slightly, as if something invisible is trying to push it back to its original position.
Chara’s examination of the bench reveals fresh scratches in the iron scrollwork – not from tools, but as if someone had gripped it with desperate fingers. The decorative spikes among the flourishes show signs of recent contact, with what appears to be fabric threads caught on several points.
The faint outline in the grass becomes more pronounced as both women focus on it. The surveying marks form precise geometric angles, and following the pattern with their eyes, they can see it extends toward the fountain, the flower beds, and beyond – creating what looks like a massive, complex diagram spanning the entire park.
Near the fountain, a translucent figure flickers into view for just a moment – a tall, gaunt man in a Victorian suit, holding what appears to be surveying equipment. He’s measuring the distance between the fountain and a nearby oak tree, his mouth moving as if reciting calculations. The apparition fades before either woman can get a clear look, but the brass pipes’ discordant harmony grows more agitated.
The fountain’s stuttering becomes more pronounced, water spurting irregularly as if the mechanical precision is being deliberately disrupted by unseen hands.
Chara catches that glimpse looking toward the fountain area “Uh… did you see that too?” she asks stepping away from the bench
Constance nods intently, getting up. “Well,” she mutters. “Looks like the problem here has to do with how everything’s moved out of place. If only we had a nature wizard around,” she sighs, moving to use her colossal strength to pick up the bench and drag it back into position.
As Constance grips the ornate iron bench, her supernatural strength makes quick work of dragging it back toward what appears to be its original position along the pathway. The moment the bench slides into place with a satisfying scrape against the stone, the brass pipes’ discordant humming shifts to a slightly more harmonious tone – still unsettling, but less aggressively jarring.
The translucent figure materializes more solidly near the fountain, and both women can now see him clearly. The gaunt man in the soot-stained Victorian suit looks up from his surveying tools with obvious relief, nodding approvingly at Constance’s action. His mouth moves in what might be words of gratitude, though no sound reaches them.
However, his relief is short-lived. The ghost’s attention turns to the disturbed flower beds, and his expression becomes increasingly agitated. He gestures frantically at the uprooted tulips, then begins pacing between the geometric patterns, his surveying equipment flickering in and out of visibility as his distress grows.
The fountain’s stuttering intensifies, and steam begins rising more heavily from the hidden vents among the landscaping. The geometric outline in the grass pulses faintly, as if responding to the ghost’s emotional state. Several more benches throughout the park are now clearly visible in wrong positions, and a few oak trees show signs of disturbed earth around their bases, as if someone has been attempting to relocate them.
The ghost stops pacing and stares directly at both women, pointing urgently at the displaced tulips.
Chara watches as Constance puts the bench back. Noting the brass pipes humming settling down before she sees the victorian era surveyor ghost or whatever it is. And the urgent pointing at the tulips “Oh! I think it wants us to fix the tulips.” she says moving over to the garden bed to start to get to work on the tulips. Just using her hands to dig up the tulips that dont line up and putting them where believe is the correct position. She never quite was one for flower arrangements though.
Constance winces. “Yeah, that’s why I made that comment about a natural wizard. Some mancy would clean this up without us having to dirty our hands,” she scowls. “Ugh, I hate bending over!” Nevertheless, she gets on her knees and starts to help.
“…three point seven feet from the central axis… mathematical precision essential… the harmony must be preserved…”
Chara’s instinctive placement of the first few tulips proves surprisingly accurate. The moment she repositions a bright red bloom into what feels like the right spot, that section of the geometric pattern in the grass glows faintly before settling. The brass pipes’ harmony shifts again, becoming slightly more melodious.
However, Constance’s attempts at flower arrangement clearly frustrate the perfectionist ghost. When she places a yellow tulip in what seems like an obvious spot, the ghost shakes his head vigorously and points to a position exactly eighteen inches to the left. His surveying tools materialize more solidly, and he begins using them to indicate precise measurements between flowers.
The fountain’s mechanical stuttering eases somewhat as they work, but steam continues rising from the vents. Other displaced elements throughout the park – more benches, a few ornamental shrubs, even some of the heating pipes – seem to pulse with the same faint geometric outline, waiting for correction.
The ghost’s agitation lessens as the flower bed slowly returns to its intended mathematical precision, but his expression remains urgent, as if this is only the beginning of a much larger problem.
Chara wipes her hands on her already earthy-brown shirt. Her knees brown from kneeling in the dirt “Been awhile since i’ve done gardening..” she idly comments before looking around “Hey! Surveyor guy! What else is wrong with the place?” she calls out after not seeing anything overly obvious
“The array… compromised… sacred geometry disrupted… three years of calculations… ruined…” His voice carries the weight of obsessive desperation. He gestures broadly across the park with his flickering surveying rod. “Every element must align… the focal points… the energy flows…”
Following his gestures, both women can now see the full scope of the problem. At least six more benches sit at wrong angles throughout the park. Several ornamental shrubs have been moved from their positions, breaking the geometric lines. Most concerning, the brass heating pipes that emerge from the ground show signs of having been bent or redirected, their warm surfaces now pointing in slightly different directions.
The ghost points specifically toward a large oak tree near the park’s eastern edge, where the earth around its base is heavily disturbed. “That one… moved it six inches… six inches ruins everything… the sigil cannot function… entities drawn here instead of repelled…”
The fountain’s stuttering becomes more violent, and the steam from the vents takes on an almost sulfurous smell. The geometric pattern in the grass pulses more urgently, as if something dangerous is building.
Chara looks over to Constance “I think i’m gonna have some issues with the benches. You get the benches? I’ll grab the flowers?” she proposes moving over to one of the other flower beds and getting to work
Constance sighs, getting up and dusting off her hands. “YEah, we’ll play to our strengths,” she states to Chara, moving to work on the benches and pipes instead of with the plants.
“Two and one-quarter inches northeast… the golden ratio must be maintained…”
However, as they work, the fountain’s violent stuttering reaches a crescendo. Steam billows more heavily from the vents, and the sulfurous smell grows stronger. The ghost’s expression becomes increasingly frantic as he points toward the displaced oak tree.
“The focal point… the tree… if it remains wrong when the others align… the array will invert completely… something terrible will manifest…”
Chara looks over to the tree as she stands back up from another flower bed moving over to it “Uh… how the fuck are we gonna fix that??”
Constance takes a deep breath. “Well, we could always just let it manifest,” she states to Chara. “It’s the 63rd’s responsibility to deal with Redstone right now. If something terrible manifests and starts fucking up all the civilians, it diverts legionairres to help solve the problem or else they look like they’re pathetic and can’t handle things. Which would help our polling.”
The ghost of Elias Thornwick turns toward Constance with a look of absolute horror, his translucent form flickering more violently. “You… you don’t understand… the entities this will draw… not just demons… things from the spaces between… they will consume everything… starting with New Haven…”
The brass pipes throughout the park begin resonating at a frequency that makes both women’s teeth ache. The geometric pattern in the grass pulses with increasing urgency, and cracks begin appearing in the fountain’s stone basin as the water pressure builds beyond the mechanical system’s capacity.
At the displaced oak tree, Chara can see that the massive trunk has indeed been shifted – impossible as it seems. The disturbed earth around its base forms a perfect circle, and within that circle, the grass has died in geometric patterns. The tree’s roots, partially exposed, show signs of supernatural manipulation rather than natural growth.
“Six inches… just six inches back to its sacred position… but the weight… the root system… I tried for decades…” The ghost’s voice becomes more desperate. “The summer solstice… today… the array’s power peaks at sunset… if not corrected by then…”
The steam from the vents begins taking on shapes – twisted, writhing forms that dissipate before becoming fully manifest. Something is already trying to push through.
Chara looks over to Constance “I mean… you have a point there.” she admits looking over to the tree
The ghost’s form suddenly solidifies with desperate fury, his surveying tools becoming fully corporeal as he slams them against the ground. “FOOLS! You think this is politics? This is annihilation!”
The brass pipes’ resonance reaches a painful crescendo, and the geometric pattern in the grass begins glowing with an ominous red light. The fountain’s stone basin cracks completely, sending scalding water cascading across the pathways. Steam billows from every vent, and within the sulfurous clouds, shadowy forms with too many angles begin taking shape.
“The Geometers… they hunger for ordered space to corrupt… they will remake New Haven in impossible dimensions… your political games mean nothing when reality itself unravels!”
The displaced oak tree begins to groan and sway despite the still air, its roots writhing visibly above ground. The dead grass around its base spreads outward in expanding geometric patterns. Something vast and alien presses against the barrier between worlds, and the summer solstice sun hangs lower in the sky.
“Minutes… we have minutes before the alignment completes… help me or watch your world become a feeding ground for entities that exist in eleven dimensions!”
The shadowy forms in the steam grow more solid, reaching toward the living women with appendages that hurt to look at directly.
The ghost’s form suddenly solidifies with desperate fury, his surveying tools manifesting as solid objects that clatter to the ground. “NO! You cannot comprehend what approaches! I spent three years creating this focusing array by accident – it draws things that should never touch this realm!”
The twisted shapes in the steam become more defined, reaching tendrils of shadow that stretch toward the living women. The brass pipes’ resonance reaches a painful crescendo, and several of the heating pipes begin glowing red-hot despite the afternoon warmth.
“The tree… Margaret… my wife… she’s buried beneath it… moved it to be closer to her grave… didn’t realize… the mathematics…” His voice breaks with anguish. “If the array completes at sunset, it will tear open a permanent gateway. The 63rd Legion, your politics, none of it will matter when the Outer Dark pours through!”
The fountain explodes upward in a geyser of superheated water and steam. The geometric patterns in the grass now burn with eldritch fire, and the oak tree begins to lean ominously as its supernaturally disturbed roots lose their grip on reality itself.
Sunset approaches rapidly – perhaps twenty minutes remain before the summer solstice reaches its peak power.
The shadowy forms suddenly lunge forward from the steam, their impossible geometries causing reality to warp around them. One reaches toward Chara with what might be an arm, but the limb splits into fractal branches that exist in multiple dimensions simultaneously.
“NOW! The tree must be moved NOW!” Elias screams, his ghostly form blazing with desperate energy.
The brass pipes throughout the park begin to glow red-hot, their discordant harmony becoming a shriek that shatters several ornamental lamp posts. The geometric pattern in the grass pulses with blinding intensity, and the displaced oak tree’s roots tear free from the earth entirely, the massive trunk beginning to float six inches above the ground.
“I can lift it with the array’s power, but I need the living to guide it! Six inches southwest to the sacred position! Quickly, before the Geometers fully manifest!”
The shadowy entities press closer, their presence causing the air itself to fracture into crystalline shards. The summer solstice sun touches the horizon, and reality begins to buckle under the weight of eleven-dimensional hunger.
The floating oak tree awaits direction, Elias’s ghostly hands straining to maintain control over forces beyond mortal comprehension.
Constance hisses as she examines the tree, uncertain how to move a whole ass tree – “Damnit, I guess I have to try,” she groans, moving over and hugging ti and trying to drag the damn thing over. She can move a car, maybe the tree’s dislodged enough to work.”
Chara sighs moving to help Constance but she aint very strong. But the ghost seems to have levitated it. So that helps! “FINE FINE. Wherew we gonna put it?”
“Southwest! Six inches southwest!” Elias screams, his ghostly form blazing with supernatural effort as he maintains the tree’s levitation.
With the oak floating weightlessly, Constance’s supernatural strength easily guides the massive trunk in the correct direction. Chara helps steady it as they move it precisely where the ghost frantically gestures – a spot marked by a small, weathered headstone barely visible beneath decades of fallen leaves.
“Margaret…” Elias whispers as the tree settles into its proper position with a resonant thud that echoes through dimensions.
The moment the oak’s roots touch the sacred ground, the geometric pattern in the grass flares brilliant white before fading to a peaceful glow. The brass pipes’ shrieking harmony transforms into something almost musical – still otherworldly, but no longer painful. The shadowy Geometers shriek as they’re pulled back through closing dimensional rifts, their impossible forms dissolving like smoke.
The fountain’s geyser subsides to its normal mechanical cycling, and the sulfurous steam clears to reveal Haven Field restored to its intended mathematical perfection. Every bench, every flower, every heating pipe now sits in precise alignment.
Elias Thornwick’s ghost becomes solid one final time, kneeling beside the small headstone beneath the oak. “Forgive me, my dear… I tried to bring you closer, but I nearly doomed us all.” He looks up at both women with profound gratitude. “The array is corrected. It will protect New Haven as I intended, not destroy it.”
His form begins to fade as the summer solstice sun sets completely. “Thank you… both of you… for choosing salvation over politics.”
The ghost dissolves into peaceful light, and Haven Field settles into tranquil evening silence, its supernatural defenses finally functioning as designed.