Adelaide’s Monday night ghost banishing
Date: 2025-06-23 00:07
(Adelaide’s Monday night ghost banishing)
[Mon Jun 23 2025]
Hawthorne Hill Cemetery/span
It is night, about 73F(22C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Darkwater/span
There is a waning crescent moon.
Adelaide sits on the carved stone bench, her pale fingers tracing the worn Thai script etched into its surface. The cemetery stretches before her in the moonlight, peaceful except for something that feels distinctly wrong. The jasmine garlands draped over nearby headstones are browning at the edges despite being freshly placed, and several of the small spirit houses show scorch marks around their miniature doorways.
A sudden burst of color catches her eye as cherry blossoms explode into bloom on a nearby tree, their pink petals glowing almost luminescent in the darkness. Within seconds, the flowers begin to blacken and fall like snow, carpeting the gravel path. The sweet scent of jasmine mingles with the acrid smell of dying vegetation.
Near the massive oak at the cemetery’s center, a translucent figure moves frantically between the spirit houses. The woman appears to be trying to hang fresh garlands, her movements urgent and repetitive, but her ghostly hands pass through the flowers again and again. She wears simple cotton gardening clothes, and oleander leaves seem caught permanently in her long black hair.
The colored strings tied to the oak’s branches flutter without any wind, shifting from their original reds and golds to sickly greens and purples. Something is clearly disrupting the careful spiritual balance of this place.
Robert strides on up alongside Gwyndolyn, his posture relaxed and his weapons held down and away from the ready position. “Hello, Miss.” He greets Adelaide faintly and warmly. “Enjoying the late night air?”
Gwyndolyn stands a few paces behind Robert, stretching out her back. She loops her axe over her shoulders, closing the loop with her left hand holding it close to the where the blade meets the shaft. There’s a soft, satisfied groan, like that of someone who had just gotten a good deal of exercising.
Robert reaches up to push up his sunglasses with curled finger, settling his axe on his shoulder while a pouch on his side bulges with things – things that smell faintly, as he calmly rolls a shoulder.
Adelaide sits absolutely still, no breath to be found within her lungs and no colour to be spotted within her cheeks. Her eyes are fixed upon the cherry blossom tree nearby, exploding into unnatural bloom – it’s not quite the season for cherry blossoms, probably – and more unnatural still is the translucent figure beneath, if either Robert or Gwyndolyn can see her. She doesn’t move from her spot, as though spectating some sort of natural phenomena, eyes unblinking, though their coal-dark depths do move to Robert at the question. “Quite,” comes the murmur back, accented in British. “Certainly more than some.” Her gaze shifts back, under the tree.
The ghostly figure beneath the oak tree suddenly freezes, her translucent form turning toward the group. Her face shows a mixture of desperation and hope as she notices the newcomers. She gestures frantically toward the withering spirit houses, her mouth moving as if speaking, though no sound carries across the cemetery.
As Adelaide’s gaze returns to the tree, more cherry blossoms burst into bloom along different branches, creating a cascade of pink and white that immediately begins to darken. The scent of oleander drifts on the still air, sweet and cloying.
The ghost of Siri moves closer, her bare feet making no sound on the gravel path. She points urgently at a spirit house near Robert and Gwyndolyn, its tiny red door hanging askew. Fresh jasmine garlands lie scattered on the ground beside it, as if someone had tried and failed to hang them properly.
Behind the group, one of the colored strings on the oak tree snaps with an audible crack, fluttering to the ground like a dying butterfly. The moment it touches earth, a cold wind rises from nowhere, carrying with it the sound of distant weeping.
Siri’s ghostly form becomes more agitated, her movements growing jerky and desperate as she tries to mime the act of tying strings, hanging garlands, and arranging offerings. Her eyes, dark with urgency, fix on each of the living visitors in turn.
Gwyndolyn drops her axe back into a one-handed grip, tilting her head past the Adelaide and towards the translucent apparitions that surrounded the quiet cemetery bench. Her face immediately scowls a little, as she draws in a deep breath of night air – then laughs. “Oh, God forbid. We’ve already dealt with ghosts yesterday, this is not what I was hoping for…” She casts an almost pleading look to Robert, though deep down she understands they are probably not just walking away from there.
“Oh?” Robert turns to regard the ghostly figure that suddenly appears, clicking his tongue in faint dismay. “You know. If we were a bit north and west, there wouldn’t be any need for this.” He says, lightly. “And you could enjoy the scent of those blossoms directly, Miss Carrow.” His tone is light – almost amused, even, as he sniffs faintly at the air. “Mmn. Poisonous oleander. Did you know the Romans purposely cultivated its toxic nature? Interesting choice to mix with the jasmine.” He’s more conversational, relaxed, as he plants the butt of his axe firmly in the ground, looking down upon the tiny house.
Then his gaze slides up, to the snapping string. “Anyone got some string?” He squats down, now, to pick up one of the garlands, and to carefully hang it back upon the house.
Robert murmurs in aside to Gwyndolyn, with a laugh, “Welcome to this town. Certainly less aggressive than the noose and the bell, isn’t it?”
Gwyndolyn shakes her head in disapproval, “In some ways, I prefer the noose and bell.” She remarks, shifting her eyes back to the pale woman.
“The balance… breaking…”
Adelaide remains motionless on her bench, but her dark eyes track every movement as more cherry blossoms bloom and die in rapid succession. The pattern seems to follow Siri’s emotional state – when Robert successfully hung the garland, the blooms lasted a few seconds longer before withering.
From deeper in the cemetery comes a low, unsettling sound – not quite wind, not quite voices. Several of the newer headstones show fresh disturbances in the soil around them, as if something has been trying to rearrange the grave sites.
Siri points desperately toward a cloth pouch that lies half-buried beneath the oak tree, then mimes the action of tying knots. Her eyes plead with the living visitors to understand something crucial about the cemetery’s spiritual maintenance.
The ghost seems to have found more luck with Gwyndolyn and Robert than she had with Adelaide so far; the lattermost of them certainly doesn’t seem to feel any way about it, considering she’s still seated upon her bench, fingers trailing the patterns carved into the stone idly. “Stopping to smell the flowers? How quaint,” she murmurs to Robert, a briefly amused smile crossing her lips. There’s a shake of her head, more to a thought than to something said aloud, and she draws a tiny spool of thread from a pocket, a deep, dark red in hue. “Catch,” is all the warning someone gets before it’s launched over his way in an arc through the air.
The ghost seems to have found more luck with Gwyndolyn and Robert than she had with Adelaide so far; the lattermost of them certainly doesn’t seem to feel any way about it, considering she’s still seated upon her bench, fingers trailing the patterns carved into the stone idly. “Stopping to smell the flowers? How quaint,” she murmurs to Robert, a briefly amused smile crossing her lips. There’s a shake of her head, more to a thought than to something said aloud, and she draws a tiny spool of thread from a pocket, a deep, dark red in hue. “Catch,” is all the warning Robert gets before it’s launched over his way in an arc through the air.
Robert slings the shotgun over his shoulder, reaching up to snatch the spool from the air. “You have the opportunity to do so yourself, Miss Carrow. Why not live a little?” The man jokes easily as he tucks an axe under one arm, unspooling the thread and slicing off lengths. Deft, one at a time, making regularly sized strings and holding them in open palm in aside to Gwyndolyn. “Are you afraid of little girls, Angie? Or turning away from our duties…” He glances at his watch. “Though we’re on a time limit. So let’s hurry – can you deal with that pouch?”
Siri’s ghostly form brightens with hope as Robert begins cutting the thread into proper lengths. She nods frantically and moves toward the buried pouch, her translucent hands gesturing for someone to retrieve it from beneath the gnarled roots of the oak tree.
As Robert works with the red thread, the cherry blossoms on the nearest branch hold their color for nearly ten seconds before beginning to fade – the longest they’ve lasted yet. The ghost points to specific branches on the oak, then to different spirit houses, as if indicating a precise pattern for where each string should be tied.
The disturbing sounds from deeper in the cemetery grow louder, and a faint green glow begins to emanate from between some of the headstones. Whatever darker presence Siri had been holding back is clearly taking advantage of the disrupted spiritual network.
Gwyndolyn approaches the oak tree where the cloth pouch lies partially buried. The fabric appears to be traditional Thai silk, decorated with intricate gold thread patterns. As she reaches for it, Siri’s ghost moves closer, her mouth forming words that seem to be instructions, though still no sound emerges.
The remaining colored strings on the oak tree continue to shift colors ominously, and another one snaps with that same sharp crack, releasing another wave of cold air that carries the scent of decay mixed with dying flowers.
Siri’s ghostly form brightens visibly as Robert begins cutting the thread into proper lengths. She nods frantically and points again toward the buried pouch, then gestures in a complex pattern – first to the spirit houses, then to specific trees, then back to the oak’s branches where the remaining strings flutter in sickly colors.
As Robert works with practiced hands, the cherry blossoms slow their frantic cycle of bloom and decay. The ghost moves closer to Gwyndolyn, her translucent fingers hovering over the half-buried cloth pouch. Inside, something glints – small metal charms and what appears to be blessed rice wrapped in banana leaves.
The unsettling sounds from deeper in the cemetery grow louder, and a section of disturbed earth near a recent grave begins to shift slightly. Whatever spiritual barrier Siri had maintained in life is clearly failing, and something else is trying to push through the weakened boundaries.
Siri looks directly at Adelaide for the first time, her dark eyes filled with desperate recognition. She points to the pale woman, then to herself, then makes a gesture toward the spirit houses – as if she recognizes something familiar in Adelaide’s stillness and otherworldly composure.
The temperature drops noticeably, and frost begins forming on the metal surfaces of the spirit houses despite the warm June night.
Gwyndolyn groans in jest, snatching the threads off of Robert’s hand. The whole situation, flashbacking to the chapel poltergeist at this exact time yesterday, had her head spinning. Deja vu. Maybe she had a low tolerance for ghosts. “I didn’t expect to be doing ghost babysitting again, is all.” She turns around, casting one last snarky look to Adelaide, as if this were at all her fault, before she begins tying each red thread to each specific branch. Her fingers work quite fast, and the knots are practiced – as if she had experience tying them in different patterns.
“Living is terribly overrated. Wilting, now – there’s poetry in that.” Adelaide/i>is a Courtier, after all – but she rises nevertheless to her feet, making her way past Robert and over to one of the spirit houses. Her hand reaches out, and the encroaching frost upon it melts from unnatural heat, steam coiling through the air as her magic attempts to beat back the frost, and her eyes narrow upon the spirit house, as though making sense of it. Gwyndolyn’s look goes unanswered entirely.
Robert steps around Gwyndolyn as she starts to tie things off, slotting his axe into a sheath and, with lopsided smile, “With all the breaches and fighting, ghosts will be a daily occurrence. At least it isn’t a possession this time. This is much easier to deal with.” He kneels down, plucking up the bag. And then he starts to walk, carefully, around the graves, but not over them. Dropping a rice-package for the dead to ‘enjoy’ and hanging the charm on each grave as he moves, the metal chiming and the stuffed banana leaves making a ‘tump’ noise as they hit the grass.
“Really? Living only happens briefly, briskly. Important to grasp it when you can – and when that warmth of it becomes available. Don’t you enjoy being able to breathe again?” His tone is light. “Imagine. You could go and drink wine. Eat a fine meal. Dance, and luxuriate in life again in Aurora Heights.”
As Gwyndolyn ties the red threads to the oak’s branches with practiced knots, the sickly colors of the remaining strings begin to shift back toward their original reds and golds. Siri’s ghostly form grows more solid and defined, her frantic movements slowing to something more purposeful and calm.
Adelaide’s supernatural heat melts the frost from the spirit house, and as the steam rises, the tiny red door swings open properly for the first time tonight. Siri turns toward her with what might be gratitude, pointing to two more spirit houses that show similar frost damage.
Robert’s methodical placement of rice offerings and charms creates a visible effect – each grave he tends glows faintly with warm golden light, and the disturbing sounds from deeper in the cemetery begin to quiet. The green glow between the headstones starts to fade as the spiritual network strengthens.
As the three work in concert, Siri’s ghost becomes almost solid. She approaches Adelaide directly, her mouth moving in what appears to be Thai words of thanks. She gestures toward the remaining spirit houses, then to herself, and finally makes a peaceful gesture – hands pressed together in a traditional wai greeting.
The cherry blossoms on the tree near Adelaide’s original bench bloom once more, but this time they hold their color, glowing softly in the moonlight like paper lanterns. The scent of oleander fades, replaced by the sweet fragrance of jasmine and fresh earth.
Siri looks at each of them in turn, her expression shifting from desperate urgency to profound relief. She bows deeply, then begins to fade – not in distress, but peacefully, like morning mist touched by sunlight.