Meridith’s Tuesday afternoon exorcism
Date: 2025-06-24 15:56
(Meridith’s Tuesday afternoon exorcism)
[Tue Jun 24 2025]
At an empty house
It is noon, about 106F(41C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It’s raining outside. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Prospect/span
The front door of the empty house swings shut behind Cadalie and Meridith with a soft click that echoes strangely in the spacious foyer. Sunlight streams through the tall stone-framed windows, casting sharp geometric shadows across the gleaming hardwood floors, but something feels off about the light – it flickers occasionally, as if clouds are passing overhead despite the storm outside having not yet reached this intensity.
The air inside maintains a comfortable temperature despite the sweltering heat outside, yet both women can detect an underlying metallic scent threading through the pleasant spring blossom fragrance. The carved molding along the walls depicts intricate vines and mythological creatures that seem to shift slightly when viewed from the corner of the eye.
A sudden spike of heat washes through the room, making the air shimmer for just a moment before returning to its previous comfortable temperature. In that brief instant, the modern white walls appear to flicker, revealing glimpses of rich burgundy wallpaper with gold filigree patterns underneath.
From somewhere deeper in the house comes a faint sound – like the distant crackling of a fire, though no fireplace is visible in the immediate area. The scent of burning copper mingles with the metallic smell, growing stronger for a few seconds before fading back to barely perceptible levels.
The house waits around them, empty but somehow expectant, as rain begins to patter more insistently against the tall windows.
Meridith shivers as she enters. “This place is…” she hesitates and sniffs the air a little more intent. Her keen, animalistic senses, explore the story of the smells within the room as her acute eyes flickering over the walls. “…seems like my brethren…” she murmurs. She steps towards the crackling sound.
‘Comfortable’ temperature is exaggerating. Cadalie is sweating long before she enters the room from the hot summer heat- and when the blast hits her, it illicits a dry gag. “Vines? Mayhap. Mayhap Fae.” Locked and loaded, digging a bullet into the housing of the six-seater whip-revolver of death in her palm, she walks off towards the sound.
the way dust motes seem to dance in patterns that don’t match the air currents, and how certain sections of the carved molding appear more worn than others, as if touched by countless hands over decades.
As both women move toward the source of the crackling sound, they pass through a doorway into what appears to be a large sitting room. The sound grows clearer here – definitely the snap and pop of burning wood, accompanied by the faint echo of shouting voices that seem to come from very far away.
Cadalie’s revolver feels reassuring in her grip, but the heat spike that made her gag wasn’t just from temperature – there was something else in it, a sensation like breathing in the aftermath of lightning strikes.
The sitting room stretches before them with those same impossibly high ceilings and geometric light patterns. A modern glass coffee table sits in the center, but for just a moment, both women glimpse something else occupying the same space – an ornate mahogany side table with brass fittings, upon which rests a leather-bound journal that isn’t quite there.
The crackling sound intensifies, and now they can hear something else underneath it: the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones, growing closer.
Meridith frowns. “That’s…ozone?” She murmurs. A sure sigh of supernatural activity in a place like this. A semi-real journal. She peers at Cadalie. “Your area of expertise,” she insists as it certainly is not hers. She turns her attention to the clip-clopping of the horse.
“These days.. I guess it is.” Cadalie concedes, leveling her weapon towards the ghostly sound of clopping hooves and approaching the journal. She doesn’t look at it- not entirely. She’ll be damned if she looks upon some Hells-forbidden knowledge and goes mad from it. Instead, she touches it with her arcane focus- her gauntlet, and tests its solidity within the space.
Cadalie’s gauntleted hand passes through the journal as if it were made of smoke, but the moment her arcane focus makes contact, the leather-bound book solidifies with a soft thud against the glass table. The brass clasps gleam as if freshly polished, and the leather cover bears an embossed symbol – a tree with roots that spiral in mathematical patterns, clearly representing the World Tree.
The horse hooves grow louder, accompanied now by the creaking of wooden wheels and urgent shouts. Through the tall windows, shadows move that don’t match the swaying branches of the World Tree outside – instead, they suggest the silhouettes of horse-drawn carriages racing through streets that no longer exist.
As the journal becomes solid, the temperature in the room plummets suddenly. Frost begins to form on the windows despite the summer heat outside, and both women’s breath becomes visible in small puffs. The crackling fire sound transforms into something else – the hiss and pop of flames being doused by water, followed by the acrid smell of wet ash and charred wood.
The ozone scent Meridith detected intensifies, mixing with something that smells distinctly like melted brass and copper. From somewhere above them comes a new sound – footsteps pacing back and forth across floorboards, accompanied by a woman’s voice speaking in urgent, clipped tones, though the words are too muffled to make out clearly.
Meridith sighs soft. “I’ll admit…it’s not good but I do enjoy the cooling…” Given the oppressive heat outside she just exhales a moment, and shivers. She steps about slow, peering at the cover and blinks. “…More Odin nonsense…” she mumbles. She turns and gazes at the sound of a woman speaking and moves soft to investigate.
Cadalie narrows her eyes at the space beyond. “That’s enough of the temporal alterations.” She retracts her hand now that the book has been made material. “Show yourself. If you are unable to manifest I still would have seen you. Who hides?”
The pacing footsteps above halt abruptly at Cadalie’s challenge. The house falls into an unnatural silence – even the distant sounds of phantom carriages fade away. The frost on the windows begins to melt in rapid rivulets, and the temperature swings back toward comfortable, though the metallic scent remains.
Then, slowly, a figure begins to materialize near the base of the main staircase visible through the sitting room’s archway. She appears translucent at first – a young woman in a soot-stained burgundy dress with intricate beadwork, her dark hair partially escaped from an elaborate updo. Burns mark her hands and forearms, and her face bears the desperate expression of someone racing against time.
“The ritual…” she says, her voice carrying the hollow quality of an echo. “It must be completed or contained. The storm approaches and the barrier weakens.” Her eyes, when they focus on Cadalie and Meridith, hold a mixture of relief and urgency. “You can see me clearly – you have the sight. The laboratory… beneath the foundation… my work cannot be left unfinished.”
The journal on the table begins to flutter open by itself, pages turning rapidly as if blown by an unfelt wind. Symbols and diagrams flash past – complex geometric patterns intertwined with what appear to be alchemical formulas.
The woman’s form flickers, becoming more solid as she continues speaking. “Margaret Whitmore. This was… is… my family’s home. The fire, it was meant to destroy everything, but I tried to save the research. The temporal anchor… it’s destabilizing.”
“NOT HIDING – TRAPPED.”
The letters fade quickly, but more appear: “THE FIRE – IT NEVER ENDED.”
Cadalie’s clairvoyant sight reveals a translucent figure at the top of the staircase visible through the doorway – a woman in a soot-stained burgundy dress, her dark hair partially pinned up but disheveled. She clutches something against her chest, and her mouth moves frantically as if shouting warnings, but no sound reaches them. Behind her, the walls flicker between modern paint and charred Victorian wallpaper.
As Meridith moves toward the staircase to investigate the voice, the journal on the table falls open on its own. The pages are filled with precise handwriting in faded brown ink, interspersed with detailed diagrams of geometric patterns and chemical formulas. One page shows a sketch of the World Tree with annotations about “temporal essence extraction” and “displacement matrices.”
The woman’s ghostly form gestures desperately toward the basement, pointing downward with increasing urgency. The ozone smell grows stronger, and small electrical discharges begin crackling along the carved molding.
Meridith peers between the woman and Cadalie, unseeing. When she gets the gist, she just rubs her forehead. “Basement is the source of the ritual. Perhaps there’s an element we can put right, and end this little loop.” She scoffs. “Do the magical always consider that they are but one failure away from consequences like this? I surely don’t get it.” She makes a move towards the basement, but ultimately follows Cadalie’s lead
“Well. If this is like last time..” Cadalie supposes stepping forward- breaking a few buttons along her neck and capelet to get more of a breeze, following after Meridith towards the basement. “It’s more that this is a town of the Fate-crafted or whatever. Sure, this happens every day across the world- but the nature of this city is to delight a higher being, I suspect. They’ll want daily entertainment.”
As both women move toward what should be the basement entrance, the house itself seems to shift around them. The modern layout flickers, revealing glimpses of Victorian-era architecture – a servants’ staircase that isn’t quite there, doorways that lead to rooms filled with phantom furniture.
The ghostly Margaret follows their movement, her form becoming more solid as they approach the area beneath the main staircase. She points insistently at a section of the modern wall that appears completely solid, but as the temperature drops again, hairline cracks begin to appear in the paint, forming the outline of a hidden door.
“The laboratory,” Margaret’s voice grows clearer, though still echoing strangely. “Father built it to study artifacts from the World Tree. I was trying to preserve the research when the fire reached the chemical stores.” Her burned hands gesture frantically. “The temporal anchor – it’s a crystallized fragment of World Tree sap mixed with mercury and my own… essence. It’s been bleeding time for over a century.”
The journal on the table behind them flips to a page showing detailed architectural plans. The basement laboratory is clearly marked, along with notes about “containment protocols” and “emergency displacement procedures.”
Thunder rumbles outside, much closer now, and the electrical discharges along the molding intensify. The hidden door’s outline becomes more pronounced as the temperature continues to drop.
Meridith grumbles. “I really fuckin’ hate feeling like my life is a reality show to amuse the Fates.” She leans over to flip off an imagined camera they might be watching her from. She steps alongside Cadalie, protective and peers at Margaret. “So, how do we restore the anchor and seal off the leak you caused?” She wonders, looking back to Cadalie.
“..That jargon is far past my own understanding.” Cadalie admits as she stares blankly at the ghost. “Perhaps keep your language simply as if you are speaking to a Wiccan, dear psychic runoff of Margaret? Symbols, sigils- what am I looking for?”
Margaret’s ghostly form flickers with what might be frustration, then seems to concentrate. When she speaks again, her voice is clearer and her language simpler.
“The crystal… it’s cracked. Like a broken mirror reflecting time in all directions.” She gestures toward the hidden door, which now shows a clear handle outline in the temperature-induced condensation. “Below, in my laboratory. The anchor sits in a circle of silver mirrors – they focus the World Tree’s power.”
She holds up her burned hands. “Two choices. Destroy it completely – shatter the crystal, break the mirrors, let the temporal energy dissipate. But…” her form wavers with distress, “that will erase all the research, all Father’s work studying the divine realm’s influence on our world.”
Thunder crashes overhead, and the electrical discharges along the walls pulse brighter.
“Or,” Margaret continues urgently, “complete the ritual properly. The storm outside – it carries World Tree energy. Channel it through the mirrors, into the crystal, seal the crack. But someone must stand where I stood, take the anchor’s burden willingly.”
The hidden door’s handle becomes solid enough to grasp. From beyond it comes a faint blue-white glow and the sound of something humming with barely contained energy.
“Choose quickly,” Margaret pleads. “The storm peaks soon, and if the anchor breaks completely…”
Meridith growls. “What will happen to one who chooses to carry the burden?” she insists as she moves towards the mirrors. Breaking them definitely appeals.
“You’ll pay the cost, honey.” Cadalie pats Meridith on the shoulder lightly, shaking her head with an obvious mouthed ‘no.’
She proceeds towards the ritual. If the staircase is real, she proceeds down. If the staircase is merely a mirage, she breaks through the floor with the stomp of a horse and lands as she may.
The hidden door swings open at Cadalie’s touch, revealing stone steps descending into blue-white light. The staircase is solid, carved from the same ageless stone as the house’s window frames, and leads down into Margaret’s laboratory.
The basement chamber is a mixture of Victorian scientific equipment and mystical apparatus. Seven silver mirrors, each as tall as a person, stand in a perfect circle around a central pedestal. Upon the pedestal sits a crystal the size of a human heart – translucent with veins of silver running through it, but marred by a jagged crack that pulses with unstable light.
Margaret’s form becomes almost solid as she follows them down. “The burden…” she says to Meridith, her voice heavy with old pain. “To become the anchor’s guardian. To feel every temporal fluctuation, every moment that bleeds through. To age slowly, living between seconds. I’ve carried it for over a century.”
Thunder booms overhead, and the mirrors begin to resonate with harmonic tones. The crack in the crystal widens slightly, and through it, both women can see flashes of the 1889 fire – flames licking at wooden beams, people screaming, smoke filling elegant rooms.
“But,” Margaret adds quickly, “if someone with strong will takes it willingly, they can control it better than I ever could. Shape when and how the temporal energy flows.”
The crystal’s humming grows louder as the storm intensifies above.
Meridith raises a brow. “Cadalie. We discussed paths to immortality. They might not all come as quick and clean as this…” She offers stepping over. “We could complete this ritual. I am sure…one of us could handle that power.”
“Anything Margaret has done I can achieve properly.” Cadalie dictates as she looks for the cracked crystal with the hammer half-cocked in her hand- oh my, how dangerous! “I will keep the idea in mind, honey. The World Tree isn’t going everywhere.”
Before she finds the mirror, she takes account of the symbolism added to the ritual to make it work- what elements allow it to contain, what parts facilitate the connection to the Tree itself.
World Tree roots, Norse runes for “binding” and “time,” alchemical signs for mercury and silver, and what appear to be mathematical formulas describing temporal flow rates.
The crystal itself sits within a smaller circle of copper wire embedded in the stone floor, with channels carved to direct energy flow. The setup is designed to capture ambient World Tree energy during storms – when the divine realm’s influence peaks – and focus it through the mirrors into the crystal, creating a stable temporal anchor point.
Margaret watches Cadalie’s analysis with growing hope. “You understand it,” she breathes. “The mirrors amplify and stabilize. The copper channels the raw energy. The crystal stores and regulates the temporal flow.” She points to specific runes. “These bind the anchor to a willing consciousness – that’s what I got wrong. I tried to force it during the fire, without proper preparation.”
Thunder crashes again, closer now, and the mirrors begin to glow faintly. The crack in the crystal widens another fraction, and more scenes from 1889 bleed through – now showing Margaret herself, younger and desperate, frantically working at this same ritual as smoke pours down the stairs.
“The storm is almost at its peak,” Margaret warns urgently. “Whatever you choose, it must be now.”
Meridith exhales softly and steps over. Her blade is poised, ready to put a stop to this ritual as Cadalie commands. “Then let’s put this to rest.”
Cadalie keeps a mental note of the runes; Isa and Nauthiz, Jera and Raido, putting them in memory with the conduit of copper in the stone and its many mirrors. “What’s the crystal made of? What crystal is it? Ammonite? I swear to Satan if it’s quartz…”
Margaret’s ghostly form brightens slightly at the question. “World Tree amber,” she says with a mixture of pride and regret. “A piece that fell during the great storm of 1847 – Father spent years learning to work with it. The silver veins are mercury that’s been alchemically bonded to the amber’s temporal properties.”
The crystal pulses with that blue-white light, and now Cadalie can see why it’s so powerful – World Tree amber naturally exists partially outside normal time, and the mercury creates a conductive matrix for temporal energy. The crack running through it isn’t just physical damage; it’s a fracture in time itself.
Thunder booms directly overhead, and all seven mirrors suddenly flare with brilliant light. The copper channels in the floor begin to glow red-hot as storm energy pours down from above. The crack in the amber widens visibly, and through it, the sounds of the 1889 fire grow louder – crackling flames, shouting voices, the crash of falling timbers.
“Now!” Margaret cries out, her form flickering between solid and translucent. “The peak moment – you must choose!”
The amber crystal begins to vibrate on its pedestal, the crack spreading like a spider web. If it shatters completely, the temporal energy will explode outward uncontrolled.
“Alright.” Cadalie waves a hand to Meridith, eyes still furrowed upon the ritual itself. “I’ve gotten enough to look more into it.”
Cadalie says “Smash the amber- and then the mirrors.“
Meridith sees that time has run out. Even if the crystal might be nigh irreplacable she doesn’t hesitate. She swing her blade with startling speed, crashing through the crystal and through. She pivots and pulls her blade back like a duelist, launching a stacatto of rapid thrusts to shatter each mirror in rapid succession.
Meridith’s blade strikes the World Tree amber with a sound like breaking bells. The crystal explodes in a cascade of golden fragments and silver mercury, releasing a shockwave of temporal energy that ripples through the basement. The mirrors shatter in sequence under her precise strikes, each one releasing a harmonic scream as the focused energy dissipates.
The copper channels in the floor flare white-hot for an instant, then go dark. The blue-white glow that had filled the laboratory fades rapidly, leaving only the normal electric lighting from upstairs filtering down.
Margaret’s ghostly form wavers, becoming translucent again. “It’s… done,” she whispers, and for the first time in over a century, her voice carries relief instead of desperate urgency. “The anchor is broken. The temporal leak is sealed.” She looks at the scattered amber fragments with something like mourning. “Father’s research… all those years of work…”
Above them, the sounds of the phantom fire fade away completely. The temperature stabilizes, the metallic scent dissipates, and the oppressive sense of temporal displacement lifts like a weight being removed from the air.
Margaret’s form begins to fade. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I can finally… rest.”
The storm outside begins to move on, thunder growing more distant. The house feels normal now – just an empty modern residence with unusually fine architecture.