Constance’s Thursday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-06-26 17:18
(Constance’s Thursday evening exorcism)
[Thu Jun 26 2025]
At Haven Field/span
It is afternoon, about 65F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Panama and Blackstone/span
The afternoon air at Haven Field carries an unusual tension as Robert, Constance, and Gail find themselves drawn to the public park by reports of “strange disturbances.” Dark storm clouds gather overhead, casting the carefully maintained grounds in muted gray light.
A jogger in bright yellow shorts runs past them along the main path, his breathing labored and sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his back. Thirty seconds later, the same jogger passes again from the exact same direction, wearing the same expression of determined focus. And again. His footsteps pound out an identical rhythm each time.
Near the central fountain, a park maintenance worker in green coveralls snips at a hedge with mechanical precision. He steps back, frowns at the branch, then leans forward to cut it again. The branch appears unchanged, but he repeats the motion with growing frustration.
The fountain itself operates with strange regularity – its water level rising and falling in perfect 3.7-second intervals, as if some invisible mechanism constantly measures and adjusts the flow. Steam rises intermittently from brass vents hidden among the geometric flower beds, where tulips have begun growing in spirals that seem to twist deeper than should be possible.
A translucent figure in a formal Victorian coat materializes briefly beside a woman feeding pigeons, clipboard in hand, before dissolving when she turns to look directly at it.
The brass heating pipes that run throughout the park emit a low, rhythmic humming that seems to pulse in time with something deep underground.
Constance sighs as she watches the same jogger run past again and again and again. “Well, it doesn’t seem like a PERFECT loop,” she comments, observing the worker’s frustration. “Oh, great, it’s fucking ghosts again. If we don’t fulfill the ghost’s clipboard on ‘how precisely should things be for these three seconds’ we’re probably stuck too.”
Gail presses her side of one finger against her painted lips as she gazes at the figures three with a thoughtful hum, bending one knee slightly and dragging the toe of her boots across the grass. She watches the events repeat themselves for a short while before turning her gaze to Constance, snickering silently, “So *that’s* what one of those ghosts look like… I’ve heard so very much about them. I wonder why she’s studying these people here…?”
“You could always break everything, too. I imagine shutting off the fountain for a bit would attract attention.” Robert looks upon the humming fountain with faint interest, his head tilting as he observes the flowers for a moment. “And not all of them. The last few instances of banishing were mourning, or possession. This is new on me.” He relays to Gail as he steps over towards the struggling maintenance worker, and taps the pommel of the weapon on brass with a distinct clang!
“Excuse me. Do you mind helping me for a moment?” He politely asks.
The maintenance worker jerks at the sound of Robert’s weapon against the brass pipe, his pruning shears freezing mid-snip. He turns with wide, bloodshot eyes that dart frantically between Robert’s face and the hedge branch.
“Help? Help with what?” His voice cracks slightly. “I can’t… this branch isn’t right. It’s three millimeters too long, maybe four. The symmetry is all wrong.” He gestures helplessly at the hedge, which appears perfectly trimmed to any normal observer. “I’ve been trying to fix it but every time I cut it, it grows back wrong again.”
The jogger pounds past once more, his yellow shorts now darker with sweat stains that weren’t there in previous loops. This time, his breathing sounds more ragged, desperate.
As Constance speaks about the ghost’s clipboard, another translucent Victorian figure materializes near the fountain. This one wears a top hat and carries what appears to be a measuring tape that extends impossibly long, stretching across the park in wavering lines before dissolving. The figure makes a note on its clipboard and shakes its head disapprovingly.
The tulips in the nearest flower bed have twisted their spiral patterns tighter, and Gail notices that looking directly at them creates a dizzy sensation, as if her eyes are being pulled into the geometric center.
The brass pipes’ humming grows slightly louder, and steam begins venting more frequently from the hidden outlets. The temperature around the heating elements feels warmer than the mild afternoon should warrant.
A woman sitting on one of the ornate iron benches suddenly stands and begins straightening her coat obsessively, smoothing out wrinkles that aren’t visible, her movements becoming more frantic with each pass.
Constance notes, “I’ve found in Redstone that everyone’s deeply concerned with efficiency or with how things should be, every time I’ve found a disturbance in the borough. I guess Hell and Germany are kind of the same place after all?”, she suggests to Robert and Gail. “Not sure what would happen if we broke everything, but it’d definitely cause a lasting disturbance and we’re supposed to SOLVE it so we look good to the inhabitants, right?”
Gail’s brow furrows slightly as her blue eyes dart around the sight of flower petals continuing in mindboggling repetition before she shakes her head, reaching a hand up to her forehead to rub on it softly. Standing back up straight, she turns her chin to regard Robert with a lid of her eyes, “This is the first time I’ve found myself in one of these little conundrums…” Gail steps over and toward the fountain, placing her hand on the stone rim as she bends over slightly toward it, “Maybe for this spirit to rest properly, it needs to let go of the fact that things won’t always be perfect, though, hm, Connie?” She gazes over her shoulder, “After all, the hedgetrimmer over there cannot ever seem to get it quite right. Buy him a drink maybe and tell him to take the day off?” She snickers, “The world won’t stop for one little twig out of place…”
“Turning the fountain off. I’m sure you know where the electrical box is, right? It sounds and smells like it’s getting ready to overheat or burst, which sounds like an some runaway issue. You don’t want the entire garden to burst into flames or the fountain to explode, do you?” Robert points out reasonably, easily to the man, offering a small smile. He tilts his head at Constance’s words, making a ‘hm’ noise of thought and then lifting his shoulders. “Probably more industrial in this area fro awhile. That being said…” He nods at Gail’s words. “See? Listen to her. Perhaps that’s just how it was meant to grow. Plants have their own designs.”
The maintenance worker’s eyes widen at Robert’s mention of the fountain overheating. “The electrical box? Yes, yes it’s…” He points with a shaking hand toward a small utility shed near the park’s edge, then looks back at his hedge with anguish. “But I can’t leave this. The inspection is tomorrow and if the symmetry isn’t perfect…”
As Gail places her hand on the fountain’s stone rim, the water’s precise 3.7-second rhythm stutters for a moment. The translucent Victorian figure with the measuring tape turns sharply toward her, its clipboard dissolving and reforming with agitated scratching sounds.
The woman on the bench has now begun obsessively straightening not just her coat, but also realigning the brass heating pipes’ decorative caps with her fingertips, muttering about “proper angles” and “acceptable tolerances.”
Steam suddenly vents more forcefully from several hidden outlets, and the brass pipes’ humming shifts to a higher, more urgent pitch. The geometric tulip spirals begin rotating slowly, their impossible patterns creating a subtle vertigo for anyone watching.
A new translucent figure materializes directly in front of the maintenance worker – this one wearing a craftsman’s leather apron and holding what appears to be a set of calipers. It points accusingly at the hedge, then at the worker, before making harsh marks on its clipboard.
The jogger stumbles slightly on his next pass, his perfect rhythm finally breaking. He catches himself, looks around in confusion, then immediately resumes his mechanical running pattern.
Underground, something metallic groans ominously, and the park’s carefully maintained grass begins showing small brown patches in perfect geometric patterns around each brass heating vent.
Robert turns immediately as soon as the worker points it out, not even bothering staying to let him finish, and striding over with thump-thump-thump of his boots across path and greenery, not giving a care for the ‘proper’ paths through the park. That groaning sounds bad enough. He raises his axe in a single hand to his shoulder and, should the shed be locked, the blade comes down in brutal swing to HACK the shed open and reveal what’s inside before he yanks open the door. A patient man he is not, especially with the possibility of further damage to the park.
Gail hums and frowns, “The spirit seems displeased with that, mhm.” Hands on her hips, she twists her shoulders a bit to spectate at the flower she’d been peering at earlier, painted lips pursed in a soft frown. Her gaze lingers there for another few mind-spinning moments, before darting out over the grass, seeing it too taking on peculiar characteristics, “There’s somethin’ strange about the patterns here, ain’t there? Maybe that’s a clue that we…” She trails off, brows raising with a look of passive interest as Robert takes such aggressive action, “Goodness…”
Robert’s axe bites deep into the utility shed’s wooden door with a satisfying crack. The lock mechanism splinters and the door swings open to reveal a cramped space filled with electrical panels, coiled hoses, and maintenance tools. But more importantly, a thick brass pipe runs along the back wall, connected to the fountain’s pump system. The pipe is vibrating intensely, and Robert can see stress fractures forming along its joints. A pressure gauge mounted nearby shows readings well into the red zone.
The moment the shed door crashes open, every translucent Victorian figure in the park turns toward Robert simultaneously. Their clipboards begin smoking and dissolving rapidly, and the craftsman with calipers lets out a soundless shriek before vanishing entirely.
The maintenance worker drops his pruning shears with a clatter. “What are you doing? That’s not… you can’t just…” But his voice trails off as he blinks rapidly, as if waking from a dream.
Gail’s observation about the patterns proves prescient – the geometric brown patches in the grass are indeed forming a larger design, visible now from her vantage point near the fountain. They’re arranging themselves into what looks like a blueprint or technical drawing, with precise measurements and angles marked out in dead vegetation.
The jogger finally stops running completely, stumbling to his knees and gasping. “How long… how long have I been…?”
Underground, the metallic groaning intensifies, and steam begins venting more violently from the brass outlets. The fountain’s water level fluctuations become erratic, no longer following the precise 3.7-second pattern.
The woman at the bench suddenly stops her obsessive straightening and looks around in bewilderment. “What was I doing?”
Robert’s axe bites deep into the utility shed’s wooden door with a resounding CRACK. The lock splinters away and the door swings open to reveal a cramped space filled with electrical panels, coiled hoses, and maintenance equipment. But what draws immediate attention is the brass control panel for the fountain system – its gauges are spinning wildly, needles jumping between red zones marked “CRITICAL PRESSURE.”
Behind the main panel, a section of the shed’s floor has buckled upward, revealing cracked concrete and the glint of more brass piping underneath. Steam hisses up through the gaps, carrying with it the acrid smell of overheated metal and something else – old wood, varnish, and the mustiness of a space sealed for decades.
The moment Robert opens the shed, the Victorian figures throughout the park become more solid, more agitated. The one with calipers begins gesticulating frantically at the maintenance worker, who drops his pruning shears and clutches his head.
“No, no, no!” the worker cries out. “The measurements are all wrong! Everything’s wrong!” He begins backing away from his hedge, then suddenly freezes completely, unable to move forward or backward.
The jogger’s loop breaks entirely – he stumbles to a halt, gasping, looking around in bewilderment before his legs begin moving again against his will, forcing him back into his repetitive path.
The fountain’s water level fluctuations become erratic, and the geometric brown patches in the grass begin spreading outward from each heating vent. The tulip spirals spin faster, their impossible geometry now causing visible distortion in the air around them.
From beneath the shed’s broken floor, the sound of something large and metallic shifting echoes upward, accompanied by the distant scratch of tools on stone.
Constance claps her hands together, eager for the violence, even if it’s just on objects. “Critical pressure, huh? Doesn’t that mean we have to either turn off the steam or find a way to release it? Hmm. I’d say use the axe on the fucking pipes but that sounds, you know, explosive and lethal.”
Gail nods to Constance, “I’m bettin’ there’s a spot we need to break through at to to relieve it all.” Stepping nearer to a leisurely pace in contrast to the bedlam the workers and parkgoers seem to be in, she tilts her chin at the floor, “Cut through there next, Robert. Sounds like there’s somethin’… or some/one/ underneath there.”
“Connie, shoot a hole in one of the pipes. Once I get out of range,” Robert quickly clarifies before Constance can get any ideas as he give the panel a single glance. There’s a significant lack of surprise. His axe comes up, reversing it and using as his eyes search through the panel – and he simply extends his axe towards the ‘main power’ switch, flicking it off at more than arm’s length and then quickly taking a few hurried steps and clearing Constance’s line of fire for it.
Dryly, he responds, “Nice try attempting to have me eat a faceful of steam, Gail.”
Robert’s axe handle flicks the main power switch with a decisive click. The fountain’s pump immediately shudders to a halt, its mechanical humming dying away. The water level stops its erratic fluctuations and begins dropping steadily.
But the underground pressure problem remains – the brass pipes continue vibrating violently, and steam still vents from the heating outlets throughout the park. The gauges on the panel show pressure readings that are actually climbing higher now that the circulation has stopped.
Constance raises her weapon toward the most accessible section of brass piping visible through the shed’s broken floor. The pipe glows cherry-red with heat, stress fractures spider-webbing along its surface.
The moment the fountain stops, every translucent Victorian figure in the park becomes fully solid and visible. The craftsman with calipers points directly at Robert and begins shouting soundlessly, his mouth moving in obvious fury. Two more figures materialize – one wearing a factory foreman’s cap, another in a guild master’s elaborate coat with brass buttons.
The maintenance worker suddenly breaks free from his paralysis and runs toward the shed. “You don’t understand! The workshop! Master Pemberton’s workshop is down there! The steam pressure builds up because his tools are still working, still trying to finish the piece!”
Underground, the metallic groaning becomes rhythmic – like hammering, like someone working metal with desperate precision. The brown geometric patterns in the grass spread faster, forming what’s clearly a blueprint now – technical drawings of some elaborate ceremonial object with impossibly complex measurements.
The Victorian figures begin advancing on all three investigators, their clipboards now burning with actual flames, their expressions twisted with perfectionist rage.
Constance laughs as she fires off at the pipes, aiming to cripple the infrastructure and stop the workshop from functioning. “Anyone named Pemberton is not working on ANYTHING good for the borough,” she declares. “That’s an asshole’s name if I’ve ever heard one.”
Gail frowns and nods to the maintenance worker as she looks sidelong to Robert, eyelids low, “Maybe y’misunderstood me, Rob… but I wanted you to cut through the floor, not the pipe.” Snickering, she unzips her handbag, casually reaching into it to procure her vintage-looking revolver pistol from its clutches. Taking slow and even steps toward the shed, she peers down the nearest access into the chamber that appears to be beneath and squints a bit with a light huff. Rolling her shoulders once, she steadily aims at the ‘tools’ working within and carefully pulls on the trigger, firing off a shot into them, “Gotta stop ’em from tearin’ this pretty little park apart…”
Robert turns away from destruction – raising his axe crosswise and simply interposing himself between the worker and the shed, Constance and Gail and the Victorian figures, his smile crooking in amusement. “I don’t think anything like this is worth finishing, do you?” He questions, his gaze drifting across their clipboards, flashing white teeth in sudden grin. “Why not just have a nice little park?”
“No! Not yet! It’s not perfect! The angles are wrong, the proportions… I need more time!”
The Victorian figures freeze mid-advance as Robert interposes himself between them and the others. The one in the guild master’s coat tilts its head, studying him with burning eyes. “A nice little park?” it speaks for the first time, its voice like grinding metal. “Nothing is ever just… nice. Everything must be measured. Judged. Perfected.”
But as the steam pressure releases and the underground hammering stops, the figures begin flickering like candle flames in wind. Their clipboards crumble to ash, and the geometric patterns in the grass start fading back to normal green.
The maintenance worker staggers backward, blinking rapidly. “I… what was I doing? The hedge looks fine. It’s always looked fine.”
The jogger has stopped completely and sits heavily on a bench, wiping sweat from his brow. “How long was I running?”
Underground, Pemberton’s voice grows fainter: “Imperfect… all imperfect… but perhaps… perhaps that’s… acceptable…”
The tulips in their flower beds slowly unwind from their impossible spirals, returning to normal blooms swaying in the afternoon breeze.