Sofia’s Friday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-06-27 17:48
(Sofia’s Friday evening exorcism)
[Fri Jun 27 2025]
In empty brownstone
It is about 60F(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At King and Woodcrest/span>/spanThe afternoon sun slants through the tall windows of the empty brownstone, illuminating dust motes that dance in the still air. The hardwood floors creak softly under the weight of a solitary figure pacing near the brick fireplace. Dr. Helena Marsh moves in a slow, deliberate circle, her wire-rimmed glasses catching the light as her head turns at odd angles, as if listening to voices only she can hear.
“” she mutters in Latin, then switches abruptly to heavily accented Middle English. “” Her voice carries a strange quality, sometimes higher, sometimes deeper than it should be.
Helena stops suddenly before the empty built-in bookshelves, pressing her palms against the bare wood. Her fingers trace patterns in the air as if reading invisible spines. “” She turns, and for a moment her expression clears with confusion and fear. “I… I don’t remember coming here. Why am I…?”
The moment passes. Her posture straightens with an authority that seems borrowed from another century entirely. She notices the four of you standing in the doorway, and her lips curve into a smile that doesn’t quite fit her face.
“” The word drips with an accent that shifts between medieval Latin inflection and something far older. “”
Ambrose says “It feels infernal. One seventy eight, a down west a smidge and in the first brownstone.“
Sofia looks from Ambrose, to Stelle, to Alice, scratching her head as she spots the arrival of Helena. “Can anyone understand what the hell she’s saying? She sounds like the Canterbury Tales or something.” She leans forward on her baseball bat with a grumble, glancing over her shoulder to see Obadiah arrive. “Oh, sup?”
“I can’t understand her,” Alice reports almost immediately, readying her pistol but not bringing it up to aim just yet. Instead, she eyes Helena warily, looking to Ambrose and Sofia first and foremost. Tension builds in the girl, every muscle ready to go, but she waits for a signal first. “Is she okay?”
Obadiah makes a lazy wave with his his had as he approaches, “Some other help inbound I wager.” He puts his hands in his pockets and adjusts his stick pin briefly before fishing out a tool roll. “I am sure it will be ok.”
Stelle shrugs a bit, her position taken somewhat between Helena and the rest as she comments, “Not a clue, no? But it seems we have plenty.”
Sofia grins lightly at Alice and tampers her hand downwards, saying, “Let’s try talkin’ before we start glockin’.”
“I can tell it is Latin, but Latin is not my strong suit,” Ambrose reports back to the others, though his unblinking eyes remain on Helena. Calmly and placidly, he steps into the room more fully, shades coming down and into his jacket pocket. He doesn’t address her, though; his attention drifts off to the room in general.
Amber slips into the space, following the voices but staying far enough back to not get in the way. She seems inclined to not start mucking about before she has any idea what’s going on.
Gabriel arrives a bit late to the party and takes his place near the back of the crowd to form an assessment of the situation.
“Gabe,” Obadiah greats Gabriel with a nod, the two Knights both looking worse for wear, but Gabriel at least gets a grin at this dire situation. “Got to be useful, right?”
Helena’s head tilts at an unnatural angle as she studies the group, her eyes moving from face to face with predatory interest. When Sofia mentions the Canterbury Tales, something flickers across Helena’s features – a brief moment of academic excitement that seems genuinely her own.
“Chaucer?” Helena’s voice suddenly clears, speaking in modern English with her natural inflection. “Yes, I teach… I was teaching…” Her hand rises to her temple, confusion washing over her face. “Why can’t I remember yesterday? Where am I?”
But the clarity lasts only seconds. Her posture shifts again, becoming rigid and formal. When she speaks, it’s with the cadence of a medieval scholar. “Magistri, you have come at last. The binding weakens with each passing hour.” Her gaze fixes on Ambrose’s occult tools with unsettling recognition. “Ah, you bring the old implements. Good. The vessel grows restless.”
Helena takes a step toward the group, and the floorboards creak ominously. The afternoon light seems to dim slightly, though no clouds pass over the sun. Her reflection in the tall windows appears strangely layered, as if multiple faces are trying to occupy the same space.
“I have waited so long,” she whispers, and her voice carries the weight of centuries. “So many stories to tell. So many lives lived.” Her eyes lock onto Alice’s, then Sofia’s, then each person in turn. “Which of you has the most interesting memories, I wonder?”
Alice takes a step back when Helena takes a step forward, her eyes widening and the hackles on her neck rising. She suppresses the shiver, drumming up bravery from a well deep within, and takes Sofia’s advice, keeping her pistol low. She doesn’t let go of it, though. With Ambrose occupied, she speaks up, calling out to Helena with a voice that only quivers a little bit. “Uhm – miss, are you okay? If you’re having trouble remembering, maybe we can help you get to the hospital?” She doesn’t address the memories bit. Too scary.
Sofia wheels her gaze on over at Helena as she speaks, first about her scholarly life, then particularly arches one of her thin brows at the mention of memories. She lets out a thoughtful hum, and plays along with the woman for now, saying, “Not sure which of my memories are real and which are fake,” she admits to Helena. “Seems to be a thing going around in this town. Fatecrafting and the like, people’s heads getting all jumbled up. Though whether my memories are real or not, I do still have some fun ones.”
Blue eyes narrow as Stelle sidesteps herself inward a bit, a glance cast backwards towards Obadiah, Ambrose and Gabriel that brings with in a slight but silent nod. For now, she’s content to let the rest handle verbal jousting.
If she’d been staying back for being unsure at the start, Amber remains back upon seeing the woman with the many faces. She gives that a wide berth, otherwise remaining close enough to help if needed. She doesn’t seem inclined to try to take any kind of spotlight.
Gabriel keeps his hands in his pockets and looks past Helena, searching the area and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious while the more diplomatic sorts amongst the group take care of things.
“Her fillet was of wide silk worn full high: And certainly she had a lickerish eye,” Obadiah recites part of the Miller’s tale with a frown as he continues to pull out his exorcism gear, including a little box of mirrors refracting all different patterns on the wall. “Isabella give this to me,” he mentions to Gabriel and Amber. “So… Chaucer. Love Chaucer. Love the Miller’s tale,” he says, because of course the raunchy one is his favorite.
Other than his glance askance, Ambrose offers nothing conversationally. The man appears to be here to observe. There is a sidelong glance to Gabriel and a gentle nod, while his hand slips into his coat pocket to fish out his phone.
Helena’s eyes light up with genuine delight when Obadiah recites Chaucer, and for a moment she looks entirely herself again. “Oh! The Miller’s Tale – yes, the bawdy humor, the clever wordplay…” She takes an eager step forward, her academic passion overriding whatever else lurks within her. “Are you a medievalist? I don’t recognize you from the department, but your pronunciation is quite good for the Middle English…”
But as Obadiah continues setting up his mirrors, Helena’s expression shifts dramatically. The small reflective surfaces catch the afternoon light, casting dancing patterns across the walls, and Helena stumbles backward as if struck. Her face contorts with what looks like pain, and when she speaks again, it’s in a completely different voice – older, rougher, with a thick accent that might be Germanic.
“Nein, nein! Die Spiegel… they show too much!” She raises her hands to shield her face, but not before the group can glimpse something unsettling in the mirror reflections – shadowy figures seem to overlap Helena’s form, faces pressing against the glass from within.
The temperature in the room drops noticeably. Helena’s breathing becomes rapid and shallow, and she begins backing toward the empty bookshelves. “I am… I am Dr. Helena Marsh,” she says in her own voice, fighting for control. “Assistant Professor of Medieval Literature. I came here because… because something is wrong with me. Very wrong.”
Her gaze finds Sofia. “You speak of false memories? Mine feel too real. I remember being a blacksmith in Prague, a scribe in Canterbury, a merchant’s wife in Florence… but I’ve never left New England until three weeks ago.”
Helena’s eyes light up with genuine delight when Obadiah recites Chaucer, and for a moment she seems entirely herself again. “Oh, the Miller’s Tale! Such wonderful bawdy humor, though my students always blush at the–” Her expression suddenly contorts, as if she’s fighting against something inside her own head.
“No, no, NO!” she shouts, pressing her palms against her temples. “I won’t let you take that too!” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s stealing them. My memories of teaching, of literature… it wants them all.”
But the moment of clarity fractures. Helena’s posture shifts dramatically, becoming that of someone much younger. When she speaks, it’s with a thick Scottish accent that doesn’t match her appearance at all. “Och, the bonnie lass speaks of false memories? I remember when the MacLeod clan burned our village in 1547. Every scream, every flame.” Her eyes fix on Sofia with predatory interest.
The mirrors in Obadiah’s kit begin to reflect more than they should. In their surfaces, ghostly faces flicker behind Helena’s reflection – dozens of them, layered like double-exposed photographs. Some appear medieval, others from different eras entirely.
Helena notices Gabriel searching the room and laughs with the voice of an elderly woman. “Looking for escape routes, young man? There is no escape from memory. I have collected forty-seven complete lives, and I hunger for more.” Her gaze sweeps the group hungrily. “Such rich experiences you all carry. Such delicious trauma and joy intertwined.”
The temperature in the room drops noticeably, and the afternoon light streaming through the windows takes on an unnatural quality.
Sofia grins to Helena, slinging the bat over her shoulder and slyly asking, “How can you be sure those are complete lives that you’re collecting though? All forty-seven of them, I mean… are you sure you’re doing a good job? Maybe you should spend some time reviewing them before you collect more, I think. A true collector needs to make sure everything is in pristine, mint condition. Especially the memories she’s collecting.”
There’s a faint nod to herself, self assured, as if she’s certain a bit of reverse psychology will work on Helena.
“Oh, the naked guy from A Knight’s Tale, right?” Amber speaks up, only briefly, as she leans in to take note of the mirrors. Then away again when she sees what they are. Her face marks her as not a fan of them. As such, she misses the unsettling reflections.
“MacLeod clan?” Alice wonders aloud, breath exiting her mouth as a visible puff of mist as the temperature falls. “In 1547… that might have been the Macdonald clan,” Alice recites, her medieval history fresh enough in her mind. Still, the reflections, the temperature, the unnatural light… all of them combine to dampen her spirit, without anything supernatural to protect her, aside from her companions. “It eats memories… it wants to eat OUR memories,” she deduces helpfully, and she looks to Sofia, agreeing. “Yes, why don’t you let us help you review them? Maybe there’s something you missed,” she calls out to assist.
Obadiah’s eyes flash with mischief and mirth as the illusionist watches as the ghosts start to appear in the mirrors. “Just as I suspected,” he mutters to no one in particular, thrusting his hands back in his pockets and watching Sofia and Alice briefly before commenting to Amber, “Likely. The Miller is the one that cuc… ah we can talk about that later.” He looks back to Helena and takes a Scroll’s eye to the situation, “She is having memory problems, but I believe the ghosts around her have given her memories that don’t belong to her.”
Gabriel stiffens as the attention turns to him, his gaze shifting from the room as a whole over to the others, namely Ambrose and Obadiah with a hopeful look toward the more occult inclined of the group. Despite the shift in his attention his hands still remain neatly out of view.
“Sulfur…” Ambrose announces quietly, after Helena’s many-faced and many-voiced prattle, his own voice soft and neutral as usual. Perhaps grim. Deferring to the others to deal with her for a time, listening to Alice and Stelle, it’s Obadiah’s latter commentary that earns a small nod and more words from him: “I suspect less ghosts than demonry, but it is a banishment nonetheless.” And either way has him reaching for his hip.
Helena’s multiple personalities seem to war with each other at Sofia’s challenge. Her face cycles through expressions – scholarly interest, ancient rage, childlike confusion. When she speaks, her voice shifts mid-sentence.
“Pristine condition? You dare question my–” The voice cuts off abruptly, replaced by Helena’s own terrified whisper. “Help me. It’s not just taking memories, it’s layering them. I can’t tell which thoughts are mine anymore.”
But the demon reasserts control quickly. Helena’s posture becomes that of a medieval scholar, and she addresses Alice with cold precision. “Clever girl. Yes, the MacDonalds burned the MacLeod holdings in ’47, not the reverse. You know your history.” Her smile is predatory. “Such a well-educated mind would make a fine addition to my collection.”
At Obadiah’s observation about the ghosts, Helena whirls toward him, and the mirrors suddenly flare with reflected light. The ghostly faces in the glass become more distinct – men and women from across the centuries, all with expressions of desperate anguish.
“Ghosts?” Helena laughs with the voice of what sounds like a Renaissance-era merchant. “These are not ghosts, fool. These are lives fully lived and consumed. Every joy, every sorrow, every skill and memory – all mine now.” She gestures to the mirrors, and the faces seem to press closer to the glass. “Soon I will have enough to transcend this flesh entirely.”
The temperature drops further, and frost begins forming on the windows despite the June afternoon. Helena’s breath mists as she speaks in her own voice again, fighting for control. “The grimoire… in the university basement. Black leather binding. I translated the release incantation by accident. It’s been feeding on me for two days.”
Her expression shifts again, becoming that of someone much older and more cunning. “But why settle for one scholar when I have such a feast before me? A soldier’s discipline, an artist’s creativity, a historian’s knowledge…” Her gaze moves hungrily across each person present.
Helena’s face twists with indignation at Sofia’s suggestion, her voice shifting to that of a pompous medieval scholar. “Pristine? PRISTINE?” She laughs, a sound like breaking glass. “Each life I have consumed is perfect in its completeness. I know the taste of bread baked in 1348, the weight of chainmail in battle, the pain of childbirth in a plague year!”
But Sofia’s words seem to plant a seed of doubt. Helena’s expression wavers, and she begins muttering in Latin, counting on her fingers. “Quadraginta septem… forty-seven…” Her voice becomes uncertain. “But wait… was the baker’s apprentice complete? Did I take his final breath, or merely his final thought?”
Alice’s correction about the clan names makes Helena’s head snap up sharply. For a moment, her eyes flash with academic irritation – purely Helena’s own response. “No, it was definitely MacLeod, I remember the tartan…” But then confusion clouds her features. “Wait. How do I remember tartan? I study manuscripts, not Scottish history.”
The mirrors in Obadiah’s kit begin reflecting more aggressively now, the ghostly faces becoming clearer. Some appear to be reaching out from within the glass, their mouths moving in silent screams. Helena catches sight of them and staggers backward.
“No! Don’t show them to me!” she shrieks, but it’s unclear which personality is speaking. “They’re supposed to be mine now! I consumed them fairly!”
When Ambrose mentions sulfur, the smell becomes noticeable to everyone – acrid and sharp, like matches being struck. Helena’s form seems to flicker slightly, as if she’s not entirely solid.
“Banishment?” Helena’s voice drops to a whisper, but it carries the weight of ancient malice. “I am Vex’thanor, collector of lives, and I am so close… so very close to transcendence. Just a few more complete souls…”
Her gaze fixes hungrily on the group, but there’s desperation there too. The mirrors continue to show the trapped faces, and Helena seems to be fighting an internal battle.
“Cool! Can you teach me that trick?” Obadiah can’t stop himself from taunting the demon. It’s a problem really. “As the Warden said though… we kinda gotta deal with this before, you know, you consume the researcher. I love Chaucer and none of my other friends no Middle English so….” He glances to Ambrose, Alice, and Sofia before saying, “I am just going to sit here and monologue for a little bit. What do you think of the wife of bath?”
“I’m not joining your collection,” Alice insists firmly, but fear is creeping into her voice as she starts to edge towards Stelle, seeking safety in the presence of the French woman. “In fact, I think it’s time you gave your collection up. Dr. Marsh, don’t let it win!” she calls, trying to encourage the possessed woman. She glances to Obadiah, asking, “Will a banishment ritual take care of this? I might- I can help, maybe,” she says, already reaching for her book.
The mention of a book at Windermere’s basement has Ambrose’s gaze flick to the others closer to the hallway, then to the door. For his part, he’s a little preoccupied. One hand lays on Alice, and the man nods singularly to her and Obadiah alike. “We can hold until we have the incantation, or we can perhaps overwhelm.” The other hand lifts, and fingers crook oddly in Helena’s direction, signet ring gently aglow.
“You see, you could never get complete memories out of anyone in this city,” Sofia explains to Helena with a casual twirl of of her hand, thudding a bat a couple times against her shoulder, “…simply because it’s the city between. Nothing is complete here. Nothing is pure. It’s all tainted. You can try and try to collect complete memories here but you’ll keep on coming short. You’ll keep collecting and collecting and it’ll never be good enough. You’ll never ascend this way.” She’s completely bluffing of course, but it doesn’t stop her from prattling on.
She glances over to Obadiah and Alice, and gestures for them to keep hush hush about banishment while she keeps the many-faced woman talking. “But that’s just because you’re too weak to manifest anywhere but here, right? Cause you can’t go out in the real world to do anything? Am I touching a nerve?”
“Don’t suppose you brought the book with you?” Amber wonders, mostly to herself. Probably not even loud enough to be heard, “With the incantation…” She fishes her phone out of her hoodie pocket, “Vex’thanor… true names help.”
A few steps are taken and Stelle is between Alice and the gaze, a body to block it as Stelle asserts her presence. Blue eyes drift away from the entity and drift towards Ambrose and Obadiah, a brief glance to ensure they are safe before attention settles on the demon once more, watching and waiting. “Yes euh… Do as you need to, no?”
“The incantation… it’s in Latin… ‘Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti…’ I remember translating it… please, before it takes me completely!”
Helena’s face contorts with rage at Sofia’s taunts, cycling rapidly through different expressions and voices. “Weak? WEAK?” The voice of an ancient warrior booms from her throat. “I have survived thirteen centuries! I have–” But then uncertainty creeps in. Her voice becomes that of a confused child. “But… but the memories here do taste strange. Incomplete. Fractured.”
She begins pacing frantically, muttering in multiple languages. “The baker’s apprentice… did he finish his loaf? The merchant’s wife… did she ever reach market?” Her academic side surfaces briefly. “No, no, that’s not how memory works. Experiences don’t need completion to be–” The voice cuts off abruptly.
Obadiah’s question about the Wife of Bath makes Helena stop dead. For a moment, she’s purely herself again, eyes lighting up with scholarly passion. “Oh! The Wife of Bath is fascinating – Chaucer’s exploration of female agency in medieval society, the way she subverts traditional gender roles through her prologue…” But then her expression darkens. “Why do you ask? Are you trying to distract me?”
When Amber whispers about true names, Helena’s head snaps toward her with supernatural hearing. “Clever girl. Yes, names have power.” Her voice becomes that of the demon itself, ancient and terrible. “But knowing my name won’t save you. I am Vex’thanor, Memory Eater, Soul Collector, and I am–“
The salt in Ambrose’s hand begins to glow faintly, and Helena stumbles backward, her form flickering. The mirrors show the trapped faces more clearly now, and they seem to be reaching toward Helena, not away from her.
“Wait,” Helena whispers in her own voice, staring at the mirrors in horror. “They’re not trying to escape. They’re trying to pull me in with them. The collection… it’s not transcendence. It’s a prison.”
The temperature drops even further, and the windows begin to crack from the cold.
Ambrose is busy holding on how he can, staring off near-emptily at Helena, salt in one hand and fingers twisting at wrong angles in the other. There will be no incantation said by him, as he’s busy mouthing one nigh-silently already.
Obadiah gives a subtle nod to Sofia, letting her take the lead on the distracting monologue while he moves to assist Ambrose and Alice. “Gabe… Amber. Do either of you know your way around Der Lang Verborgene Freund?” He looks up as if this clearly means something important, at least to him, “Or Hoyal’s book of card tricks? If so… Page 22 I believe is were we will begin.”
“That’s right,” Sofia gently intones to Helena, her voice and expression softening, no longer challenging. “You’re not going to get any more powerful by playing along with the mirrors. You’re just gonna get sucked into them. Just another collection of memories, another feather in some demon’s hat. You could maybe…” She quirks a sharp brow aloft and hisses out, “…just maybe, break those mirrors, set yourself free? Make sure no one else has to suffer the same fate as those 47 others?” It’s a long shot, but perhaps Helena is in a position to save herself.
Gabriel looks to Obadiah when the question comes, “Unfortunately I’m not quite caught up on 19th century German literature. However..” he nods to the variety of mirrors, “I think I have an idea on something that might help.” with that he starts slowly slipping his way around the edge of the crowd, closer to the mirrors and their reflections.
Alice steps up with Ambrose and Obadiah, careful to hide as much behind Stelle as she can. She mutters under her breath, softly mouthing as she works as hard as she can on translating. “Unde.. venisti… redire.” She glances at Obadiah, whispering the word to him again. “Redire. Venisti is to come, redire is to return. I think maybe… maybe that could be the reverse.” Confidence is draining from her with every word, the hand holding her book shaking, but she manages to keep her resolve. “It should be… tenebrae… unde… redire. To shadows you return.”
“WE WILL NOT BE BANISHED!”
“NO! You cannot speak the words of binding!”
But Helena fights back with scholarly precision. “She’s right! Tenebrae unde redire – to the shadows you return! That’s the reversal of the summoning!” Her voice becomes stronger. “I remember now – the grimoire had both incantations. The binding and the release!”
As Gabriel moves toward the mirrors, the trapped faces within become more agitated, pressing against the glass. The reflections begin to show not just faces, but reaching hands, as if the forty-seven souls are trying to claw their way out.
Ambrose’s salt glows brighter, and Helena staggers as if struck. The sulfur smell intensifies, and her form flickers more violently between solid and translucent.
“Now!” Helena screams in her own voice. “While I can still fight it! Say the words – all of you together! Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire!”
The mirrors begin to crack, spider-web fractures spreading across their surfaces. The temperature plummets, and frost spreads across the walls. Helena’s form wavers as if she might collapse entirely.
“Hurry! I can’t hold it much longer!”
nods Gabriel and Alice as the converge with Ambrose. For his part, with the mirrors aligned, Obadiah starts to make similar motions to Ambrose with his hands, though his are behind his back. They are different though, subtly, either through Obadiah’s own inexperience or different schools of thought. “Hurry,” he mutters, his own motions going faster now, eyes glazing. “It shouldn’t be much longer.”
Amber starts to pocket her phone again as the possessed lady reveals the incantation before she finds it, giving a small shrug. Then Obadiah is addressing her. She looks a little confused, but then she shrugs, “Have Google.” She starts tapping into the thing. But now we’re chanting, it seems, so she chants while she texts like some kind of zoomer witch, “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire.”
Gabriel joins in on the reciting while slowly pulling a hand from a pocket just to have some insurance, “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire.”
Sofia clutches her arms in a shiver, clearly under-dressed for the frost, but through gritted teeth she still gives Helena a grin and an approving wink, looking over to Amber as she begins the chant and joining the chorus at Helena’s instruction, chanting: “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire.”
Alice draws in a little more resolve as Helena manages to call out – and she flips her book open to a page replete with runic symbols, copied ritual circles, and margin-scratch notes. She calls out, trying to bolster her quivering voice, “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire!” and casts her spare hand out towards Helena as she does, adding a dramatic flair to the ritual chant. “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire!” she repeats.
A moment of pause, Stelle coiled like a spring ready to snap forwards towards the entity but she holds her tension, eyes sharp and words crisp as she repeats with the group, “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire.”
The combined voices rise in unison, Latin syllables echoing through the empty brownstone with growing power. “Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire!”
Helena’s form convulses violently as the chant builds. The mirrors crack further, and suddenly the trapped faces within begin to smile – not with malice, but with relief. One by one, they fade from the glass, finally released after centuries of imprisonment.
“NO!” The demon’s voice roars from Helena’s throat, but it’s weakening. “I was so close! Forty-seven souls… I needed just three more!”
“Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, redire!” The group chants again, and Ambrose’s salt flares with brilliant white light.
Helena staggers, her form flickering between solid and shadow. The sulfur smell becomes overwhelming, then suddenly dissipates entirely. The temperature begins to rise, frost melting from the windows.
With a final, anguished shriek that seems to come from somewhere far deeper than Helena’s throat, the demon is torn away. A shadow – vaguely humanoid but writhing with countless grasping appendages – is pulled from her body and sucked into the cracking mirrors.
The mirrors shatter completely, their fragments turning to ash before hitting the floor.
Helena collapses to her knees, gasping. When she looks up, her eyes are entirely her own again – confused, exhausted, but human. “I… I remember everything. All of it. But they’re not my memories anymore.” She touches her temple gingerly. “They’re just… stories someone told me. Terrible, beautiful stories.”
The afternoon sun streams through the windows normally again, and the oppressive cold lifts entirely.
“Thank you,” Helena whispers. “All of you. I thought I was going to lose myself completely.”
The brownstone falls quiet except for the distant sounds of university life continuing outside, blissfully unaware of what just transpired within these walls.
The Latin words ring out in unison, echoing through the brownstone with supernatural resonance. As the group chants together, the mirrors begin to shatter in sequence – not violently, but with crystalline precision, each crack releasing wisps of silvery light.
“NOOOO!” The demon’s voice roars from Helena’s throat, but it’s already weakening. “I was so close! Forty-seven souls! I needed only three more!”
Helena’s form begins to stabilize as the chanting continues. The ghostly faces in the breaking mirrors seem to smile with relief before fading away, finally free. The sulfur smell dissipates, replaced by the clean scent of summer air.
“Vex’thanor, collector memoriarum, ad tenebras unde venisti, REDIRE!” Helena herself shouts the final word, her voice purely her own now.
A sound like rushing wind fills the room, and a shadow tears itself away from Helena’s body – a writhing mass of darkness that seems to contain glimpses of all the stolen memories. It writhes in the air for a moment before being pulled inexorably toward the largest mirror fragment.
“You cannot banish what has fed so well!” the shadow hisses, but its voice is already growing distant.
The mirror fragment flares with brilliant light, then goes dark. The shadow vanishes with a sound like breaking chains.
Helena collapses to her knees, gasping. When she looks up, her eyes are clear and entirely her own. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “I thought I was going to lose myself completely. The grimoire… we need to secure it before anyone else makes the same mistake I did.”
The temperature begins to return to normal, and the afternoon sunlight streams through the windows once more, warm and natural. The crisis has passed.
The players have successfully performed the exorcism, freed the trapped souls, and saved Dr. Helena Marsh from demonic possession. The immediate threat has been neutralized, though the grimoire at Windermere University remains a concern for future investigation.