Genevieve’s Saturday afternoon ghost banishing
Date: 2025-06-28 13:01
(Genevieve’s Saturday afternoon ghost banishing)
[Sat Jun 28 2025]
Maple Grove Memorial Park/span>/spannoon, about 70F(21C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Hawthorn and Lake/span>/spanThe iron gates of Maple Grove Memorial Park creak softly as Genevieve and Elliot step through, though no wind stirs the humid afternoon air. Dark storm clouds gather overhead, casting the cemetery in premature twilight despite the early hour. The scent of freshly cut grass mingles with something else – earth turned too recently, too often.
A groundskeeper near the maintenance building straightens from his work, wiping sweat from his brow as he notices their approach. “Afternoon folks. You here about the… disturbances?” His voice carries the weight of someone who’s seen too much lately. “Started three days ago. Flowers blooming where they shouldn’t, then dying overnight. Tools going missing from the shed. And the sounds…” He gestures toward a section of newer graves where the grass appears patchy and disturbed.
As if summoned by his words, a woman’s voice drifts across the cemetery – not quite singing, not quite sobbing. The melody is unfamiliar yet haunting, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Several headstones in the distance show fresh flowers that weren’t there moments before, their petals already beginning to brown at the edges.
The groundskeeper shudders. “Been happening every afternoon when the storms roll in. Folks are starting to talk about moving their loved ones elsewhere.”
“Oh right yeah, I remember now.” Genevieve agrees with Elliot, conversing casually as they make their way to the graveyard entrance. She pauses in the conversation when approached by the groundskeeper and gives him a bright, friendly smile. “Yes we are indeed.” She agrees, “Tell me, did anything happen in particular three days ago? Was someone buried here perchance on that day?” She wonders, taking a few steps over to the edge of the strange patch and crouching down to lightly brush her fingertips over the tips of the greenery.
Turning his eyes over towards the groundskeeper, Elliot admits with a fluid flourish of his cane, “We’re indeed here about that. Do ignore the side-chatter, we had. Interesting tidbits from a symposium I hosted. Now- Pardon. People dislike the fresh-flowers? I admit, spontaneous flowers are a bit of an anomaly, but… ah. The voice too. A spirit? Come, show us the spirit, friend, let’s see if we can banish it.” And with these words uttered, the towering man shoos the groundskeeper onwards with a back and forth motion of the hand that isn’t currently wielding his cane. Onwards, he steps, practically nudging the keeper forward with a wrinkle of his nose.
Dovie wanders into the area, looking around curiously. She nods to Genevieve and Elliot. “A spirit you say?”
Genevieve gives a little wave to Obadiah and Dovie, “Yes, some sort of haunting or the like. The groundskeeper stated it started three days back.” She catches them up.
Obadiah smiles at someone and Elliot when he approaches with Dovie, on edge but already fishing in his bag for his occult sciences tool kit
Obadiah smiles at Genevieve and Elliot when he approaches with Dovie, on edge but already fishing in his bag for his occult sciences tool kit
“Sacred promise… sacred promise… they deserve beauty in death…” The song seems to emanate from the disturbed section the groundskeeper indicated.
Elliot’s insistent prodding moves the groundskeeper forward reluctantly. “I don’t much like going over there when she’s… active,” he mutters, but leads the group toward the older graves. “Tools keep disappearing from right where I set them down. Found my surveying equipment arranged in perfect geometric patterns I sure didn’t make.”
As they approach the Victorian section, a translucent figure becomes visible near a weathered headstone – a woman in mud-stained work clothes, kneeling with what appears to be surveying tools, frantically sketching in a notebook. She hasn’t noticed the living observers yet, completely absorbed in her desperate work.
The storm clouds overhead rumble ominously, and the first fat raindrops begin to fall.
Dovie looks around, as blind as a bat until the translucent figure becomes more visible. A little gasp escapes her lips and she whispers to someone, Genevieve and Elliot. “What is she writing? Or drawing?”
Genevieve stands back up from where she’s crouched and follows the group over towards the translucent figure “You think she’s sketching the departed or something?” She wonders, trying to pick her way around behind the figure and holding her hand up to deflect any rain drops as she leans in to try and get a better view of what the ghostly woman might be sketching.
Dovie looks around, as blind as a bat until the translucent figure becomes more visible. A little gasp escapes her lips and she whispers to Obadiah, Genevieve and Elliot. “What is she writing? Or drawing?”
Shiloh walks in, putting his phone away in his pockets as he offers a nod to Obadiah, the only person he seems to recognize.
Genevieve nods politely to Shiloh when he joins them, her standing with a group of people around a ghostly figure sketching in some sort of notepad as the heavy clouds overhead threaten rain.
Approaching with the groundskeeper, Elliot bluntly tells them, “Right now, I don’t particularly care what you like or dislike doing. I care about removing the anomaly before it causes any destruction.” His eyes scan over the scene as he notes the spirit and he tilts his head, using his perceiving eyes to look for any other signs of influence around the spirit, that would not be visible, except for those who can perceive the plane that ghosts lurk on. “This woman… is some sort of worker. An occultist, perhaps. Curious why a spiritual anomaly is so fixated on this, I haven’t seen the likes of this before.” And with this, he turns his eyes over towards the ghostly worker, calling out loudly, “Spirit. What is your name?”
Obadiah shakes his head slowly as he looks over what is being written and gives flick of his wrist, pulling out a mirrored musical box and setting it up. “Let’s see what she says before we jump to conclusions.”
Shiloh approaches the group tentatively watching as Elliot questions the apparition.
The ghostly woman’s head snaps up at Elliot’s direct address, her eyes wide with a mixture of hope and desperation. Her notebook crumbles to ash in her hands as she rises, the surveying tools at her feet flickering between solid and translucent.
“Margaret,” she whispers, her voice carrying the weight of decades. “Margaret Chen-Whitmore. I was… I am the landscape architect.” Her gaze sweeps over the assembled group, lingering on their modern clothes with confusion. “How long has it been? The memorial garden… it must be finished by now. The families, they’re waiting.”
As she speaks, flowers begin blooming spontaneously around her feet – chrysanthemums, roses, lilies – but their petals immediately start browning at the edges. The rain intensifies, and Margaret’s form becomes more solid, more agitated.
“Where is Thomas? Where is my Thomas? He promised to complete our work.” She looks directly at the groundskeeper, who takes a nervous step backward. “You… your face is familiar. Do I know your family?”
The groundskeeper pales visibly. “My great-grandfather worked here. Long time ago.”
Margaret’s expression darkens, and the temperature around them drops noticeably. “Worked here… yes. I remember now.”
“Your great grandfather was called Thomas?” Genevieve checks with the Groundskeeper. “When the disturbance started, three days ago, was that the anniversary or something?” She asks, taking a cautious step back from the unnaturally growing plants.
“What is your work?” Elliot asks of the ghastly woman, staring at Margaret with utter puzzlement, his eyes still looming over the scene as he decides not to question further on this ‘Thomas’ just yet. “The year is twenty-twenty-five. When is your year, Margaret?’
When Genevieve steps back from the plants Dovie steps forward, intrigued, perhaps naively so. She glances between the others before turning her attention to examining the living flora.
Obadiah doesn’t move just continues to watch and wait, eyes never staying far from Dovie and the flowers with his eyebrows cocked
Margaret’s form wavers as the full weight of Elliot’s words hits her. “Twenty… twenty-five?” Her voice breaks. “Over a century… Thomas is gone. They’re all gone.” The flowers around her feet wither completely, leaving blackened stems.
The groundskeeper shakes his head quickly at Genevieve’s question. “No, no – not Thomas. My great-grandfather was Henry Kowalski. He was the night watchman here back in… well, long time ago.”
At the name, Margaret’s eyes blaze with sudden fury. The temperature plummets further, and frost begins forming on nearby headstones despite the warm rain. “Kowalski,” she hisses, her form becoming more solid and menacing. “That murderer. That thief.”
As Dovie examines the withered flowers, she notices something odd – beneath the blackened petals, the soil appears disturbed, as if something has been trying to push up from below. Small fragments of what might be bone are visible in the churned earth.
“He killed me,” Margaret continues, her voice rising to match the wind. “Struck me down when I discovered his grave robbing. Buried me alive in an unmarked hole while families mourned their dead.” Lightning flashes overhead. “And now his blood profits from my cemetery, my designs, my sacred work!”
The groundskeeper stumbles backward. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s just old stories…”
Genevieve’s eyes flick back and forth between the ghostly Margaret and the groundskeeper. “So… like if we kill him do you think that’d settle the issue and you can go back to your rest?” She checks with Margaret.
“He’s a groundskeeper,” Elliot informs Margaret, skeptically lifting his eyebrows. “Not sure our buddy here really profits. Don’t think being a groundskeeper really pays well.”
Shiloh furrows his brow behind auburn locks as he watches the interaction between the groundskeeper and the ghost, before blinking aside at Genevieve, tilting his head “We can’t just kill him for something his great grandfather did…”
“It’s a spirit we need to banish it,” Obadiah says starting to mutter the words and make the appropriate gestures, not very interested in engaging in further conversation with the entity
Dovie nods in agreement with Shiloh. “It’s unfair to do that to him,” she tells the group.
Margaret’s fury intensifies at Genevieve’s suggestion, but her rage seems directed more at the injustice than at the current groundskeeper. “No! I am not a monster seeking blood for blood.” The frost spreads further as she speaks. “But his family’s landscaping business – Kowalski & Sons – they still hold the contracts here. Built on stolen designs, blood money from grave robbing.”
As Obadiah begins his banishment ritual, Margaret’s form flickers but doesn’t fade. Instead, she becomes more agitated. “You cannot banish what is bound by sacred oath! I promised the families – the flu victims, the forgotten dead – that they would have dignity, beauty, remembrance. The memorial garden was never built!”
The groundskeeper looks genuinely confused. “Memorial garden? I… there’s no record of any planned memorial garden. Just the standard plots.”
Margaret points toward an empty section near the maintenance building. “There! Where the dogwoods grow wild. It should be a garden of remembrance with paths arranged by feng shui principles, honoring all cultures of the dead. Instead it’s… nothing.”
Lightning strikes closer, and in the flash, Dovie can see more bone fragments scattered throughout the disturbed soil around Margaret’s feet. The spirit’s form is becoming more solid with each passing moment, fed by the storm’s energy.
“Find my body. Build the garden. Only then can I rest.”
Dovie clears her throat, pointing to the plants. “There’s… there’s bone…”
“Alright,” Elliot huffs with a snort of distaste lingering on his countenance as he gazes at Obadiah and Genevieve. “Can we be reasonable people for once for… this anomaly. She seems pretty chill, and I think it’d be pretty fucked up if we off the Groundskeeper. And fucked up if we don’t help the lady secure something nice for… ‘plague victims’. Surely, we’re all just a tiny bit better than this, right?”
“Sure it’s unfair, but so’s getting your head stoved in and stuck in an unmarked grave cause you discovered a guy grave robbing.” Genevieve points out before sighing, “But fine, I guess as long as you agree to build a memorial garden and move her remains there I won’t murder you.” She offers the groundskeeper as if this act of generosity was a great burden upon her personally.
“Or,” Obadiah says as he continues his banishment ritual, but doesn’t continue his thought, just looking at Elliot when he talks to him and then sighs looking to Genevieve. “I suppose we could trust her and to the thing rather than just banish the spirit.” He glances to Dovie, “Thoughts?”
“We could clear the area and set up an impromptu memorial, sure. There was a mention of a body,” Dovie points again to where the living plants are. “I think there might be a body there.” She kneels to look closer at the plant, investigating.
“How about, we build the garden and bury you in the garden,” Elliot offers towards the spirit, Margaret, with a small shrug. “Point me out to where your bones are.” Towards the groundskeeper, he issues out a stern command. “Alright, you, you dig up her bones. I’m sure you have flowers or something on hand, we can build a nice garden. Everyone’s happy, everyone can leave, with little violence.” The lightning strikes cause the man to flinch a little, but a smile grows on his face, and with a gentle lift of his hand, he tugs on nothing, as if manipulating the clouds, the storm in an attempt to get it to move on. Or grow.
As Elliot manipulates the storm, the rain intensifies and lightning flashes more frequently, feeding Margaret’s spiritual energy. Her form becomes almost completely solid now.
Dovie’s closer examination reveals disturbing truth – scattered throughout the soil are indeed bone fragments, but they’re mixed with the roots of the flowering plants. Margaret’s remains have been dispersed across this section of the cemetery, her bones literally feeding the earth that grows the unnatural blooms.
“Yes,” Margaret says, her voice stronger now. “Scattered. Broken. He threw my bones like refuse across the grounds.” She gestures to the wider area around them. “Some here, some by the maintenance shed, some beneath the dogwoods where the garden should be.”
The groundskeeper looks overwhelmed but nods shakily. “I… I can get shovels from the shed. And we have memorial flowers in storage for ceremonies.” He pauses, looking at Margaret with something approaching respect. “My great-grandfather… if he really did what you say… I’m sorry. That wasn’t right.”
Margaret’s expression softens slightly. “You are not him. But his crime echoes still – the memorial garden remains unbuilt, the families dishonored.”
Thunder crashes overhead as Elliot’s storm manipulation takes hold. “Gather my bones with reverence,” Margaret continues. “Create the garden as I designed – paths in harmony with the earth’s energy, spaces for all cultures to mourn and remember. Then I can finally rest.”
The spirit looks directly at each of them. “Will you help me complete my sacred work?”
As Elliot manipulates the storm, the rain intensifies dramatically, turning the cemetery grounds muddy and making the disturbed earth around Margaret’s feet even more visible. Dovie’s closer examination reveals not just bone fragments, but the glint of metal – surveying tools partially buried in the shallow, unmarked grave.
The groundskeeper nods frantically at the combined pressure from the group. “Yes, yes of course! I can get shovels from the maintenance shed. And we keep memorial flowers in cold storage for services.” He hurries toward the building, clearly eager to resolve the situation.
Margaret’s form solidifies further in the strengthened storm, her expression shifting from rage to desperate hope. “You would do this? After so long?” She gestures toward the wild dogwood grove. “The garden must honor all cultures – feng shui pathways, but also space for Christian crosses, Jewish stones, Islamic crescents. A place where the forgotten can be remembered.”
As the groundskeeper returns with tools and begins carefully excavating around the bone fragments, Margaret watches intently. “My notebook… if you find my notebook, the garden plans are all there. Everything the families need.”
The storm reaches its peak, and in a brilliant flash of lightning, a leather-bound journal becomes visible among the remains – somehow preserved despite the decades underground.
“The memorial garden,” Margaret whispers, “it will be beautiful. They will finally have their dignity.”
“I see something here in the ground,” Dovie tells the ground, peering down to reach for the glints of metal to uncover them. “Let’s each take one of the sections she mentioned to find her remains, and the others can clear the section for the memorial?” she suggests. She grimaces at the mud now on her dress and shoes, but work is work, and a spirit banishing is a spirit banishing after all.
“Cool.” Genevieve states, “Not exactly the best shoes for this but we’ll make do.” She claims, taking a shovel from the groundskeeper when offered and rolling her sleeves up a little. “Was there some over hear you said?” She checks with Dovie before slamming the shovel into the dirt to start trying to find the pieces of Margaret’s remains to transport to the new garden. “I’m Vie by the way.” She mentions over to Shiloh, “I sort of met you once but it was while dragging out of the mist in a big group so wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
Obadiah shuffles a little more forward towards Dovie when the storm comes eyes looking up with a frown. He takes a deep breath then starts to help gather bone pieces as needed to help move this along, his leeriness from the storm not from anything else
Shiloh takes a shovel, peering down at it before nodding in thanks to the groundskeeper, he tilts his head a bit over at Genevieve “Oh, you were one of the people that saved me? Thank you. Was wondering who it was.” He then moves to start helping uncover the bones as Dovie suggests, heading for the dogwood groves.
“Well. One point for the Harringtons and my inexplicable ability to do something without a plan on what I’m doing,” Elliot chuckles, watching the storm grow at his beck and call, clapping as it reaches its climax, and somehow, unearths a journal. His gaze lowers, and he shoos the groundskeeper away, issuing him barked orders. “Go, go, quickly. Get me flowers. Get a shovel. I’ll do this… feng-shui bullshit so everyone can leave happy as a clam. Bring me like a ton of flowers.”
Working together in the intensifying storm, the group methodically uncovers Margaret’s scattered remains. Dovie retrieves the surveying tools – a compass, measuring chains, and drafting instruments that gleam despite decades underground. Genevieve and Shiloh carefully gather bone fragments from around the maintenance building, while Obadiah collects pieces near the dogwood grove where the memorial garden should stand.
The groundskeeper returns with armloads of flowers – white lilies, chrysanthemums, and roses – along with additional shovels. Following the detailed plans in Margaret’s miraculously preserved journal, Elliot directs the creation of curved pathways that honor feng shui principles while incorporating spaces for various cultural memorial traditions.
As they work, Margaret’s spirit grows more peaceful, her form becoming translucent again but no longer agitated. “Yes,” she whispers, watching them arrange her bones in a proper grave at the garden’s heart. “This is how it should be. Beautiful. Dignified. Honoring all who rest here.”
The storm begins to subside as they place the final flowers around the newly created memorial space. Margaret kneels beside her own grave, her surveying tools solid in her hands one last time as she makes final notations in her journal.
“The families… they can finally visit. The forgotten will be remembered.” She looks up at each of them with profound gratitude. “My sacred promise is fulfilled.”
With a gentle smile, Margaret Chen-Whitmore fades into peaceful light, her century-long vigil finally ended. The storm clouds part, revealing late afternoon sunshine that bathes the completed memorial garden in golden warmth. The flowers they planted seem to glow with life, and the disturbed earth settles into perfect, peaceful rest.
The groundskeeper wipes his brow, looking at the beautiful garden they’ve created. “I’ll make sure the city maintains this properly. It’s… it’s what she deserved all along.”