Amber’s Monday evening ghost banishing
Date: 2025-08-04 19:36
(Amber’s Monday evening ghost banishing)
[Mon Aug 4 2025]
Harbor View Cemetery/span>/spandusk/span>/span76F(24C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. The mist is heaviest At Carnation and Woodcrest/span>/spanThe iron gates of Harbor View Cemetery creak softly in the evening breeze as Amber steps onto the uneven ground between weathered headstones. Fireflies begin their nightly dance among the tall grass, their soft pulses creating an almost magical atmosphere in the deepening twilight. The scent of honeysuckle drifts from the climbing roses that have overtaken sections of the old iron fencing.
As Amber moves deeper into the cemetery, she notices something odd about the fireflies near the center of the grounds. Instead of their usual random flickering, they seem to be arranging themselves into deliberate patterns – geometric shapes that hold for several seconds before dissolving and reforming elsewhere. The temperature drops noticeably in that area, her breath beginning to mist despite the warm August evening.
A faint scraping sound echoes from somewhere among the headstones, like metal dragging across stone. When Amber looks toward the sound, she catches a glimpse of movement near a cluster of particularly old graves – a pale figure kneeling beside a weathered monument, though when she blinks, nothing is there except a surveyor’s chain lying coiled on the ground that definitely wasn’t there moments before.
The mist is beginning to thicken around Carnation and Woodcrest streets, visible through the cemetery’s boundaries, but here among the graves it swirls in thin tendrils that seem almost purposeful in their movement.
Amber ignores fireflies and focuses on the soft pulses and magic atmosphere, squinting a little. “Weird fae magic shit in a cemetery… weird,” she observes, wandering towards the source of the sound, “Let’s see if we can find a name on the headstone. Always a solid start.”
“Elias Thornfield, 1849-1873, City Surveyor.” Below the name, carved in hurried, uneven letters as if added later, are the words “The Pattern Must Hold.” The stone itself appears to have been moved – there are scrape marks in the earth around its base, and it sits at a slight angle compared to the graves around it.
As Amber examines the headstone, the fireflies suddenly converge above it, their lights forming what looks distinctly like a compass rose. The pattern holds steady for nearly ten seconds before the insects scatter. In that brief illumination, she notices something else: faint lines scored into the earth between several headstones, as if someone had been dragging measuring tools across the ground.
The temperature continues to drop around this particular grave, and the mist begins to thicken noticeably. From somewhere deeper in the cemetery comes the sound of metal tapping against stone – rhythmic, deliberate, like someone taking measurements.
“In his, what, twenties?” Amber muses as she looks at the dates, frowning. Then the chains next, looking for any signs of trouble. “Come on, let this just be a normal, basic-ass exorcism. He’s young, maybe a murder? Pleeeease, let it be a murder,” she pleads to nothing. But then there are fireflies, and she lets out a sigh, “This doesn’t look basic.”
The surveyor’s chain lies in a perfect coil, its brass links gleaming despite the patina that should have formed after 150 years in the elements. When Amber approaches it, the metal feels ice-cold to the touch, and condensation immediately forms on the links. The chain appears to be exactly 66 feet long – a standard surveyor’s chain from the 1870s.
As she examines it, the rhythmic tapping grows louder and more insistent. Following the sound leads her to another headstone about thirty feet away, where a spectral figure briefly materializes – a young man in period clothing, kneeling with what appears to be a compass and measuring rod. He looks up at Amber with desperate eyes before fading, but not before she notices he’s pointing frantically at the ground between several graves.
The fireflies begin forming new patterns – not random shapes now, but what looks like a map. Lines of light connect various headstones, creating geometric forms that pulse and shift. The pattern seems incomplete, with several obvious gaps where the lines should connect but don’t.
A low rumble emanates from somewhere beneath the cemetery grounds, and several of the massive bone fragments protruding from the earth begin to vibrate slightly.
Amber picks up the chain as she follows the source of the sound. She looks over to the spaces he pointed. She looks from the chain to the map of fireflies, frowning a little. “The fuck,” she mumbles to herself, “One of the weirder ones.” She tries not to pay too much attention to the bone fragments, instead moving to try to run the chain between two of the headstones missing connections on the ‘map’.
As Amber stretches the chain between two headstones where the firefly pattern shows a gap, the metal grows even colder in her hands. The moment the chain forms a straight line between the graves, the fireflies above pulse brighter, and the spectral figure of Elias appears more solidly than before.
He nods urgently at her actions, then gestures toward three other locations where the light-map shows broken connections. His mouth moves as if speaking, but no sound emerges. Instead, the mist around them begins to swirl and thicken, forming shapes – first what looks like surveying equipment, then crude images of the cemetery from above, showing the geometric pattern the fireflies have been displaying.
The rumbling beneath the ground intensifies, and one of the larger bone fragments shifts noticeably, tilting at a new angle. Elias’s expression turns to alarm as he points at the disturbed bone, then back at the remaining gaps in the pattern. The temperature drops further, and frost begins forming on the grass around Amber’s feet.
In the distance, a church bell tolls nine times. Three hours until midnight.
“I thought it wasn’t even eight yet… must be another ghost thing,” Amber frowns after pausing to listen to the bells. She continues to pointedly ignore the bone shards, trying to avoid distraction as she moves to run the chain between the other missing links.
As Amber moves to connect the second gap, the chain seems to pull in her hands, guiding her to the exact positions. When she stretches it taut between the next two headstones, Elias becomes even more solid, his relief visible. Two connections restored, but the firefly map still shows several breaks in the pattern.
The spectral surveyor points urgently at a section where three headstones form a triangle, but the fireflies reveal that one of the stones has been moved from its original position. Elias gestures frantically at the displaced monument – a heavy granite marker that has clearly been shifted several feet from where deep grooves in the earth indicate it once stood.
The rumbling grows stronger, and now multiple bone fragments are shifting. One particularly large femur-like bone begins to rise slightly from the ground, dirt cascading from its ancient surface. The mist thickens dramatically, and through it, Amber can make out other spectral figures beginning to materialize – not as solid as Elias, but definitely present. They appear to be indigenous peoples, and they’re all pointing at the displaced headstone with expressions of urgent concern.
The chain in Amber’s hands grows so cold it nearly burns her skin.
Amber gives a sigh, moving to put her whole body to moving the monument back into place. She strains, but she doesn’t let the chill concern her dead flesh. Whatever damage it causes will heal soon enough when the job is done.
“…one more… before it wakes… the chain…“
The church bell tolls again – ten times. Two hours until midnight, though it’s only been minutes since the last toll.
“Fuck me,” Amber groans at the tolling, whining in frustration. Once she gets the monument in place, she takes up the chain again to make the connection.
“The anchor points… the great ward… one more connection before midnight, or it breaks free entirely.“
The mist begins to thin slightly, but an ominous pressure builds in the air.
Amber does her best to remember the map of the fireflies and run the chain through the space where a missing connection is marked.
As Amber stretches the chain to complete what appears to be the final connection, the fireflies suddenly scatter in all directions. The geometric pattern of light collapses, and Elias’s form wavers like a candle flame in wind. His eyes widen in horror as he points not at where Amber is connecting the chain, but at a spot several yards away where the mist is beginning to churn violently.
The ground beneath that area starts to crack and split. Something massive shifts beneath the earth, and the bone fragments throughout the cemetery begin to glow with a faint, sickly phosphorescence. Elias shakes his head frantically and gestures toward a headstone Amber hasn’t touched yet – one that sits isolated near the cemetery’s edge, its surface covered in symbols that predate any familiar script.
The spectral indigenous figures become more solid, their voices joining in what sounds like a warning chant. The temperature plummets so rapidly that the grass around Amber’s feet becomes brittle with frost.
The church bell tolls eleven times. One hour until midnight, though barely ten minutes have passed since the last toll.
Amber lets out a quiet grr, “Why can ghosts never say anything useful?” She about jumps out of her skin at the sound of the distant fog horn, but she goes to adjust the connection to the indicated headstone instead.
“The maps… in the surveyor’s office… the pattern extends beyond… other sites… weakening…” His form flickers as he struggles to maintain coherence. “Every fifty years… must be renewed… or the barriers…“
The church bell begins to toll midnight, each chime echoing strangely as if coming from multiple directions. Elias looks toward the sound with growing alarm, then back at Amber with desperate gratitude and warning combined.
“Other sites?” Amber wonders to the ghost, “Fuck that.” She looks towards the source of the bells, then around the graveyard to see if the problem has resolved itself for now, “Midnight was the deadline, right? Are we good?” She waits to see what happens.
As the twelfth chime fades, the cemetery falls into an unnatural silence. The bone fragments stop glowing and settle back into the earth with soft thuds. The cracked ground where something had been stirring smooths over, leaving only disturbed soil. The temperature begins to rise back toward the warm August evening it should be.
Elias’s form solidifies one final time, and for the first time since appearing, he smiles. He nods gratefully at Amber, then gestures toward the surveyor’s chain in her hands. The metal warms to a normal temperature and takes on the proper patina of age. He points once more toward the town beyond the cemetery gates, his expression serious but no longer desperate, before his form begins to fade like morning mist.
The fireflies resume their natural, random dance among the headstones. In the distance, the real church bell tolls once – a single chime marking 8 PM, the correct time. The oppressive weight that had been building in the air lifts completely.
But as Elias fades, his final gesture toward town suggests this was only one piece of a larger puzzle – other sites that may need attention, though perhaps not tonight.
Amber hefts the chain with a sigh, putting it over her shoulder, “Shit’s probably cursed. Maybe if I de-curse it and chuck it in the ocean it’ll keep this from happening again.” She starts shuffling off to the exit.
As Amber reaches the iron gates, the surveyor’s chain suddenly feels lighter on her shoulder. When she glances back, she notices that the headstones she helped align are now perfectly straight, their bases settled firmly into the earth as if they’d never been disturbed. The geometric pattern the fireflies had shown is no longer visible, but there’s a sense of completion in the air.
A gentle breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle and wild roses as the cemetery settles into peaceful quiet. The massive bone fragments that had been shifting now appear as natural as weathered driftwood, integrated seamlessly into the landscape.
The chain itself no longer feels cold or supernatural – just old brass and iron, though well-preserved. Whatever power it held during the ritual seems to have been expended, leaving behind only a historical artifact that helped restore an ancient ward.
As Amber steps through the gates onto the street, Harbor View Cemetery looks exactly like what it should be – an old graveyard on a pleasant summer evening, with fireflies dancing among the headstones and the distant sound of the harbor lapping against the shore.
The immediate crisis has passed, though Elias’s final gestures suggest there may be other sites in Killgrove that require similar attention in the future.