Constance’s Tuesday afternoon exorcism
Date: 2025-09-02 16:54
(Constance’s Tuesday afternoon exorcism)
[Tue Sep 2 2025]
A Stark Institutional Hotel Room/span>/spanRoom 106 sits at the end of a narrow corridor, its heavy wooden door bearing
a tarnished brass number plate. Inside, pale yellow and green floral
wallpaper covers the walls, the pattern repeating endlessly in vertical
strips that have begun to peel at the corners. The single bed, its metal
frame bolted directly into the concrete floor, occupies the center of the
room with a thin mattress covered in starched white sheets. Two barred
windows face the parking lot, their iron grating casting shadow patterns
across the worn linoleum floor during daylight hours. A small nightstand,
also secured to the floor, holds a lamp with a yellowed shade and a Gideon
Bible in the drawer. The air carries the mingled scents of
industrial-strength disinfectant and decades of cigarette smoke that no
amount of cleaning can fully remove. In the corner, a radiator painted the
same institutional green as the window frames occasionally clanks and hisses,
while the floorboards creak with each step despite the linoleum covering./span>/spanIt is about 65F(18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Birch and Washington/span>/spanThe heavy wooden door to Room 106 swings open with a prolonged creak, revealing the stark institutional space beyond. Constance steps into the cramped hotel room, her Lichtenberg scars catching the pale afternoon light filtering through the barred windows. The air hits her immediately – that peculiar mixture of industrial disinfectant and old cigarette smoke, but underneath it something else. Something wrong.
The peeling floral wallpaper seems to shift slightly in her peripheral vision, and the linoleum floor bears dark marks arranged in an oddly geometric pattern near the foot of the bolted-down bed. A briefcase lies open on the thin mattress, its contents scattered – insurance documents, photographs, maps of the All Saints neighborhood. The brass lamp on the nightstand flickers once, twice, then settles into an erratic rhythm.
From somewhere in the walls comes the sound of the radiator clanking, but the rhythm is too steady, too familiar. Like a heartbeat. The temperature near those floor marks feels noticeably colder than the rest of the already chilly room.
A small placard on the door frame reads “Crime Scene – Do Not Disturb” in the hotel’s generic font, though no police tape blocks entry. Whatever happened here three days ago when Marcus Chen checked in under a false name, the official investigation has already moved on. But the wrongness in the air suggests the real mystery is just beginning.
Constance enters the scene, disturbing it with absolute disregard for the law. “I need to find some things that improve the Temple’s standing here in All Saint’s,” she murmurs. “Which means if I can find a supernatural motive for whatever crime this is, I can expose it to the media and get a surge of pro-Templar sentiment.” She looks over the briefcase and its contents intently.
a basement with symbols carved into stone walls, a backyard where the grass has died in perfect geometric patterns, an attic where mirrors have been arranged in a specific formation.
The actuarial tables catch her attention – columns of numbers that at first glance seem like standard risk assessments, but the calculations follow an unusual pattern. Every seventh entry contains numbers that, when read vertically, form sequences that feel familiar to anyone versed in occult mathematics.
As Constance leans closer to examine a particular photograph, the brass lamp flickers in a distinct pattern: three short bursts, three long, three short again. The repetition is unmistakable – someone or something is trying to communicate. The briefcase’s lock appears intact, but closer inspection reveals it’s been broken from the inside, as if something forced its way out rather than in.
The temperature drops another few degrees as she handles the documents, and in the corner of her eye, the mirror above the small sink seems to show her reflection a fraction of a second after she moves. The wrongness in the room intensifies, pressing against her consciousness like a weight.
Constance squints at the lamp. “S O S?”, she states, recognizing the most common form of morse code. “Huh. That’s interesting.” She unfortunatley has no fucking idea anything to do with mathematics… “Feels fucking WRONG in here, though,” she mutters. “Wonder what the issue is? Is there a ghost here that needs my help?”
“T-R-A-P-P-E-D.“
The radiator’s heartbeat rhythm quickens, and the electrical outlets along the wall spark in sequence – left to right, then back again, as if something is moving between them. The scorch marks on the floor near her feet begin to emit a faint blue-black glow, barely visible in the afternoon light.
From the nightstand drawer comes a soft rustling sound. The Gideon Bible inside has fallen open, its pages fluttering despite the still air. Several pages show tiny, precise holes burned through them – not random damage, but deliberate removal of specific words.
The wrongness Constance feels isn’t just ambient supernatural energy. It’s focused, desperate, and growing stronger with each passing moment. Whatever presence is here recognizes her acknowledgment and is trying harder to communicate. The mirror clears briefly, then fogs again with new letters: “H-E-L-P.“
The insurance documents on the bed rustle slightly, as if touched by invisible hands trying to draw attention to something specific among the scattered papers.
Constance picks up the insurance documents and begins to scan through them pensively as she looks at the Gideon Bible between every other breath. “I’ll help, I”ll help. Just….can you use the television, maybe? change the channel as they’re saying words, then you can ‘talk’ in a way.”
The small television mounted in the corner flickers to life without anyone touching the remote. Static fills the screen for a moment before cycling rapidly through channels – a cooking show, news, soap opera, commercial. The channel changes accelerate, settling into a pattern.
“SOUL” – stops on a religious program showing a baptism.
“TRAPPED” – flashes to a nature documentary about insects caught in amber.
“MIRRORS” – lands on a home improvement show discussing bathroom renovations.
“DEMON” – cuts to a horror movie trailer.
“WEARING” – switches to a fashion program.
“MY” – pauses on a children’s show with a puppet pointing at the camera.
“BODY” – stops on a medical drama showing an operating room.
The insurance documents in Constance’s hands feel unnaturally cold. Among them, she finds a claim report for 1247 Birch Street – the same address where a family reported their mirrors “acting strangely” before their house burned down. Another claim from Washington Avenue mentions “unexplained electrical disturbances” and “reflective surfaces showing wrong images.“
The Bible’s burned-out words become clearer now – every instance of “binding” has been precisely removed, leaving perfect holes that go through multiple pages. The radiator’s heartbeat rhythm grows more frantic.
Constance nods to hereslf. “Fucking rough, buddy,” she comments, aware of the situation now. She begins to draw a ritual circle with her Conclave intelligence – one of binding, in order to draw the demon back to the place where it had taken the man’s soul and placed it into the mirrors. “I’ll get it back. What’s the name of the demon?”, she asks. “I can summon it with its true name and then swap your positions.
The television screen goes black for several seconds, then begins cycling frantically through channels again, the presence clearly agitated by the question.
“DON’T” – stops on a red traffic light in a driving safety commercial.
“KNOW” – flashes to a game show contestant shaking their head.
“NAME” – cuts to a documentary about anonymous artists.
“BUT” – pauses on a conjunction junction educational segment.
“CAREFUL” – switches to a warning label on a medication commercial.
As Constance begins drawing her binding circle, the scorch marks on the floor suddenly flare with that cold blue-black light, much brighter now. The pattern of her ritual circle intersects with the existing marks, and where they meet, the linoleum actually cracks with audible snaps.
The mirror above the sink begins to fog heavily, and through the condensation, a face starts to form – gaunt, desperate, with Marcus Chen’s features but hollow, fading eyes. His mouth moves silently, trying to form words. The electrical outlets spark more violently, and the lamp’s SOS pattern becomes erratic, panicked.
The insurance documents in her hands suddenly feel burning hot, then ice cold. One particular claim form – for a “Vinculum Entity Incident” – begins to glow faintly around the edges.
Constance winces as the linoleum cracks. “vinculum entity, huh?”, She takes it and begins to read it.
“CLAIM #VM-4471: Vinculum Entity Incident – 892 Elm Street, All Saints Borough. Claimant: Father Michael O’Brien, St. Brigid’s Parish. Property damage: $47,000. Incident: Demonic binding entity summoned during unauthorized ritual. Entity designation: Vinculum class – specializes in soul displacement and corporeal possession. Manifestation triggered by accidental alignment of sacred geometry in church renovation blueprints. Entity banished using traditional methods, but not before displacing souls of three parishioners into blessed mirrors for 72 hours. Recovery successful using name compulsion: ‘Nexus Animarum Vinctus.’ Claim APPROVED – supernatural rider coverage applies.“
The moment Constance reads the demon’s true name aloud, the room erupts in supernatural activity. Every mirror surface – the bathroom mirror, the black television screen, even the window glass – begins to show the same desperate face of Marcus Chen. His mouth moves frantically, and the television channels flip to spell out:
“NOW” – a clock showing the current time.
“SUMMON” – a magic show with a conjurer.
“IT” – a horror movie pointing finger.
The temperature plummets another ten degrees, and frost begins forming on the windows despite the September afternoon.
Constance takes a deep breath and summons the demon utilizing the instructions laid out in the briefcase. “Nexus Animarum Vinctus!”, she points at the circle, intending to trap it into the mirror afterwards, to swap it with Marcus Chen.
“TRAP” – “NOT” – “COMPLETE” – “NEED” – “SEPARATION” – “FIRST.“
The binding circle glows, but instead of trapping the demon, it seems to be holding it in place while strengthening its connection to Marcus’s body. The creature smiles with Marcus’s face, and the expression is wrong in every possible way.
“You cannot banish what is already home,” it purrs, taking a step toward Constance.
Constance rubs her chin. “Hm. I wish I was a stronger ritualist. I don’t actually know how to seperate you from its body without just killing you. But I can absolutely keep you here for 72 hours, considering the insurance thing says it only lasts 72 hours. Then you can’t do mischief and we can just wait. What, do you think you can break out of the circle?”, she snorts.
“FADING” – “HELP” – “PLEASE.“
Marcus’s face in the mirrors is barely visible now, like a photograph left too long in sunlight. The radiator’s heartbeat rhythm grows irregular, weaker. The insurance document in Constance’s hand grows cold as ice, and new text appears at the bottom in frost: “Soul degradation accelerates after 72 hours. Recovery becomes impossible after 96 hours total displacement.“
The demon smiles wider. “Tick tock, Templar.“
Constance mutters to herself, “Let’s see if the compulsion works again – Nexus Animarum Vinctus! Begone from his body! The power of the Name compels you, demon! Back to Hell!”
“NOT” – “TRUE” – “ACCIDENT” – “HELP.“
Marcus’s fading reflection in the cracked mirror mouths words frantically. The insurance documents on the bed begin to smoke, and one particular page – a liability waiver Marcus signed when he took the case – glows with infernal script that wasn’t there before. The demon’s trap was more elaborate than a simple summoning.
The radiator’s heartbeat grows fainter still. Time is running out faster than expected.
“Break the contract,” the demon taunts, “or watch him fade forever.“
Constance snatches up the script and begins to read it, looking for a loophole with her experience with demonic pacts.
“Investigator agrees to assume all risks, including but not limited to: soul displacement, corporeal possession, and binding servitude upon discovery of Summoning Materials as defined in Appendix VII . Contract void only upon: willing substitution of equivalent soul, destruction of all Summoning Materials, or completion of original investigative purpose.“
The last clause glows brighter. Marcus’s original case files are still scattered on the bed – his investigation into fraudulent supernatural insurance claims. The demon needed him to complete the work to identify more summoning sites, but if someone else finishes the investigation and submits the report…
The mirrors show Marcus’s face one last time, barely a whisper of an image. The television flickers: “FINISH” – “MY” – “WORK.“
The radiator falls silent. The room temperature drops to near freezing. Marcus has perhaps minutes left before his soul dissipates completely.
Constance rapidly brings her shotgun up and begins to shoot everything but the demon in the room, not wanting to hurt Marcus’ body. “I’ll destroy everything related to the summoning materials, then you’ll be free,” she shrieks, knowing she’s not smart enough to do detective work – she’d need Buck Ransom for that.
“SALT” – “IRON” – “HOLY.“
The radiator gives a single, final clank. In the shattered mirror fragments on the floor, there’s no reflection of Marcus at all anymore – just empty glass. The room falls into an unnatural silence.
The demon’s smile fades. “Interesting. Now we negotiate.“
Constance brings her cold iron halberd around and slams the haft into the demon’s skull. “Get the fuck out, that’s my negotiation,” she snarls. “I don’t give a fuck about killing you both. Either you go back to Hell now or both of you die.’
The cold iron connects with Marcus’s skull with a sickening crack. The demon staggers, black ichor seeping from the wound, but Marcus’s body remains standing. The creature’s borrowed face contorts in rage.
“You would murder an innocent man?” it hisses through bloodied teeth. “His soul is already gone – scattered to nothing by your incompetence. Kill this body and you kill only him.“
But from the scattered mirror fragments on the floor comes the faintest whisper of light – not gone, just barely clinging to existence. The insurance documents on the bed suddenly burst into cold blue flames, the same color as the original scorch marks. The contract is burning.
The demon screams as the flames consume the binding agreement. Marcus’s body convulses, and for a split second, his eyes clear – truly his own again.
“The… report…” he gasps with his own voice before the demon reasserts control. “Submit… the report…“
The creature lunges at Constance with inhuman speed, Marcus’s body moving in ways no human frame should bend.
Constance likewise has inhuman speed and unnatural reflexes. She reaches forth and grabs the demon by the neck with her hulking frame, choking it. “I’ll submit the report. It’s all fucking physical, though. Who does this go to, VANGUARD?”, she wonders. She collects the papers with her off-hand and shuffles them together into a report.
The demon claws at Constance’s grip, Marcus’s fingernails drawing blood, but her supernatural strength holds firm. As she gathers the scattered documents with her free hand, the papers seem to arrange themselves – insurance claims, photographs, maps of All Saints borough all falling into logical order.
“Hartford… Insurance…” Marcus’s voice breaks through the demon’s snarls for just a moment. “Claims… department… email…“
The laptop on the nightstand – previously unnoticed among the chaos – springs to life, its screen showing an email draft already partially composed. The cursor blinks after “FINAL REPORT – SUPERNATURAL CLAIMS INVESTIGATION – ALL SAINTS BOROUGH.“
The demon’s struggles weaken as the contract’s ashes continue to smolder on the bed. In the mirror fragments, the faintest outline of Marcus’s true face begins to reform – still translucent, still fading, but fighting to return.
“Send… it…” he whispers through the demon’s chokehold. “Complete… the work…“
The room’s temperature begins to rise slightly. The supernatural wrongness wavers, like a radio signal losing reception.
Constance uses her phone to email the report to hartford insurance’s address that she gets after a quick borough, clicking ‘send’ on the laptop.
The moment the email sends with a soft electronic chime, the demon’s body goes rigid in Constance’s grip. The creature’s borrowed features contort in fury and disbelief as the binding contract’s final clause activates.
“No… the work was MINE to complete…” it snarls, but its voice is already fading, becoming hollow and distant.
Marcus’s body begins to convulse violently, then suddenly goes limp. For a terrifying moment, Constance holds what appears to be a corpse. Then Marcus draws a sharp, gasping breath – his first real breath in three days. His eyes flutter open, brown and human and utterly exhausted.
“Thank… thank you,” he whispers hoarsely.
The mirror fragments on the floor reflect normally again. The scorch marks on the linoleum fade to ordinary burn marks. The oppressive wrongness lifts from the room like a weight being removed from Constance’s shoulders.
From somewhere far below – or perhaps far away – comes the sound of something screaming as it’s dragged back to whatever hell spawned it.
Marcus Chen is free. The investigation is complete. And All Saints borough is a little bit safer tonight.