Arachne’s Friday afternoon ghost banishing
Date: 2025-09-05 12:05
(Arachne’s Friday afternoon ghost banishing)
[Fri Sep 5 2025]
Mayflower Tot Lot/span>/spanmorning/span>/span76F(24C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Darkwater/span>/spanThe storm clouds gather ominously overhead as Arachne steps into Mayflower Tot Lot, the brackish wind carrying an unusual chill for September. The park appears empty at first glance, but something feels distinctly wrong. The swings hang perfectly still despite the gusting wind, and the slide’s metal surface gleams with an unnatural sheen of moisture. Near the art-deco gazebo, a section of playground equipment sits slightly askew, as if it had been moved during the night.
A low rumble of thunder echoes across the park, and for just a moment, the mist swirling around the gazebo seems to take the shape of a figure in a hard hat, clutching what might be papers. The temperature drops noticeably, and the distant sound of children’s laughter carries on the wind – though no children are visible anywhere in the park. The brass dedication plaque near the entrance reads “Mayflower Tot Lot – Dedicated September 1989 – A Safe Haven for All Children” but the metal appears tarnished and the words seem to shimmer strangely in the grey morning light.
Arachne pauses near the gate, eyes narrowing as she traces the warped angle of the playground set, noting the faint drag marks in the dirt as though something heavy had been shifted under cover of darkness. The laughter fades, replaced by the groan of metal under strain, though the swings remain motionless. Her fingers skim the tarnished plaque, the strange shimmer almost liquid beneath her touch, and she feels the chill deepen as the mist gathers denser around the gazebo. Somewhere within that veil, the faint rustle of paper rises above the thunder, urging her closer.
“The surfacing is wrong. The children will be hurt. Why won’t anyone listen?“
Arachne knits her brows, slowly scanning over the playground. “The surfacing is wrong, the children will be hurt… Why won’t anyone listen to what?” she queries softly.
The voice doesn’t answer directly, but the mist around the gazebo swirls more violently. A section of rubber matting beneath the monkey bars suddenly peels back, revealing hard-packed dirt underneath where proper safety surfacing should extend. The metal equipment groans again, and now Arachne can see that several bolts on the swing set are loose, wobbling with each gust of wind.
Near the gazebo, wet footprints appear in the dirt – work boot treads leading from the playground equipment toward the old oak tree whose massive trunk bears a long, blackened scar from an old lightning strike. The rolled papers in the misty figure’s hands seem to flutter, and architectural drawings briefly become visible through the haze before dissolving back into fog.
“Thirty-five years,” the voice whispers, closer now, tinged with desperate frustration. “Thirty-five years of watching them cut corners, watching children play on unsafe ground. The plans… they never followed my plans.“
Arachne exhales slowly, he chill of the words settling into her bones as she steps closer to the gazebo, her heels crunching against the uneven dirt. Her gaze flickers between the loosened bolts and the ghostly prints vanishing toward the oak, the image of those ruined plans burning in her mind. “So you stayed,” she murmurs, her tone measured, almost coaxing. “Bound here to what should have been built, what should have kept them safe. Won’t you show me what was ignored, and show me where it began?” she hopes, quietly drifting forward as she studies the area, trying to lock onto the source of the malevolent energy.
The temperature plummets as Arachne approaches the gazebo. The mist coalesces more solidly, revealing Eleanor’s form with startling clarity – a woman in her thirties wearing a mud-stained yellow hard hat, her work clothes soaked as if she’d just stepped out of a torrential downpour. Her eyes burn with fierce determination as she clutches architectural plans that seem to shift and writhe in her grip.
“Here,” Eleanor says, her voice carrying the weight of decades of frustration. She gestures toward the lightning-scarred oak, then sweeps her arm across the playground. “I was checking the safety zones when the storm hit. The contractors used the cheapest materials, ignored the accessibility ramps, shortened the fall zones around every piece of equipment.“
The plans in her hands unfurl partially, revealing detailed drawings that show proper rubber surfacing extending much further than what currently exists, wheelchair-accessible pathways that were never built, and safety specifications that clearly weren’t followed.
“They finished it after I died, but they finished it wrong. Every day I watch children play on equipment that could hurt them, on surfaces that don’t meet code. The city wants to sell the land now – thirty-five years of my work, and they want to tear it all down for condominiums.“
Arachne’s breath catches as the figure solidifies, her own reflection faintly mirrored in the soaked brim of Eleanor’s hard hat. She steps nearer, careful not to break the fragile tension, eyes tracing every line of the writhing plans. “No,” she answers, her voice threading through the charged air, working together a protective ward to buffer herself from the energies. “Not for condominiums. Not while you still have a voice to show me what was buried. If they cut corners once, we’ll dig until we find proof of it now.” Her hand lifts toward the scarred oak, fingertips hovering as if to bridge Eleanor’s gesture. “Take me to where it started. If they tried to erase your work, then we’ll make it undeniable. You’ve guarded this place for thirty-five years… Let me help you make them listen.”
Eleanor’s form flickers with something that might be hope, her grip on the plans tightening. The protective ward Arachne weaves seems to calm the chaotic energy swirling around them, and Eleanor’s voice becomes clearer, less distorted by rage.
“Yes,” she breathes, stepping toward the lightning-scarred oak. As she moves, her boots leave deeper impressions in the earth, and the temperature around them stabilizes slightly. “The original inspection reports – I buried them here before the storm hit. I knew the contractors would try to cover their mistakes after the opening.“
Eleanor kneels beside the massive oak’s base, her ghostly hands indicating a spot where the roots create a natural hollow. The earth there looks disturbed, as if something has been trying to push up from below for decades.
“Metal box, waterproof. Photos of the substandard materials, soil composition tests showing the ground wasn’t properly prepared, correspondence with the city council about the safety violations.” Her eyes meet Arachne’s with desperate intensity. “If you can find them, if you can make them public… maybe the children will finally be safe. Maybe I can finally rest.“
The mist begins to thin slightly, and for the first time, Eleanor’s form seems less tormented, more purposeful.
Arachne lowers herself beside the scarred oak, palm pressed to the damp soil where Eleanor points, her wards humming faintly as if in agreement. The weight of the ghost’s plea sharpens her focus, it’s evidence begging to be unearthed. “Then that’s where we begin,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the faint rise of disturbed ground. She pulls a silver key-shaped talisman from her coat, letting its edge trace the earth. “Hold steady, Eleanor. I’ll dig them out, and I’ll see they’re not forgotten in some archive. If you’ve carried this for decades, I’ll carry it into the light.
As Arachne’s silver talisman touches the earth, the ground responds with an otherworldly resonance. The soil begins to shift and loosen of its own accord, as if the earth itself wants to give up its buried secrets. Eleanor’s form grows more solid, her presence lending power to the excavation.
“There,” Eleanor whispers urgently as the talisman reveals the corner of a tarnished metal box about a foot down. “Thirty-five years I’ve been trying to bring this to light.“
The box is old but intact, its waterproof seal having held despite the decades. As Arachne works to free it completely, Eleanor’s ghostly form flickers with anticipation. The storm clouds overhead seem to part slightly, allowing a shaft of pale sunlight to illuminate their work.
Inside the box, visible through its clear plastic interior, are manila folders thick with documents, black and white photographs showing improperly installed equipment, and what appears to be official correspondence bearing city letterhead. One photo clearly shows the playground’s foundation with gaps in the safety surfacing that match exactly what they observed today.
“The proof,” Eleanor says, her voice carrying decades of vindication. “Everything they tried to hide, everything they said didn’t matter because I was just one voice against their budget concerns.“
Arachne braces the box free of the loosened soil, her fingers brushing away clumps of damp earth until the tarnished lid gleams under the sudden shaft of light. She sets it carefully on her lap, the weight of three decades pressing against her palms as the documents inside come into view. “More than one voice now,” she answers softly, gray eyes meeting Eleanor’s briefly with silent, reassured resolve. “You’ve kept this safe all these years, and I’ll make certain its’ heard. Their shortcuts end here,” she swears as her thumb lingers over the clear plastic, tracing the outlines of the photographs as if already memorizing the evidence within. “You can trust me with this. I promise.”
Eleanor’s form shimmers with something approaching peace as Arachne makes her promise. The ghostly architect nods slowly, her grip on the ever-shifting plans finally loosening. For the first time in thirty-five years, the documents in her hands stop writhing and settle into clear, readable blueprints.
“I can feel it,” Eleanor whispers, her voice growing fainter but more serene. “The weight lifting. Someone finally believes, finally cares enough to act.” She looks toward the playground equipment, and as she does, the loose bolts on the swing set begin to tighten themselves, the peeled-back safety matting smooths down, and the askew equipment shifts back into proper alignment.
The storm clouds overhead continue to part, and the unnatural chill begins to dissipate. Eleanor’s form becomes translucent, but her expression is one of profound relief rather than anguish.
“The children,” she says, gesturing toward the now-safer playground. “They’ll be protected while you work to make the changes permanent. Thank you, Arachne. Thank you for listening when no one else would.“
A gentle breeze stirs the oak’s leaves, and somewhere in the distance, the sound of genuine children’s laughter can be heard approaching the park.
Arachne rises slowly, box held close against her chest, watching as Eleanor’s form softens into the light. The shift in the playground draws her gaze, the quiet miracle of bolts tightening and ground smoothing proof enough that the promise was heard. “Rest now,” she murmurs, her voice quelled to barely above a whisper, as if sealing their pact. “I’ll see this through.” The last trace of chill lifts from the air, and as the breeze carries the sound of children’s laughter into the park, she turns toward it with steady resolve, already weighing how best to bring the buried truth into daylight.
“Mayflower Tot Lot – Dedicated September 1989 – A Safe Haven for All Children.“
As the first family enters the park – a mother pushing a child in a wheelchair along pathways that Eleanor had always intended to be accessible – the playground equipment stands ready and safe, maintained by spectral hands that will no longer need to intervene.
The storm clouds continue their retreat toward the horizon, and Mayflower Tot Lot basks in its first peaceful morning in thirty-five years. Eleanor Whitmore’s vigil has finally ended, her legacy now resting in capable hands.
Arachne lingers beneath the oak, the metal box secure at her side as she watches the mother guide her child onto the path Eleanor had once drawn in ink. The air is brighter now, softened by the quiet hum of a place finally set right, and she feels the weight of both promise and duty settle across her shoulders. With a final glance toward the fading shimmer of Eleanor’s presence, she inclines her head in silent acknowledgment. The vigil may be over, but the work ahead is only beginning, and she will see to it that the architect’s voice echoes louder than the silence that once buried it. With that, she leaves the playground behind.
Approximately 45 minutesResolution: The ghost of Eleanor Whitmore has been helped to move on by having her concerns acknowledged and her buried evidence recovered. The supernatural manifestations have ceased, and the park is now safe for children to enjoy.*
Arachne stops at the edge of the Mayflower Tot Lot, just making sure that everything is truly okay before she leaves the premises behind.
The park stretches peacefully before Arachne, transformed from the unsettling place she first entered. The swings now move gently in the natural breeze, their chains no longer eerily still. Children’s voices carry clearly through the air as more families arrive, drawn by the suddenly welcoming atmosphere. The playground equipment sits properly aligned, its safety surfaces intact and level.
Near the gazebo, the mist has completely cleared, revealing the art-deco structure in crisp detail under the emerging sunlight. The brass dedication plaque gleams normally now, its words steady and clear without the strange shimmer that had distorted them before. Even the lightning-scarred oak seems less ominous, its massive trunk standing as a natural monument rather than a harbinger of tragedy.
The temperature has returned to a pleasant 76 degrees, and the oppressive weight that had hung over the location has lifted entirely. As Arachne watches, a small girl successfully navigates the wheelchair-accessible pathway Eleanor had designed but never seen properly built, her delighted laughter ringing pure and joyful across the grounds.
The malevolent presence that had drawn Arachne here has been completely resolved.
Arachne watches that little girl briefly before she turns, slowly, making her way out of the park at long last.
As Arachne walks toward the park’s entrance, the metal box containing Eleanor’s evidence secure in her grasp, the sounds of a truly living playground follow her – children calling to friends, parents chatting on benches, the rhythmic creak of swings in natural motion. The brass dedication plaque catches the strengthening sunlight one final time as she passes, its promise of “A Safe Haven for All Children” finally fulfilled after thirty-five years of waiting.
Behind her, Mayflower Tot Lot continues its first peaceful day since 1989, free from spectral intervention and ready to serve the community as Eleanor Whitmore had always intended. The architect’s vigil is over, but her legacy – and the proof of her dedication – walks out of the park in capable hands.
At the gate, Arachne pauses, shifting the weight of the box to one arm as her free hand sketches sigils of warding into the air, threads of silver light sinking quietly into the soil. She walks the boundary slowly, murmuring low words that ripple like spider silk through the playgrounds foundations, weaving protections meant to preserve the balance Eleanor fought for. Each bench, each pathway, each rooted tree takes on a subtle resonance, humming with a gentle strength that will hold against neglect or tampering. Only when the wards lock into place, does she turn away, leaving the tot lot in the safety of both Eleanor’s vision and her own vigilance. Can’t ever be too safe.
The silver threads of Arachne’s protective wards settle into the earth like roots finding their proper depth, creating an invisible network of safeguards throughout Mayflower Tot Lot. The magic resonates with the lingering echoes of Eleanor’s decades-long protection, weaving together into something stronger than either could achieve alone.
As the final ward locks into place, a gentle warmth spreads through the playground – not supernatural, but the simple contentment of a space finally serving its intended purpose. The equipment seems to gleam a little brighter, the pathways appear more welcoming, and even the old oak’s lightning scar looks less like a wound and more like a badge of endurance.
With Eleanor’s evidence secured and the park now doubly protected – by spectral dedication transformed into peaceful rest, and by carefully woven magical safeguards – Arachne steps beyond the gate. The tot lot behind her hums with quiet vitality, a sanctuary preserved not just in memory of its architect, but as a living testament to the power of promises kept.
The morning sun breaks fully through the retreating storm clouds, and Mayflower Tot Lot begins what will be its first truly carefree day in thirty-five years.