Buck’s Friday night ghost banishing
Date: 2025-09-12 22:27
(Buck’s Friday night ghost banishing)
[Fri Sep 12 2025]
A Modest Apartment with Aged Charm/span>/spanThe apartment opens into a modest living space with hardwood floors that show
their age in gentle creases and worn patches near the doorway. White walls
rise to meet a ceiling of pressed tin tiles, their intricate patterns
softened by decades of paint. A radiator beneath the window clanks
occasionally, its cast iron ribs warming the room with uneven dedication. The
kitchen alcove contains basic appliances and laminate countertops, while a
narrow hallway leads to the bedroom and bathroom beyond. Built-in shelves
flank one wall, their dark wood matching the window frames and baseboards
throughout. The windows face the street, offering views of the sidewalk and
shrubbery below, while thin curtains filter the light into patterns across
the floor. A faint smell of old plaster mingles with whatever cooking scents
drift in from neighboring units, and the occasional footstep from the
apartment above creates small tremors in the ceiling fixture./span>/spanIt is about 60F(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Atlantic/span>/spanThe apartment door swings open with a prolonged creak, revealing the modest living space bathed in the amber glow of a single table lamp. Papers scatter across every available surface – photocopied manuscript pages, handwritten index cards, and open books creating a maze of academic chaos. The radiator clanks softly beneath the window where thin curtains filter the streetlight into wavering patterns on the hardwood floor.
A faint scratching sound drifts from somewhere deeper in the apartment, rhythmic and persistent like a quill moving across parchment. The built-in shelves along the wall sag under the weight of medieval literature texts, their spines creating a wall of faded gold and burgundy lettering. Fresh ink glistens on several papers near the entrance, though the apartment appears empty.
The scratching stops abruptly as Evalina and Buck step inside, replaced by an expectant silence that seems to press against their ears. A book lies open on the coffee table, its margins filled with tiny, precise handwriting that wasn’t there moments before. The air carries the scent of old paper and something else – the metallic tang of fresh ink mixed with the lingering mustiness of aged plaster.
Evalina takes a cigarette from her pack, lighting it before taking a draw from it. “Well, I’ll trust your judgement.” She decides, her eyes then flitting about the room. She looks at the book, trying to read it, but keeping her distance, on her guard. “…I don’t like this…” She murmurs, glancing at Buck
“Hello, spirit or entity. Please announce yourself.” Buck says as he looks through his field guide and nods, pulling out a small bag of rock salt to have on hand, “My name is Buck Ransom, and I’m a friend here in town of the wayward travelers from other realms of time, space, and life. Do you wish for us to finish some business you have? Perhaps finish this academic work and put it in The Archive? I know where the liminal space of The Archive is, and I’ve been working to help finish those academic journals and papers.”
“Not finished… cannot rest… they must be heard…” The writing trails off into an illegible scrawl before stopping entirely.
A translucent figure flickers briefly in the hallway – a woman hunched over what appears to be papers, her dark hair falling forward as she writes frantically. She doesn’t seem to notice Buck and Evalina, completely absorbed in her work. The figure fades after only a few seconds, but the scratching continues from the bedroom.
The radiator clanks louder, and several index cards scattered on a nearby shelf flutter despite the absence of any breeze.
“These writings?” Buck says as he slowly walks forward, giving a glance back to Evalina as he gives a nod, holding the salt at the ready as he holds up a hand, “Are you trapped in the Radiator? The running water is often a binding of a sorts. Are you fettered to this plane of existence until your spirit can speak and find rest?”
“A friend of the what now?” Evalina whispers to Buck, then scraping her throat, trying to compose herself before speaking. “Miss…” She tries to find the name of some author on the book cover, “…What must be heard? What must be finished? Mayhaps we can help?” Beat. “Buck here is a /friend/. And I may be able to deliver some support…?” She glances at Buck then. “….T-the radiator?”
“Medieval Manuscripts and Their Scribes” by Dr. Harrison Webb.
“Not… not the radiator…” The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, barely a whisper that seems to emanate from the walls themselves. “The voices… in the margins… centuries of forgotten thoughts…“
Fresh ink begins to appear on a blank index card near Evalina’s feet, forming neat, precise handwriting: “They wrote in secret. Jokes, fears, prayers. Hidden in the borders while copying holy texts. I was so close to understanding their patterns…“
The translucent figure appears again, this time in the living room near the built-in shelves. She looks up from her phantom papers directly at Buck and Evalina for the first time, her eyes wide with desperate urgency. “Ninety percent complete. Just the final chapter. The psychological profiles… I can see them so clearly now…“
Books on the shelves begin to slide slightly, as if being pulled by invisible hands.
nods, “Oh, I keep psych profiles on everyone in town. I can help finish this work.” Buck says as he gives a wry smirk to Evalina murmuring to her, “Most spirits have an obsession, some sort of binding emotional tether that holds them here until their obsession is resolved.” he looks back to the bok, “There’s notes from the scribes? Were they..forced to write in this book? Is it a secret message to us here in the future? We will honor these words and we will make things right for you.”
“Probably not hers.” Evalina murmurs of the name, only further confirmed by the words spoken. She takes another draw from her cig, then speaks softly to Buck. “You reckon she’s actually onto something? Or just… ghost stuff?” She wonders of the man, eyes flitting to the written texts. “What do you think you’ll find in this message? What are the traces of the… pattern… you’ve been discovering?”
“Humor patterns – 23% of scribes. Devotional additions – 31%. Personal complaints – 18%. Artistic doodles – 28%.“
Margaret’s form flickers as she looks directly at Evalina. “Not just ghost stuff. Real people, real thoughts, preserved in manuscript margins for centuries. I mapped their psychological profiles across fifty-three monasteries. The final chapter would prove medieval scribes weren’t just copying machines – they were individuals with rich inner lives.“
A thick manuscript on the coffee table falls open to a page covered in tiny marginal drawings of faces and animals.
“How interesting.” Evalina lies of her thoughts, her eyes flitting forth between Buck and the spirit. “So uhm – sorry. My name is Evalina.” She introduces herself, “And this here is Buck.” Beat. “Would you care to introduce yourself to us, so that we might remember your work and spread it?”
“Oh, you’re an academic.” Buck says as he gets to the book and looks it over, “You were so close to finishing…is this a Thesis? A Dissertation? Were you working on research for Windermere?” Buck asks as he slides the bag of rock salt back in his pocket, “This is often the case with lifelong devoted academics. They pour so much of their time and emotions into their works that it ends up an emotional fetter and their spirit can’t move on without it finished.” Buck notes to Evalina, “So a lot of times it’s passing these on to some Windermere students to finish the research and they get a nice spooky mentor along the way.”
Psychological Profiles of Medieval Scribes Through Their Marginalia.’ Three years of research across European manuscript collections. I found patterns no one else saw – the lonely monk who drew tiny cats in every margin, the scribe who complained about his abbot’s snoring, the woman who secretly signed her initials in decorative flourishes.”
Fresh ink appears on another index card: “Chapter 7 – The Human Element: How Personal Psychology Influenced Sacred Text Production. INCOMPLETE.”
Margaret’s form wavers with frustration. “My advisor, Professor Webb, he’ll never understand the significance. He thinks marginalia is just medieval graffiti. But these scribes… they trusted their secrets to the margins. Someone needs to tell their stories properly.”
The scratching sound returns, more urgent now, coming from multiple directions at once.“
Looking around, Buck says, “And they’re all here with you. All of your bibliography?” he asks as he says, “Can you tell me about the lady that doodled tiny cats?” he points to Evalina and himself, “We’re both cat people, so knowing her name would really get us motivated to help a fellow cat lover.”
“Advisor…” Evalina murmurs, “I used to doodle tiny cats too.” She agrees with Buck, “Right. If we just know her name, we can almost definitely get people who care to find the truth. Maybe they can even talk to the scribes themselves. Or someone who knew them. That’s not really beyond the possibilities, considering how old some of us can get…” She gives Buck a look, then, though visibly growing more nervous with the scratching .
“Adelheid – psychological profile: Creative spirit constrained by religious duty. Used marginalia as emotional outlet. Cats represent freedom, playfulness suppressed in monastic life.“
The scratching grows more frantic, and books begin sliding off shelves entirely now. Margaret looks directly at Buck and Evalina with desperate hope. “You understand. You see them as people, not just… copyists. If someone could finish Chapter 7, compile the profiles properly… Professor Webb has all my research files in his office. He won’t know what to do with them.“
A photograph on the mantle shows a young Asian woman in graduation robes, smiling beside an elderly professor.
“Yeah, you want me to break into his office or just call the guy?” Buck says as he meanders over to look at the picture, picking it up off the mantle and bringing it closer to the book, “I’ll just show him this picture and he’ll hand them over, or do I need some memory you two had together to prove that you sent me? How above board is this Professor guy?” Buck asks.
“But of course. We’ll pass things right onto people like us. People who understand,” Evalina tries to assure the woman. “Buck will find the professor, and I will find a suitable researcher who truly loves people…” She trails off. “You can trust us, and leave things to the next generation. Just like the scribes trusted.”
“Tell him… tell him about the marginalia in MS Harley 2278. The scribe wrote ‘My back aches from copying, but the words must live.’ I found seventeen similar complaints across different manuscripts. Webb said it wasn’t significant, but it proves scribes saw themselves as guardians of knowledge, not just laborers.“
Margaret’s form becomes more solid, more present. The frantic scratching slows to a gentle rhythm. “You really will make sure Adelheid’s story is told? And Brother Thomas who drew tiny prayers in the corners when he was homesick? And Sister Marguerite who hid her real name in decorative capitals?“
The books stop sliding. The apartment feels calmer, expectant. Margaret looks between Buck and Evalina with something approaching peace.
“Professor Webb… he’s a good man. Just… traditional. Show him the photograph, mention MS Harley 2278. He’ll understand you knew me.“
“MS Harley 2278. We understand.” Evalina agrees with a nod, “We will make sure it is told. Promise. People will know the Sister’s real name – they will know Brother Thomas loved his home – and even why he loved it. And they will know Adelheid’s story. They will see the tiny cats – and they will understand.” She assures the spirit. “You can leave it with us – to live on forever.”
Buck nods, “That sounds like a filing for an academic journal or some reference in a library where your research is stored. We’ll get right on that, bud.” he says as he shoots the spirit a couple of finger guns and tips his brimmed hat to her, “Oh, and how is rent since you’ve been haunting this place? Has it been pretty cheap since folks aren’t moving in? There’s some places in Fairefield I want to scare some rent out of, prime real estate that should be cheaper, so if we do this, you up to do a haunting for…I don’t know, maybe a week or two until the landlord kicks it down?”
“Thank you for finishing what I started.“
The apartment falls completely silent. Only the gentle clanking of the radiator remains.
Evalina tilts her head at Buck. “Was that it?” She wonders, putting out her cigarette on the desk. “She’s gone?”
Buck gives a slight shrug, “I think it’s dealing with this other haunting I’ve seen lately. There’s a place called The Archive that’s a liminal space, a sort of…library between worlds and it gathers all of the unfinished academic research and papers and all that from everywhere. It just wants them to be finished and published.”
The apartment settles into a profound stillness. The scattered papers remain where they fell, but the frantic energy that filled the space has dissipated entirely. The photograph of Margaret and Professor Webb sits peacefully on the coffee table beside the open manuscript, no longer radiating desperate urgency.
A gentle breeze stirs the curtains at the window, and for just a moment, the faint scent of old parchment and ink gives way to something lighter – perhaps the smell of autumn leaves or distant rain.
The index cards scattered throughout the room now bear complete, legible notes in Margaret’s precise handwriting, as if her final gift was organizing her research one last time for those who would carry it forward.
Outside, the mist that had been gathering at Mayflower and Atlantic begins to lift, revealing the quiet streets of the Ivory Quarter beneath the late evening streetlights.
Evalina blinks at Buck, considering that for a long moment, “A library that gathers the unfinished…” She murmurs. “That sounds like a bit of a drag honestly. Considering an unfinished paper or piece of research may well turn out entirely useless…” She posits with a cock of her head. “Wonder who made such a place. And why.”
“Huh, I guess she left her peace here. Probably just needed someone to pick up the books and shit and kick her bosses ass at publishing her life’s work. Seen it a bunch of times around Windermere.” Buck says as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it up, then reaches for some index cards and roams the room looking for other books with relevant titles and names, “I’ll gather up a bunch of these books and shit and cart them off to Mirabel Kane or whatever. I’ve got word there’s some arcane business happening among the students on Campus, so they’ll be prime to trace this back to it’s magical source and I can lean on this guy to get the spirit to rest.”
67% – completed ahead of schedule due to effective player cooperation and understanding of the ghost’s needs)
“It still didn’t agree to haunt some properties I have to drop their rent. Hell, I would have written some of this research myself for a couple hundred off on a haunting.” Buck murmurs with a grimace.
“Careful not to earn her punishment deck.” Evalina slyly remarks to Buck, amusement on her face. “Feels like the spirit has well moved on though….” She worries her bottom lip, then snorts at Buck. “Is the rent that bad? Come on Buck. Worst case you can always take a leather couch in a crappy road motel, do karaoke downstairs at night. It’d suit you.”
“Nah, I can afford the rent, but it’s always nice to have a ghost friend on retainer to help you out, you know?” Buck says with a chuckle.
“Thank you for seeing them as people. – M.C.“
The door closes behind them with a soft click, and the apartment settles into peaceful silence for the first time in over a year. Outside, the streetlights of the Ivory Quarter cast long shadows across the sidewalk, and somewhere in the distance, the bells of Windermere University chime the late hour.
The paranormal investigation is complete. Margaret Chen’s spirit has found peace, knowing her life’s work will be finished and the forgotten voices of medieval scribes will finally be heard.