Buck’s Sunday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-11-16 18:01
(Buck’s Sunday evening exorcism)
[Sun Nov 16 2025]
Brunswick Chapel/span>50F(10C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Market and Lake/span>The heavy wooden doors of Brunswick Chapel stand slightly ajar, spilling warm candlelight onto the stone steps. Inside, Father Marcus Okoye moves between the pews with methodical precision, straightening hymnals and adjusting flower arrangements for tonight’s 150th anniversary service. His movements are fluid but somehow wrong, like watching someone perform a familiar dance with the steps slightly off-tempo.
Buck arrives to find Marcus standing before the altar, head tilted as if listening to something only he can hear. The priest turns at the sound of footsteps, and his smile is too wide, too knowing.
“Buck Ransom,” Marcus says, his voice carrying an odd resonance in the vaulted space. “How convenient. I was just thinking about you. About that night last month when you came here after the incident at the warehouse. You never did tell anyone what really happened there, did you?” His eyes glitter in the candlelight. “The things people keep locked away in the dark. So many secrets whispered in this place over the years.“
Marcus takes a step closer, and the shadows seem to move with him, stretching longer than they should. “Tell me, Buck. Do you believe in confession? In the cleansing power of truth?” His hand gestures toward the old wooden confession booth in the corner, its door hanging slightly open. “Or do you think some truths are better left buried?“
The temperature in the chapel drops noticeably, and the candle flames bend sideways despite no breeze.
Obadiah slides his phone away, “Sorry about that. I got lost in the other cemetary. Need help?”
“Father Okoye. It seems as though you’ve lost your way.” Buck says as he tilts his hat down slightly, paiting shadows in the candlelight across his face, a stern grimace alights his features as he squints out from under the brim to try and make out the Father’s features, the shimmering shadows surrounding the priest giving off a spooky air. “I believe in confession, sure, Father. But you don’t seem to be yourself. Tell me, have you read any books lately with odd symbols? Any bound books that should have remained hidden and unread?”
Marcus’s head tilts at an unnatural angle, like a bird examining prey. His smile doesn’t waver as Buck questions him, but something flickers behind his eyes–a writhing movement, there and gone.
“Books?” The word comes out with a strange echo, as if two voices speak in imperfect unison. “Oh, Buck. Always looking for the obvious answers. Grimoires and tomes and dusty rituals.” He laughs, and it sounds like wind through hollow reeds. “Some prisons require no pages. Some bindings are made of wood and silence and the weight of secrets never meant to see light.“
Marcus gestures toward the confession booth again, more insistently. The door creaks wider on its own. “The previous Father kept such meticulous records. Every whispered sin, every shameful truth, all documented in his private journals. Did you know he wrote about you, Buck? About what you confessed that night three years ago, when you thought no one would ever–“
He stops mid-sentence as Obadiah enters, and something shifts in his expression. For just a moment, genuine confusion crosses Marcus’s face, as if the real priest is surfacing. “I… I don’t…” His hand rises to his temple, trembling.
Then the shadows surge, and his posture straightens with renewed wrongness. “Two visitors. How delightful.” His gaze fixes on Obadiah with predatory interest. “Another soul carrying burdens. I can taste them from here. The chapel welcomes all who seek… revelation.“
The candles throughout the chapel flare brighter, then dim to barely flickering. In the confession booth’s darkness, something moves–thin, gossamer threads catching the light like spider silk.
Buck gives a nod to Obadiah, “Seems as though our good friend Father Marcus Okoye here may be possessed by a demon. I’m sure between the two of us we can figure out how to exorcise it.” he mentions as he rifles through his satchel to pull out his Twilight Bureau field guide, flipping through it to find the right incantation, “I’m sure I have something in here that one of the experts has written…”
Obadiah looks over at the priest and lets out a heavy sigh. “You wouldn’t begin to believe the burdens I carry father.” He looks to Buck then back to the man, “Suffice it to say if I made confession we would be here a long ass time, and I got a girl I’d like to get back to at some point.” He slowly reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black book of his own, A tomb for demon hunters and other occult investigations, likely pilfered from the Endless Library, “Do we know what type of demon? The Usual Kind?”
standard exorcism rituals work on demons of possession, but entities that feed on specific concepts require their food source to be cut off first.
Obadiah’s tome shows similar information, with an added note in margin handwriting: “Demons of manipulation must be isolated from their fuel. Remove the secrets, remove the power.“
Marcus’s eyes track between them. “You could try your little rituals. But every word you speak, I learn. Every truth you reveal to coordinate, I consume. Can you exorcise me without speaking? Without trusting each other?” His smile widens impossibly. “I think not.“
The temperature drops further. Frost begins forming on the stained glass windows.
“Cold as Hell in here.” Buck mentions as he narrows his eyes, looking at the windows as he does a once over back to the father. “Secrets, it’s a demon of Greed. A collector. We can either sate it’s appetite or starve it, but I’m sure that the old Father here has given it a glotten of confession secrets and it’s still starving. We may have to starve it off and bind it.” Buck notes.
“Oh I trust Buck with my life,” Obadiah says looking over to the detective and back to the someone. “I mean don’t you know we stand in the presence of the great Buck Ransom? Like if that isn’t a great Private Detective name, it is surely a great porn name.” He motions to the other man, “Look. Five o’clock shadow, cynic. The man practically walked out of dime store novel.”
He looks to Buck honestly now and nods, “Greed demons and their secrets. Secrets gathered from confession. That wont be easy.” He narrows his eyes, “He said the other priest kept records though. Maybe we can find those records and burn them?”
“Oh I trust Buck with my life,” Obadiah says looking over to the detective and back to the Priest. “I mean don’t you know we stand in the presence of the great Buck Ransom? Like if that isn’t a great Private Detective name, it is surely a great porn name.” He motions to the other man, “Look. Five o’clock shadow, cynic. The man practically walked out of dime store novel.”
He looks to Buck honestly now and nods, “Greed demons and their secrets. Secrets gathered from confession. That wont be easy.” He narrows his eyes, “He said the other priest kept records though. Maybe we can find those records and burn them?”
“The booth… it was bound in the booth… renovation broke…” Then Whisperthread crushes him down again.
The candles gutter. Outside, the first guests for the anniversary service can be heard approaching, their voices carrying through the autumn night. Perhaps fifteen minutes until the chapel fills with people.
“A more direct route is choking the life out of this bastard and force it to vomit up it’s secrets until it withers away.” Buck mentions to Obadiah as he juts a finger at the Priest, “Look here, bud. You got only a few minutes to let us pass and do our business or I’m going to make sure you’re bound in runed on the wrong side of a whoopie cushion and left in a Middle School lost and found.” he takes a few steps forward, making a distraction for Obadiah to go and find the records, “And if you want to spend your last moments walking this world above being an asshole, I’ve got no qualms about giving a priest a knuckle sandwich in the holiest of holies.” he rolls up his sleeves and puts up his fists, “So tell me a secret, you greedy little bastard, or I’m going to beat them out of you.”
Obadiah nods to Buck and starts to search around the foyer, using all of his skills in stealth and detective work to find the ledger of the former priest. He takes out his phone to start snapping photos when he notices a text. “What the fuck?” he asks no one before he responds to the text then sneaks back behidn the priest but in sight of Buck, showing off the ledger
“You think violence frightens me? I was forged in war, detective. I’ve seen–“
The entity stops mid-threat as it senses Obadiah behind it, ledger in hand. Marcus spins with inhuman speed, and for a moment the gossamer threads become visible–dozens of them stretching from his body toward the confession booth, pulsing with stolen words and secrets.
“NO!” The voice is purely demonic now, resonant and layered. “Those are MINE. Decades of whispers, confessions, truths never meant for daylight. You cannot–“
But Marcus’s real voice breaks through again, stronger this time: “Burn them! Please! It’s feeding on them, it showed me everything, I can’t–” He clutches his head, fighting for control. “The booth! It’s anchored in the booth! The binding was carved into the wood but the renovation sanded it away!“
The threads pulse brighter, and Marcus staggers toward Obadiah, hands outstretched. Outside, car doors slam. Voices grow closer. The first guests are perhaps five minutes from entering.
The confession booth’s door swings fully open now, revealing the interior walls covered in faint, barely visible carved symbols–protection wards that have been partially destroyed by recent sanding and refinishing. In the dim light, more gossamer threads can be seen emanating from the wood itself, all connected to Marcus like puppet strings.
Marcus’s body convulses as Buck advances, the demon clearly torn between its nature and the physical threat. “You think violence frightens me? I’ve seen what you did at the warehouse, Buck Ransom. I know about the fire you set to cover–“
The possessed priest’s words cut off as he notices Obadiah behind him, ledger in hand. For a moment, genuine panic crosses the demon’s features. “No. Those are MINE. Decades of whispers, confessions, the raw material of broken trust–“
Marcus lunges toward Obadiah with inhuman speed, but Buck’s proximity forces the demon to make a choice. Thin gossamer threads begin manifesting in the air around Marcus, writhing like living things, each one seeming to carry whispered voices–fragments of confessions, secrets, admissions of guilt and shame.
“You want secrets, detective?” The threads whip toward Buck like striking snakes. “I’ll show you EVERYONE’S secrets. Starting with yours. The real reason you left the police force. What you did to that suspect in the interrogation room. The evidence you planted. The–“
Outside, car doors slam. Voices grow closer. The anniversary guests are arriving.
The confession booth’s door bangs fully open now, revealing deep scratches on the interior wood–claw marks, as if someone had tried desperately to escape from inside. Ancient symbols are carved into the frame, but several have been damaged by recent renovation work, breaking the binding circle.
The ledger in Obadiah’s hands feels unnaturally heavy, and its pages seem to writhe with the same gossamer quality as the threads surrounding Marcus.
Obadiah continues to snap pictures with his phone of the ledger, mostly older pages, probably not worth much but worth something to the demon no doubt. “These aren’t yours any more, these are mine,” the fae hisses for his own purposes. Whatever the text was that he got, it has started to pick at his mind and he is much more stoic now, down to business, no more mister class clown. “These secrets are mine and I am going to share them with the world. Not so secret any more are they?” He pauses on one page and looks up to Buck, “Hey did you know the mayor was sleeping with a city councilman’s wife?”
“The ones asleep don’t need to know what’s out here that’s beyond what their minds can handle. You and I both know this. They’re too wrapped up in the mundane to know about Vampires, Werewolves, and the deeper parts of the supernatural.” Buck glances over at Obadiah as he gives a smirk, “Yeah, I knew about that. I’ve got pictures of her cheating on him for the next election cycle. They’re worth quite a bit of money.” he flips the priest the bird as he says, “Looks like you’re a little unbound, and that’s no good for a hungry hound like you.” Buck walks over to the confessional booth and examines the runes, flicking out his switchblade and finding where the runes are damaged. Fishing around for some chalk as well in his pocket, he begins to fix the runes from what he knows of binding, to trap the demon while Obadiah weakens it by starving it of power and secrets.
“The journals! There are more in the office! Decades worth! If it reaches those…“
The confession booth’s wood begins to splinter as the demon fights the partial binding. Two more runes need restoration, but the entity is thrashing now, dangerous and cornered.
“Is she hot?” Obadiah asks Buck. Clearly the important questions need to be figured out before he can move on with the ritual. “Oh look at this… Seems Mrs. Berniece Rothwell stole five hundred thousand pounds from the bank of London. I mean it was a Rothwell, what do you expect.” He turns the page again before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a lighter. A few more pictures of some more current pages, “Buck! YOU WON’T believe this!” He smirks a moment then and and lowers his voice for dramatic effect, “It seems one of the nuns was blowing this old priests trumpet if you catch my meaning. Probably how he got possessed in the first place.” He looks over to the poor fellow, “I mean I understand why you did it, but come on man.”
“STOP! Those words are MINE! Unspoken, hidden, POWERFUL!“
But as each secret is spoken aloud, shared freely rather than stolen and hoarded, the threads dim and weaken. The demon’s fundamental nature is being violated–secrets lose their power when freely given, when spoken without shame or manipulation.
Buck’s chalk work is nearly complete. The second-to-last rune glows faintly as he finishes it, and Marcus staggers backward, the invisible tether pulling him toward the booth. The demon fights, but its strength is waning.
“You’re killing it,” Father Marcus gasps out, his real voice stronger now. “Keep going! It feeds on hidden shame, but you’re… you’re making them meaningless!“
The final rune waits. Outside, footsteps on the chapel steps. Voices at the door. Maybe two minutes before people enter.
The demon makes one last desperate play. The remaining threads lash out toward the ledger in Obadiah’s hands, trying to yank it away before more secrets can be spoken. Marcus’s body lurches forward with unnatural strength, fingers hooked into claws.
“The office!” Marcus shouts, fighting the possession. “Second drawer, locked! More journals! If it reaches them before you finish the binding…“
The confession booth’s wood groans as the partial binding strains to contain the weakening but still dangerous entity.
“Aah, probably means he was keeping sin in his heart and these secrets festered into an opening.” Buck says as he glances around, looking for the office. “Figured not all of the Rothwell wealth is legitimate.” Buck murmurs as he find a door closer to where he believes an office should be. He checks the handle if it’s locked and is ready to search the office for the records. “Well, Father Okoye. There’s probably enough here to be kindling on a nice autumn bonfire. But with the runes in place, do you think you’re able to continue with the service tonight? We can finish up a more permanent binding after the restoration work is done on the Chapel.”
Obadiah pulls out his zippo and sets the first ledger ablaze before flinging it into the splinters that Buck is creating. He doesn’t seem to care that there is going to be gross property damage in the house of worship. At least smoke damage, but what do you expect with a little demon exorcism?
one in agony, one in rage.
“NO! MY COLLECTION! CENTURIES OF–“
The flames consume page after page of carefully documented secrets. As each confession burns, the corresponding thread snaps and dissipates. The demon’s power hemorrhages away.
Buck finds the office door locked but flimsy. A solid kick breaks it open, revealing a small room with a desk and filing cabinet. The second drawer is indeed locked, but through the gap he can see more leather-bound journals–at least a dozen of them, dating back decades.
Marcus collapses to his knees as the binding runes flare bright. The demon is being pulled inexorably back toward the confession booth, its anchor point. But it’s fighting with everything it has left, and Marcus’s body is caught in the middle.
“The… the journals…” Marcus gasps, blood trickling from his nose. “Burn them all… or it will just… rebuild…“
Outside, the chapel doors open. Voices echo in the entryway. “Father Marcus? We’re here for the service! Is everything alright? We smell smoke…“
The demon makes one final attempt, forcing Marcus’s body to lunge toward the office where Buck stands. The remaining threads whip wildly, trying to reach the untouched journals.
The confession booth’s door slams shut with a thunderous bang, and from within comes a sound like a thousand whispers screaming at once.
As the priest lunges towards him, Buck whirls and attempts to punch The Preist in the jaw, attempting to throw him off balance enough to finish collecting the documents and destroying the demon.
“Mine now, bitch,” Obadiah says looking back to his phone for a moment, worry furrowing across his eyes as something else doesn’t seem right, something not here but then he focuses on the task at hand, making to intercept the priest, which he does right after Buck punches him in the face. The priest, presumably incapacitated by the two crime fighters, Obadiah nods to Buck, “Go. Burn the journals and let’s get out of here.”
“Father Marcus? Should we call the fire department?“
Marcus struggles to his feet with Obadiah’s help, steadying himself against the wall. He looks at the smoldering remains of the journals, then at his two unlikely saviors. Understanding crosses his face.
“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “I don’t know how you knew, but thank you.” He straightens his collar, wipes the blood from his face with his sleeve, and takes a deep breath. “I’ll… I’ll tell them there was an electrical problem. The service will need to be postponed.“
He pauses at the office door, looking back. “Whatever was in me… it’s gone now, isn’t it?“
The chapel feels lighter somehow, despite the smoke. The shadows no longer seem to writhe with malevolent intent. Just an old building, full of history, ready to continue serving its community without the weight of weaponized secrets.
Outside, the autumn wind carries away the last traces of smoke into the November night.