Amber’s Wednesday morning ghost banishing
Date: 2025-06-18 10:51
(Amber’s Wednesday morning ghost banishing)
[Wed Jun 18 2025]
Providence Cemetery/span
It is morning/span, about 66F(18C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Colonial/span
The iron gates of Providence Cemetery creak softly in the morning breeze as Amber steps onto the winding stone path. Dark storm clouds gather overhead, casting the weathered headstones in muted gray light. The air feels thick with moisture, and a fine mist clings to the grass between the graves.
As she moves deeper into the cemetery, something catches her eye near the older section. Several burial plots appear disturbed – not recently dug, but as if the earth has been unsettled and hastily covered again. Wilted flowers and overturned memorial stones scatter the area. Fresh dandelions and wildflowers that should be thriving in the June warmth instead appear sickly and brown around these particular graves.
A groundskeeper’s wheelbarrow sits abandoned nearby, its contents of gardening tools spilled across the path. The small Gothic chapel in the distance seems oddly quiet, its windows dark despite what should be normal visiting hours. The scent of earth mingles with something else – a faint smell of decay that doesn’t quite belong in a well-maintained cemetery.
The mist grows thicker as Amber approaches the disturbed graves, and the temperature drops noticeably. Somewhere among the headstones, a soft rustling sound carries on the wind, though no breeze stirs the nearby oak leaves.
Amber wanders into the space, frowning as she feels the presence in the area. She pulls her hood down lower on her head after peeking up at the stormy sky. Next, she wanders towards the disturbed graves. “So, like. Don’t murder me, ghost. I’m here to help?” she assures.
The temperature drops another few degrees as Amber approaches the disturbed graves, her breath beginning to mist slightly in the suddenly chill air. The rustling sound grows more distinct – not leaves, but something moving through the tall grass between the headstones.
A faint outline begins to materialize near the largest of the disturbed plots, translucent at first but slowly gaining definition. The figure of a woman in her thirties appears, wearing dirt-stained work clothes and gardening gloves. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her face bears an expression of deep concern rather than malice.
The ghostly woman kneels beside one of the overturned memorial stones, her spectral hands hovering over wilted marigolds planted at its base. She looks up at Amber with eyes that hold both sadness and urgency.
“They’re still suffering,” the spirit says, her voice carrying like wind through dry leaves. “The ones who were disturbed… I can’t reach them properly like this.” She gestures helplessly at her translucent form, then at the scattered gardening tools. “My work isn’t finished. They moved the bodies but left the spirits torn between worlds.”
The mist swirls more thickly around the disturbed graves, and faint whispers seem to echo from beneath the unsettled earth – not threatening, but mournful and lost.
Amber shuffles over to the headstones, trying to push them back into place to restore them. As she does, she awkwardly speaks to the ghost, “So- uh. How do I fix it? Tidy up the graves? Please don’t tell me I have to find the bodies. I don’t do well in the daytime.”
The memorial stone is heavier than it looks, but Amber manages to wrestle it back into an upright position. As soon as it settles into place, the wilted marigolds at its base seem to perk up slightly, their brown edges gaining a hint of yellow.
The ghostly woman – Siobhan – watches with visible relief as Amber works. “No bodies to find, thank the saints,” she says, moving to hover over another disturbed plot. “But it’s more than just tidying. The spirits need proper tending – specific plantings to anchor them, to give them peace.”
She points to the spilled wheelbarrow. “My tools, my seeds… I had everything prepared for the seasonal plantings. Lavender for peace, rosemary for remembrance, sage for cleansing.” Her form flickers with frustration. “But I can’t touch them anymore, can’t perform the rituals properly.”
The whispers from beneath the earth grow slightly clearer as Amber rights the headstone – not words, but the sound of souls calling out in confusion. Three more memorial stones lie toppled nearby, and patches of disturbed earth mark where other graves were partially opened.
“The board members who did this,” Siobhan continues, her voice taking on an edge, “they thought moving bodies was enough. They didn’t understand that spirits have roots too.” Lightning flickers in the distance, and the mist grows denser around them.
Amber doesn’t seem to mind the lightning too much. She gives a small grunt of effort as she continues putting each headstone back into place. “Well, Miss Ghost Lady, I don’t know anything about gardening. But if it’ll help keep you all from messing with my nap, I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
Siobhan’s expression softens with something like gratitude as Amber continues her work. Each headstone that returns to its proper place seems to quiet the mournful whispers slightly, though they don’t disappear entirely.
“Siobhan,” the ghost offers, drifting closer as Amber wrestles with another heavy stone. “Siobhan O’Malley. I was the groundskeeper here for twenty-one years.” Her form becomes more solid as she speaks, as if sharing her name anchors her somehow.
She gestures toward the overturned wheelbarrow. “The seed packets are in the canvas bag – they’re labeled. Each grave needs its own combination.” As Amber rights another memorial stone, Siobhan points to specific disturbed plots. “Mrs. Chen there needs white sage and forget-me-nots. The Kowalski plot requires rosemary and lavender. Old Mr. Murphy…” she pauses, her form flickering with what might be fond memory, “he always preferred the wild Irish roses.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, and the first fat raindrops begin to fall. The mist swirls more actively around the cemetery, and Siobhan’s form grows clearer in the dim light.
“But there’s something else,” she adds, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “The one who killed me… he’s still on the board. Still making decisions about this place. The spirits won’t rest completely until there’s justice.”
“Siobhan O’Malley? Are you Scottish or something?” Amber wonders, almost certainly wrong, as she pushes the last stone back into place. A little huff follows before she moves to start cleaning up the wheelbarrow, too. “So, what? I just toss a few seeds down? That’s good?”
Siobhan lets out a soft laugh despite her ghostly state. “Irish, love. Third generation from County Cork.” Her accent becomes more pronounced as she speaks. “The O’Malleys have been tending the dead in All Saints since the famine ships arrived.”
As Amber rights the wheelbarrow and begins gathering the scattered tools, Siobhan shakes her translucent head. “Not just tossing seeds, I’m afraid. Each planting needs intention, proper placement.” She hovers over the canvas bag as Amber picks it up. “The seeds must be planted in a specific pattern around each grave – a circle for protection, with breaks at the cardinal directions for the spirit to find peace.”
The rain begins to fall more steadily, pattering against the headstones. Siobhan’s form grows more distinct in the gray light, her work clothes appearing almost solid now.
“And there’s the matter of the blessing,” she continues, watching Amber sort through the seed packets. “Each grave needs words spoken over it – not prayers exactly, but acknowledgment. Tell them they’re remembered, that they can rest.” Her expression darkens. “But first, we need to deal with the one who caused all this. Thomas Brennan, the board chairman. He’s the reason I’m stuck here, and the reason these poor souls are suffering.”
Amber gives a slow shake of her head, “How about we start with the seeds? I’m not even sure what I can do about a rich guy like that. But I can do seeds. You said sage and forget-me-nots for the first one, right? Show me where to put them.”
Siobhan nods approvingly and drifts toward the first disturbed grave, marked by a weathered headstone reading “CHEN, MEI-LING 1932-2001.” The earth around it still bears the scars of hasty digging, with patches of dead grass and exposed soil.
“Start here at the head of the grave,” Siobhan instructs, her ghostly form kneeling beside the headstone. “Make a circle about six feet across, but leave gaps – north, south, east, west. The spirits need pathways.” Rain continues to fall, softening the disturbed earth and making it easier to work with.
As Amber opens the seed packets, Siobhan’s voice takes on a teaching tone. “White sage first – it cleanses the spiritual wounds. Sprinkle it while you walk the circle, and tell Mrs. Chen she’s safe now, that her rest won’t be disturbed again.” The ghost’s form flickers with emotion. “She was a seamstress, came here from Taiwan in the sixties. Always brought jasmine tea to share during my lunch breaks.”
The whispers from beneath the earth seem to focus on this particular grave as Amber begins her work, growing more hopeful than mournful. The mist swirls in gentle spirals around the headstone, and the temperature feels less oppressively cold.
“After the sage, the forget-me-nots go in the gaps – they’ll help her remember the good times, not just the trauma of being disturbed.”
Amber mostly ignores the rain, unaffected. “Six feet? Fuck me,” she grumbles, slowly walking the circle and sprinkling in the order directed. “You’re, uh. You’re safe now, Mrs. Chen. Your rest won’t be disturbed again,” she says as told before wondering, “And what do I do for the next one?”
As Amber completes the circle and speaks the words, a gentle warmth spreads from Mrs. Chen’s grave. The whispers beneath the earth quiet to a peaceful murmur, and the wilted flowers around the headstone begin to show hints of their original color. Siobhan’s form brightens noticeably, becoming more solid.
“Beautiful work,” Siobhan says with genuine warmth. “You have a natural touch for this.” She drifts toward the next disturbed plot, where a granite headstone reads “KOWALSKI, STANISLAW 1925-1998.” The earth here is more severely disturbed, with deep gouges where machinery had started to dig.
“Stan needs rosemary and lavender,” Siobhan explains, her voice carrying fondness. “He was a carpenter, built half the porches in All Saints. Same pattern – circle with cardinal gaps.” She pauses, watching the rain darken the disturbed soil. “Tell him his craftsmanship is remembered, that his work still stands strong.”
Thunder rumbles closer now, and the mist begins to take on strange shapes between the headstones. In the distance, a figure in a dark coat appears near the cemetery gates, watching through the iron bars. Siobhan notices and her expression hardens.
“We need to work faster,” she says urgently. “Brennan’s here. He always comes when the spiritual activity gets too strong – thinks he can intimidate the dead like he did the living.”
Amber starts to pick up the pace. She just assumes the ritual is the same, but the seeds are different. Rosemary and lavender, she walks the circle and speaks the words taught to her. “Do you need me to, like… shoot him or mind control him or something? This is all kind of above my pay grade.”
As Amber completes the second ritual, the effect is even more pronounced. The deep gouges in the earth begin to fill themselves, and a sense of peaceful satisfaction emanates from Stanislaw’s grave. The mist around the headstone swirls into what almost looks like the shape of working hands before dissipating gently.
Siobhan’s form becomes nearly solid now, her work clothes appearing wet from the rain. “Two down, one to go,” she says, but her attention keeps drifting to the figure by the gates. “As for Brennan…” Her expression grows grim. “Violence won’t solve this. He needs to confess, to acknowledge what he did. The dead can sense truth – it’s the only way to break the spiritual wound he created.”
The man at the gates begins walking up the cemetery path, his expensive coat and confident stride marking him as someone used to authority. He carries an umbrella and moves with purpose toward their location.
“Murphy’s grave is the worst,” Siobhan says urgently, pointing to the final disturbed plot where the headstone lies completely shattered. “Irish roses, but the blessing needs to be different. Tell him…” her voice catches, “tell him I kept my promise to tend his wife’s grave too. They’re buried side by side.”
The approaching footsteps grow louder on the wet stone path. “When Brennan gets here, let me handle the talking. He can see me now – the rituals have made me strong enough.”
Amber ignores the coming figure, focused more fully on the easy part: completing the ritual. She takes the rose seeds and starts to scatter them, “So, uh. Murphy. Siobhan says she kept her promise. You’re buried next to your wife and stuff.”
As Amber scatters the Irish rose seeds around Murphy’s shattered headstone, something profound happens. The broken pieces of granite begin to glow faintly, and the fragments slowly drift back together like puzzle pieces finding their proper place. The whispers from all three graves harmonize into something that sounds almost like a sigh of relief.
Siobhan’s form becomes completely solid now, raindrops actually beading on her work clothes. “Perfect,” she breathes, then turns to face the approaching figure.
Thomas Brennan stops short when he sees Siobhan standing clearly visible beside the restored graves. He’s a well-dressed man in his sixties with silver hair and cold eyes, but his confident demeanor falters as he stares at the ghost of the woman he killed.
“Impossible,” he whispers, his umbrella trembling in his grip. “You’re dead. I made sure of that.”
“Aye, you did,” Siobhan replies, her Irish accent thick with anger. “Pushed me into that open grave when I threatened to expose your scheme. But the dead don’t stay quiet in All Saints, Thomas. Not when there’s injustice to be settled.”
The mist swirls around all three restored graves, and the temperature drops sharply. Brennan takes a step backward, his face pale with fear and recognition.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“People don’t always stay dead,” Amber mumbles. She’s grumbling to herself, not interrupting the fateful confrontation before her. She remembers what she was told, so she leaves Siobhan to do the talking.
Siobhan steps closer to Brennan, her solid form casting a shadow despite the overcast sky. “I want what I’ve always wanted, Thomas – justice for the dead. You disturbed their rest for profit, then killed me to cover your tracks.”
Brennan’s composure cracks further. “It was an accident! You fell–“
“Into a grave that was conveniently open during your midnight inspection?” Siobhan’s voice carries the authority of twenty-one years tending the cemetery. “The same grave you’d been using to hide evidence of your illegal excavations?”
The restored graves pulse with gentle light, and the spirits beneath seem to press upward, not threateningly but as witnesses. Brennan looks around wildly, seeing the supernatural activity intensifying around him.
“The police ruled it accidental,” he stammers, backing toward the chapel.
“The police didn’t know what I knew,” Siobhan replies, advancing steadily. “About the bribes, the forged permits, the families you lied to about relocating their loved ones.” The mist begins to take the shapes of other spirits – dozens of them, all the souls Siobhan had tended over the years.
“Confess, Thomas. Tell the truth, and I’ll make sure you live to face earthly justice. Lie to me again…” The temperature drops another ten degrees, and frost begins forming on the nearby headstones.
Amber steps away from the graves, just in case the other ghosts end up wanting to pop out of them or something. Her attention returns to the show-down like it were some television drama, enraptured.
Brennan’s back hits the stone wall of the chapel as the ghostly figures of past cemetery residents materialize more clearly in the mist. His expensive umbrella clatters to the ground, forgotten.
“All right! All right!” he shouts, his voice cracking with terror. “I killed you! I pushed you into that grave because you were going to ruin everything!” His confession echoes across the cemetery, and the spectral witnesses seem to lean in closer. “The development deal was worth millions. I couldn’t let some groundskeeper destroy it all!”
The moment the words leave his lips, the oppressive supernatural energy begins to shift. The frost on the headstones melts, and the mist starts to clear. Siobhan’s form begins to glow with a warm, peaceful light.
“Thank you,” she says simply, her anger replaced by profound relief. She turns to look at the three restored graves, where the spirits beneath have finally found peace. “My work here is finished.”
Brennan collapses to his knees, sobbing. “What happens now?”
“Now you turn yourself in,” Siobhan replies, her form already beginning to fade as her earthly business concludes. “The recording on my phone in the groundskeeper’s shed will corroborate everything – I was documenting your crimes the night you killed me.”
She looks at Amber with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, love. You’ve given peace to more souls than you know.”
Amber gives a small nod, taking advantage of Brennan’s collapse to make a dash for the phone, to make sure he doesn’t destroy the evidence. In fact, maybe she can make use of it herself.
Amber sprints toward the small groundskeeper’s shed tucked behind the chapel, her feet splashing through puddles on the stone path. The wooden door stands slightly ajar, and inside she finds a modest workspace filled with gardening supplies and maintenance logs.
On a cluttered desk sits an old smartphone in a weatherproof case, its screen cracked but still functional. Amber quickly pockets the device just as heavy footsteps approach the shed – Brennan has recovered enough to realize the implications of Siobhan’s words.
“Where is it?” he demands, appearing in the doorway with wild eyes. “That phone – it can’t exist!”
Behind him, Siobhan’s fading form watches with satisfaction as the last of the supernatural mist dissipates from the cemetery. The three restored graves now look peaceful and properly tended, with the first tiny green shoots of the planted seeds already beginning to emerge despite having been planted only minutes ago.
“The spirits are at rest,” Siobhan says, her voice growing distant. “And justice will be served.” Her form becomes translucent again, but this time it’s the gentle fading of a soul finally at peace rather than the frustrated flickering of the trapped dead.
Brennan lunges toward Amber, desperation overriding his earlier fear. “Give me that phone!”
Amber tries to back out of the way and catch Brennan’s gaze to slip him into a trance, unsure if she’s strong enough to make it work.
Amber steps back and locks eyes with Brennan as he lunges forward. For a moment, his desperate advance slows as her amber gaze catches his, and his expression grows momentarily vacant. But the adrenaline and panic coursing through him prove too strong – he shakes his head violently and breaks free of the attempted trance.
“Nice try,” he snarls, grabbing for the phone in her hands. “But I’m not going down for this!”
However, his brief moment of disorientation costs him his balance on the wet stone. He stumbles forward, and Amber easily sidesteps his clumsy grab. Brennan crashes into the shed’s doorframe with a solid thud, stunning himself.
Siobhan’s nearly transparent form drifts closer, her voice now barely a whisper on the wind. “The phone has everything – photos of the disturbed graves, recordings of board meetings, even video of him threatening me the night before he killed me.” Her image flickers like candlelight. “Take it to the police. Tell them Siobhan O’Malley’s murder needs investigating.”
The cemetery has grown quiet now, the supernatural tension completely dissipated. Even the storm clouds above seem to be breaking apart, allowing thin shafts of sunlight to pierce through. The three restored graves look as if they’ve been properly tended for years.
Amber takes advantage of Brennan’s momentary disorientation to slip back out of the shed. She may not be the best at hypnotism, but she’s pretty sneaky when she wants to be. She sticks to the shadows and quickly gets out of line of sight to keep Brennan from following her.
Amber slips out of the shed like a shadow, using the Gothic chapel’s stone buttresses and the larger oak trees to break line of sight. The rain has made the grass soft underfoot, muffling her movements as she weaves between headstones toward the cemetery’s main path.
Behind her, she can hear Brennan stumbling out of the shed, cursing and calling after her. “You don’t understand what you’re doing! That evidence will destroy innocent people!” His voice grows more distant as Amber puts the chapel between them, using the building’s bulk to shield her escape.
Siobhan’s fading form appears one last time beside the cemetery gates, barely visible now like morning mist. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice carried on the wind. “The dead can finally rest, and the living will have their justice.” Her image smiles peacefully before dissolving completely into the clearing air.
The phone in Amber’s pocket feels warm, as if blessed by the grateful spirit. Through its cracked screen, she can see dozens of files – photos, audio recordings, and documents that will unravel years of corruption.
The cemetery gates stand open before her, leading back to the living world where earthly justice awaits. Behind her, Brennan’s shouts grow fainter as he searches frantically among the now-peaceful graves, no longer aided by supernatural dread to track his quarry.
“Fuck me, I didn’t sign up for that,” Amber grumbles to herself as she passes through the gates, home free to put this whole mess to bed.
As Amber passes through the iron gates of Providence Cemetery, the weight of the supernatural oppression lifts completely from her shoulders. The storm clouds continue to break apart overhead, and actual warmth returns to the June morning air. Behind her, the cemetery looks peaceful and well-tended, as if the disturbed graves had never been anything but properly maintained memorial sites.
The phone in her pocket contains enough evidence to put Thomas Brennan away for murder and corruption – photos of illegally excavated graves, recorded confessions of bribery, and most damning of all, a video from the night Siobhan died showing Brennan threatening her near the very grave where her body was found.
In the distance, she can hear Brennan still calling out desperately among the headstones, but his voice carries no supernatural dread now – just the pathetic pleading of a man whose crimes have finally caught up with him. The spirits of Providence Cemetery rest peacefully, their earthly guardian’s work finally complete.
The neighborhood of All Saints stretches out before Amber, its brick row houses and Gothic spires looking remarkably normal in the clearing daylight. Whatever paranormal forces had been stirred up by injustice and murder have settled back into the quiet watchfulness that protects this Irish enclave from darker supernatural threats.
The morning’s work is done.
Amber slips away into the morning crowds, keeping a firm grip on the phone as she heads to turn it in as Siobhan asked. Just to make sure she isn’t the one to get haunted next.
Amber melts into the morning foot traffic of All Saints, where early commuters and shopkeepers going about their daily routines provide perfect cover. The familiar sounds of the living neighborhood – car engines, distant conversation, the chime of shop bells – feel reassuringly normal after the supernatural intensity of the cemetery.
She makes her way toward the local police precinct, the phone’s evidence burning like a promise in her pocket. Behind her, Providence Cemetery sits quiet and peaceful, its iron gates standing open to welcome visitors to graves that will no longer whisper with unrest.
As she walks, Amber catches glimpses of the neighborhood’s protective traditions that Siobhan had been part of – Celtic knotwork painted on doorframes, small herb gardens planted with very specific intentions, and the subtle vigilance of residents who understand that some threats require more than conventional solutions.
The phone contains not just justice for Siobhan O’Malley, but peace for the disturbed dead and closure for a community that had sensed something wrong without knowing exactly what. By the time the police finish their investigation, Thomas Brennan will face charges for both murder and desecration of graves – crimes that carry weight in both earthly courts and the spiritual realm of All Saints.
The paranormal crisis has ended, leaving only the satisfaction of a job completed and spirits finally at rest.
Amber lets out a weary sigh, all tasks now complete. She ponders a career as a professional exorcist, laughing quietly to herself at the thought.
As Amber reaches the steps of the All Saints police precinct, she pauses to look back toward Providence Cemetery one final time. The Gothic spires and oak trees are barely visible in the distance, but the oppressive atmosphere that had hung over the area like a shroud has completely lifted. Even the storm clouds have given way to patches of blue sky, and the June warmth feels genuine now rather than artificially imposed over supernatural cold.
The desk sergeant inside takes the phone and Amber’s brief explanation with the practiced professionalism of someone who works in All Saints – a neighborhood where unusual circumstances are quietly accepted as part of life. Within hours, detectives will be reviewing Siobhan’s carefully documented evidence, and Thomas Brennan’s carefully constructed lies will crumble.
Walking back into the morning light, Amber can almost imagine she hears a whisper of gratitude on the breeze – not ghostly this time, but the simple thanks of a community where the dead can finally rest and the living can visit their loved ones without fear. The protective traditions of All Saints have held once again, aided by an unlikely ally who just wanted to get back to her nap.
The paranormal threat has been resolved, justice will be served, and Providence Cemetery will return to its peaceful role as a place of remembrance rather than unrest.