Charlotte’s Thursday night exorcism
Date: 2025-06-19 21:04
(Charlotte’s Thursday night exorcism)
[Thu Jun 19 2025]
In empty shop
It is about 60F(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Prospect/span
The narrow street outside “Forgotten Things” antique shop lies shrouded in the evening mist that clings to All Saints like a familiar ghost. Charlotte stands before the darkened storefront, its painted sign creaking softly in the damp breeze. Yellow police tape still flutters across the door frame, though the official investigation wrapped up yesterday with a terse report of “natural causes – heart failure.”
Through the grimy window, Charlotte can make out the shop’s interior bathed in pale streetlight. Shelves of dusty curiosities cast long shadows, and something glints on the floor near the back counter where old Miriam O’Sullivan’s body was found three days ago. The locals have been whispering – how a woman of sixty-two could age forty years in a single night, how the shop’s protective horseshoe turned black as coal, how Kevin O’Sullivan hasn’t been quite himself since returning from his studies abroad.
The front door hangs slightly ajar despite the police tape, its lock mechanism appearing damaged. From within comes the faint sound of settling wood and the almost imperceptible whisper of glass fragments shifting across floorboards. The mist grows thicker around the building’s foundation, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolls nine times.
The investigation the authorities couldn’t – or wouldn’t – conduct properly awaits.
Charlotte walks up to the store, tilting her head as she ponders the open door. She’s not amazingly dressed for a little session of B&E into an active crime scene, at least not in these boots, but never say Charlotte Harker isn’t one for adventure. As quietly as she can, she pushes the door open, quietly scanning the front of the shop, eyes sharp in the darkness.
The door yields to Charlotte’s touch with a soft creak, the damaged lock offering no resistance. As she steps across the threshold, the temperature drops noticeably – her breath begins to mist in the suddenly frigid air. The floorboards groan under her boots despite her careful movements.
The shop’s interior reveals itself in patches of streetlight filtering through the grimy windows. Antique furniture crowds the narrow aisles – Victorian chairs with faded upholstery, tarnished silver tea sets, and oil paintings whose subjects seem to watch from their gilded frames. But something is wrong with many of the pieces. A mahogany writing desk appears bleached and cracked, its rich wood now the color of driftwood. A collection of porcelain dolls on a nearby shelf stare with eyes that have faded to milky white.
Near the back counter, Charlotte’s gaze falls upon a scattered constellation of mirror fragments across the floor. The pieces catch what little light penetrates the shop, creating an almost ritualistic circle of glinting silver. Some larger shards have embedded themselves deep into the wooden planks, as if driven there by tremendous force.
The air carries a metallic tang, like copper pennies left in the rain. From behind the counter comes the faint sound of papers rustling, though no breeze stirs within the sealed shop.
A shiver runs through Charlotte and she blows out nervously, her icy breath giving the impression of a cigarette being smoked. She rolls her eyes slightly to herself at some thought, but moves forward, noting the issue with the creepy-ass dolls. “Gross.” she whispers oh-so-quietly to herself, before she sees the mirror. She wisely does not step closer, but her eyes snap towards the counter at the rustling. She’s clearly nervous.
The rustling stops abruptly at Charlotte’s whispered comment, as if whatever caused it suddenly became aware of her presence. The silence that follows feels heavy and expectant, broken only by the distant drip of condensation somewhere in the shop’s depths.
As Charlotte’s eyes adjust further to the gloom, she notices more disturbing details. The protective iron horseshoe above the entrance door has indeed turned completely black, its surface now dull and lifeless. Several of the mirror fragments nearest to her position emanate a subtle cold that she can feel even from several feet away, like standing near an open freezer.
Behind the counter, a pale hand becomes visible in the dim light – withered and spotted with age, fingers curled as if grasping for something just out of reach. This must be where Miriam O’Sullivan was found. The hand bears strange dark marks across the palm and fingers, almost like burn patterns in the shape of fingerprints.
A leather-bound ledger lies open on the counter’s surface, its pages fluttering slightly despite the still air. Next to it sits a canvas backpack, modern and out of place among the antique surroundings. The bag’s zipper is partially open, revealing the corner of what appears to be an old book with foreign text on its spine.
The metallic scent grows stronger, and Charlotte notices her own breath is now visible with each exhale, the temperature continuing to drop.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Charlotte shudders at the hand, not saying more for the moment. All bravado has fled, but she still doesn’t run. Instead, she takes a step towards the backpack, looking like she’s pondering something about it. She still gives the mirror a wide berth, though, not wanting to touch the pieces. Or the ledger. Or really, see if that horrifying hand is attached to anyone.
a thick book with Cyrillic lettering on the spine, what appears to be a journal filled with handwritten notes, and the corner of a folded map.
The ledger on the counter flips open to a different page on its own, the sound of turning paper unnaturally loud in the silence. From this angle, Charlotte can see neat handwriting in blue ink, with several entries circled in red. The most recent entry, dated just four days ago, reads: “K. O’Sullivan – REFUSED SALE – Venetian mirror, catalog #247. Third inquiry this month. Becoming insistent.”
A soft scraping sound comes from the floor near the mirror fragments – like glass being dragged across wood. One of the larger shards, roughly the size of a dinner plate, shifts slightly toward Charlotte’s position. The silver frame material clinging to its edges appears to pulse with a faint, cold light.
The withered hand behind the counter twitches once, fingers curling tighter, and Charlotte catches a glimpse of more of the body – an elderly woman’s form, but the face… the face appears decades older than it should be, skin like parchment stretched too thin.
Charlotte takes in the scene – ledger, notes, map, busted-ass mirror that appears to be stalking her, and old woman behind the counter, and sighs to herself. “Why do I always just leap forward?” she asks herself, before looking more closely at the woman. “Maureen?” she asks, tone pleasant. It’s Miriam, but okay, girl. “I just wanted to drop in, see if you had anything new. You know how I LOVE a good antique find.”
a young man with dark hair and familiar features, but his eyes hold an alien intelligence that doesn’t belong.
The image vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving only Charlotte’s own distorted reflection staring back from the broken mirror piece.
From outside comes the sound of footsteps on wet pavement, growing closer. Through the grimy window, a silhouette passes by the storefront – tall, male, moving with purpose toward the shop’s entrance. The footsteps pause just outside the door.
The temperature drops another few degrees, and Charlotte’s breath now comes in thick white puffs. The metallic scent intensifies, mixing with something else – the smell of old books and foreign spices.
Charlotte notes the sound of the young man and slips out of her boots, the easier to move on quiet feet. Hope that mirror doesn’t cut her! She quickly darts behind a shelf, trying to conceal herself in the gloom, at least until she figures out what is up and whether this dude is friend or foe. The whole shop is feeling like foe right about now, if we’re being real.
Charlotte’s stocking feet make no sound as she ducks behind a tall armoire filled with tarnished silver pieces. The cold from the floor seeps through her socks immediately, and she has to bite back a gasp at the shock of it.
The footsteps outside stop directly in front of the door. Through a gap between antique picture frames, Charlotte watches as the damaged door swings open wider. A young man steps inside – early twenties, dark hair, wearing a wool coat that looks expensive but rumpled. He moves with an odd, stilted gait, like someone learning to walk in an unfamiliar body.
“Aunt Miriam?” he calls out, his voice carrying a slight accent that sounds vaguely Eastern European. “I know you’re here. I can smell the fear.” The words are spoken in a conversational tone, but there’s something fundamentally wrong with the cadence – too measured, too deliberate.
He steps directly onto the circle of mirror fragments without hesitation. The glass crunches under his boots, and where his feet touch the shards, they begin to emit that same cold, pulsing light. The temperature in the shop plummets further, and frost begins forming on the windows.
The young man tilts his head, nostrils flaring as if scenting the air. “Someone else has been here. Recently.”
Charlotte holds completely still, watching as the deeply creepy young man enters the room. Is it Miriam’s fear or Charlotte’s that he’s sniffing? Either way, this woman is frozen both literally and figuratively, trying to think about ways to potentially get out of this situation. After a few moments of dissembling, she decides to just….try and bluff. Heels are slipped back on and she greets the young man with a bright, cheerful smile. “Hey, darling.” she greets him, southern drawl just as friendly as can be. “I was just asking your auntie about new stock – I’m something of an antiques hound.”
The young man’s head snaps toward Charlotte with an unnatural speed, his neck turning further than should be anatomically possible. When he faces her fully, his smile is too wide, showing teeth that seem sharper than they should be.
“Ah,” he says, straightening to his full height. “A collector. How… convenient.” His eyes don’t blink as he studies her, and Charlotte notices they reflect the dim light like an animal’s. “I am Kevin. Kevin O’Sullivan. Miriam’s nephew.”
He takes a step closer, glass crunching under his feet. The mirror fragments around him pulse brighter with each footfall. “But I’m afraid Aunt Miriam isn’t taking visitors anymore. She had a… sudden decline in health.” His head tilts at an odd angle as he speaks, like a bird examining prey.
The withered hand behind the counter twitches again, and Kevin’s gaze flicks toward it briefly. When he looks back at Charlotte, his expression has shifted – hungrier. “You have such vibrant energy about you. So alive. It’s been three days since I’ve encountered someone so… fresh.”
The frost on the windows spreads further, and Charlotte can see her own breath coming in rapid puffs. The metallic scent grows overwhelming, mixed now with something that smells like decay masked by expensive cologne.
Charlotte holds still for the moment, face surprisingly placid for someone who has found herself in the presence of a wight. “Oh, really? Well, she was just telling me that there was some new uranium glass, you know, I collect such things – I have a whole series of hurricane lamps, they’re beautiful, really.” As she’s prattling on about antiques, her quick gaze is scanning the room and the space around the man, calculating possibly escape routes.
Kevin’s unnatural smile falters slightly at Charlotte’s casual chatter, his head tilting further as if trying to process her lack of fear. “Uranium glass,” he repeats slowly, the words sounding foreign in his mouth. “Yes… Aunt Miriam did mention… no, wait.” His expression flickers with confusion. “Kevin would know about uranium glass. Kevin collected… I collect…”
He shakes his head sharply, and when he looks up again, his eyes have changed – they’re now completely black, no whites visible. “Enough games. You smell of life, of warmth. I need what you have.”
Charlotte’s scanning reveals limited options. The front door is behind Kevin, who stands directly in the circle of mirror fragments. To her left, a narrow aisle leads deeper into the shop toward what might be a back exit. To her right, the counter where Miriam’s body lies – and where that leather backpack sits tantalizingly close.
Kevin takes another step forward, and the mirror shards beneath his feet begin to smoke. The blackened horseshoe above the door starts to glow with a dull red heat. “Three days I’ve worn this skin, but it’s becoming… restrictive. Perhaps yours will fit better.”
The temperature drops so rapidly that Charlotte’s next breath comes out as a small cloud of ice crystals.
Charlotte dashes for the backpack, seeing if grabbing it will help get her out of this mess. Maybe there’s something to destroy.
European Folk Magic,” Kevin’s journal filled with frantic handwriting, and a folded letter that falls open to reveal: “Father McKenna – Kevin has been asking disturbing questions about mirrors and ‘true sight.’ I fear he’s dabbling in things beyond his understanding…”
Kevin snarls, a sound no human throat should make. “Those are mine!” The mirror fragments around his feet flare with brilliant cold light, and the temperature plummets so fast that Charlotte’s breath turns to ice crystals that tinkle to the floor.
But as Kevin steps closer to the counter, something unexpected happens. The iron horseshoe above the door, now glowing cherry-red, suddenly flares white-hot. Kevin staggers backward with a shriek, his form wavering like heat shimmer. For a moment, Charlotte glimpses something else – a writhing shadow with too many limbs trying to maintain the shape of the young man.
“Iron,” he hisses, his voice now layered with harmonics that hurt to hear. “Clever old woman… even in death she protects…”
clutching the backpack to her chest, Charlotte steps back, shoulders tensed as she watches the battle within the young man. She herself avoids the iron, but is less unsettled by it, at least. “Seems like Miriam was a useful woman to have around.” she comments, voice shaking a little as she debates what to do with her ill-gotten gains.
“Containment broken – entity feeds on life force through touch – vulnerable during feeding or when changing form.”
The iron horseshoe above the door pulses brighter, and Kevin stumbles further back toward the center of the shop, away from its protective influence. “You cannot escape,” he snarls. “This vessel grows weak. I will have yours.”
Charlotte produces a knife from her pocket and dashes forward, placing a hand on the man as she swings her knife, aiming for his heart. “No, I like my vessel and I’d very much like to keep it.” she replies, tone even though she’s clearly very frightened.
Charlotte’s blade strikes true, piercing Kevin’s chest, but instead of blood, a writhing darkness pours from the wound like smoke. The creature shrieks – a sound that shatters several antique glasses on nearby shelves – and its human disguise begins to unravel completely.
Kevin’s face stretches and distorts, revealing glimpses of something ancient and hungry beneath. Tendrils of shadow burst from his skin where Charlotte’s hand makes contact, and she feels a terrible cold rushing up her arm as the Fetch tries to drain her life force through touch.
But the iron horseshoe flares even brighter, and the mirror fragments scattered across the floor suddenly pulse with binding energy. The creature finds itself caught between Charlotte’s iron blade, the protective charm above, and the residual magic still clinging to the broken containment vessel.
“Cannot… hold… this form…” it gasps, Kevin’s voice layering with inhuman harmonics. The shadow-thing writhes, partially separated from its stolen body but unable to fully escape. Black veins spread across Kevin’s skin as the possession becomes unstable.
The temperature drops so rapidly that frost forms on Charlotte’s knife blade, and she can feel the entity trying to pull her very essence through their physical connection.
“Unfortunate, as your actual form seems a bit ugly” Charlotte quips like an extra on Buffy, but tears have frozen on her cheeks and she’s weakened a little thanks to the essence-stealing. She attempts to remove her hand, stepping back as she tries to let the binding magic do its work on the creature.
Charlotte wrenches her hand free with tremendous effort, stumbling backward as the connection breaks. The Fetch howls in frustration, its stolen life force incomplete. Kevin’s body convulses violently, caught between the creature’s desperate attempts to maintain its disguise and the binding forces closing in around it.
The mirror fragments on the floor begin to resonate, creating a high-pitched whine that makes Charlotte’s teeth ache. The pieces slide across the wooden planks, drawn by some invisible force toward the writhing shadow-thing. Where they touch the creature’s essence, silver light flares and the darkness recoils with screams.
“The binding… weakens…” the Fetch gasps through Kevin’s distorted features. “But I will not… return to the glass prison…”
The iron horseshoe above the door glows white-hot now, and the protective magic in the shop reaches a crescendo. The creature’s form wavers between Kevin’s appearance and something far more terrible – a writhing mass of shadow and hunger with eyes like dying stars.
But the binding isn’t complete. The mirror fragments pulse frantically, seeking to reform their containment, but too many pieces are missing – ground to powder during the original struggle. The Fetch realizes this and begins to laugh, a sound like breaking glass.
Charlotte might not know much magic, but she knows a little…and this is an antique shop. Casting her gaze about frantically, she spies a pretty little hand mirror, roses on the back, as part of a set. Probably an unsellable one, if this works, and she rushes to the nearby shelf, grabbing the mirror and turning it towards the creature as she rushes through the words of a simple binding ritual in French.
Charlotte’s French incantation rings through the frigid air as she raises the hand mirror toward the writhing creature. The antique glass surface immediately begins to glow with the same silver light as the scattered fragments, and the Fetch’s laughter cuts off abruptly.
“Non!” it shrieks, Kevin’s voice now completely overwhelmed by the entity’s alien tones. “Not again! Not the glass prison!”
The mirror in Charlotte’s hands grows ice-cold, frost spreading across its ornate rose-decorated back. The binding magic recognizes the ritual – simple but effective when combined with the shop’s existing protections. Silver light streams from the mirror’s surface, creating ethereal chains that wrap around the shadow-creature.
The Fetch fights desperately, its stolen form dissolving further as it’s pulled toward the mirror. Kevin’s body collapses to the floor, suddenly looking pale and lifeless – the young man’s essence already consumed days ago. What remains is pure malevolent spirit, writhing and shrieking as it’s drawn inexorably toward its new prison.
The scattered mirror fragments on the floor pulse in unison, their binding energy flowing into Charlotte’s improvised containment vessel. The iron horseshoe flares one final time, sealing the working.
With a sound like breaking crystal, the Fetch is sucked into the hand mirror. The glass surface ripples like water, then goes still, reflecting nothing but darkness.