August’s Tuesday morning exorcism
Date: 2025-06-24 07:37
(August’s Tuesday morning exorcism)
[Tue Jun 24 2025]
37At 37an alley
It is dawn/span, about 74F(23C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Mayflower and Darkwater/span
August Pierce stands at the mouth of the narrow alley, his tired green eyes scanning the shadows between the red brick buildings. The morning sun filters down through the fire escapes above, casting a lattice of light and dark across the worn cobblestones. Something made him turn down this particular street – a sound, maybe, or just the restless urge that keeps him moving from place to place.
“Help… please…”
The voice drifts from deeper in the alley, feminine and desperate. It echoes off the brick walls, making it hard to pinpoint exactly where it’s coming from. A tabby cat near the ivy-covered gap in the wall lifts its head, amber eyes fixed on August with an almost human intelligence before it pads silently toward the shadows.
The metal dumpster sits against the far wall, its rust-spotted surface decorated with peeling concert posters. From this distance, August can make out fragments of text: “…Merchant’s Daughter…” and what might be a woman’s name, though the letters are too faded to read clearly.
“Is someone there?” the voice calls again, weaker now, as if fading.
The alley feels oddly still despite the morning bustle of the city beyond. Even the usual urban sounds seem muffled here, as if the brick walls are holding their breath.
Clad perfectly in his batman onesie, with the cowl drawn over his head and everything, August haunts the alleys in the casual bravado of the superhero imitationist. He’s probably somewhat inebriated – but sobered quickly when he hears the sound, the plea for help. The cat that pads before him is given a narrowed stare that’s masked by the cowl over his head, watched, observed until it disappears in the shadows. Felines, never to be trusted. Yet, when the voice calls again, he looks up, and he does answer while heading inward to the source, drifting passt the text fragmented on the dumpsters. “Hey? Are you alright?”
August’s voice echoes off the brick walls as he moves deeper into the alley, the Batman cowl making his words sound slightly muffled. The tabby cat pauses at his approach, tilting its head as if considering something, before continuing its path toward the ivy-covered gap.
“Here… by the…” The woman’s voice grows fainter, seeming to come from near the dumpster now.
As August draws closer to the rust-spotted container, he can make out more details on the peeling posters. One fragment clearly shows “Vivian” in elegant script, while another displays “June 1923 – Final Performance.” The paper is old, far older than it should be for something exposed to the elements.
A scratching sound emerges from within the dumpster itself – not the scrabbling of rats, but something more deliberate. Rhythmic. Almost like fingernails dragging across metal.
The morning light seems dimmer here, despite the clear sky above. The shadows cast by the fire escapes appear to shift slightly when August isn’t looking directly at them, and there’s a faint scent in the air – not just cigarette smoke and warming earth, but something else. Greasepaint, perhaps, or old fabric.
The scratching from the dumpster grows more insistent.
“Please…” comes the voice again, barely a whisper now.
“Shit,” August can’t spare another second before he dives at the insistence of nails scraping within the dumpster. The text, the posters on it – they’re noted down to every detail, but August takes hold of the dumpster’s lid to throw it open swiftly what with the barely whispered, waning voice of the woman seemingly coming from within. “I’m here, what happened, are you okay?”
The dumpster lid clangs open with a metallic crash that reverberates through the alley. August peers inside, expecting to find someone in distress, but the container is empty save for a few scattered pieces of trash and…
A single brass theater mask stares up at him from the bottom of the dumpster. It’s a comedy mask, its frozen smile gleaming despite the patina of age. The scratching sound stops abruptly.
“Thank you…” the woman’s voice whispers, but now it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The mask wasn’t there a moment ago. August is certain of it. The dumpster had been empty when he first looked, but now this theatrical prop sits perfectly centered, as if placed there deliberately. Its brass surface reflects the filtered morning light in strange ways, casting tiny dancing spots of illumination on the alley walls.
The tabby cat has stopped near the ivy-covered gap and sits watching, its tail twitching with apparent agitation. Above, one of the dark windows in the brick building shows a brief silhouette – the outline of a woman in what might be a period dress – before it vanishes.
The air grows colder despite the warming day, and August can swear he hears the distant sound of applause, faint but unmistakable, echoing from somewhere beyond the alley walls.
The brass mask continues to smile up at him, waiting.
“What in the..” August nearly breaks character. The gruffiness – though his own voice is hoarse and the baritone of a heavy smoker, he’s still perplexed at the vacany, the lack of anything. His hand lays aside at his hip, at the hilt of a sawn-off shotgun that hangs there. Of course Batman uses a gun – in this reality, anyway. Still, gloved hands reach in, and pluck the mask from within the container, draw back with it, seemingly lost at the noise of applause that’s rising from everwhere and nowhere at once.
The moment August’s gloved fingers close around the brass mask, reality fractures.
The alley walls seem to breathe, expanding and contracting like living tissue. The red brick ripples, mortar lines flowing like water, and the shadows cast by the fire escapes begin moving independently of their sources – stretching, reaching, grasping at nothing.
The applause grows thunderous, echoing from every surface, but there’s no audience to be seen. It’s the sound of a packed theater, hundreds of hands clapping in appreciation, but the noise comes from the walls themselves, from the cobblestones, from the very air.
August’s vision blurs. The alley stretches impossibly long in one direction, then snaps back to normal size. The dumpster seems to be in three places at once before settling back into position. The morning light flickers like stage lighting, casting everything in alternating warm gold and harsh white.
Through it all, the brass comedy mask in his hand grows warm, almost hot, and he can swear he feels it pulse like a heartbeat.
Then, as suddenly as it began, everything stops.
August stands at the mouth of the narrow alley, his tired green eyes scanning the shadows between the red brick buildings. The morning sun filters down through the fire escapes above. The Batman costume feels familiar on his body.
“Help… please…” comes a woman’s voice from deeper in the alley.
Whatever happened, it’s not quite clear to the outside viewer – but August is stumblnig back with that mask in hand. His head swivels to stare at the buildings that ripple, shiver, breathe as if they’re alive while that crescendo of thundering applause starts to rise to the heavens. Except, August falls on his rear, tripped over a piece of rebar left on the ground. Then – Then he’s not there anymore, and August happens to be exactly where he was at the mouth of the alleyway, wandering in as if he’s doing it for the first time, yelling, exactly the same, down the alley at the same noise pleading for help. “What the.. Are you alright? I’m coming!” It looks like he’s stuck in a loop.
“Help… please…” but August might notice it sounds exactly the same as before – the same inflection, the same desperate tone, as if it’s a recording being played.
Near the ivy-covered gap in the brick wall, something glints briefly in the filtered sunlight. The cat’s gaze flicks toward it meaningfully before returning to August.
The scratching from the dumpster grows more insistent, but now it has a rhythm to it – almost like Morse code, or perhaps stage directions being tapped out.
Naturally, any aficionado for movies has seen matrix. That cat running past him again, glinting from beneath the ivy vines – but in a distinctly diffent way that breaks August’s illusion is the catalyst, as well as the subtly off scratching that’s not exactly the same as it was before within the garbage. He stops dead in his tracks, hand at his hip, standing in the center of the alley. His grumble is hoarse, a little exhausted; “Fuck, I hate it when they’re temporal.” But does he wait, or repeat the actions? No, August’s shotgun lifts, and it’s cracked open. A pair of slugs are fed into the chamber before he pumps it – and without looking, August twists it at the ivy enclosure hiding the cat.. And 24B60A96M96! Pulls the trigger.”
“Though fortune’s wheel may turn and cast me down, I shall not yield my spirit to despair…”
The voice fades, but more details become visible in the alley now. Scratches in the brick near the dumpster form partial words: “ACT III” and “FINAL SCENE.” A white theatrical glove lies on the cobblestones that wasn’t there before.
Above, the silhouette appears in the window again – a woman in period dress, but this time she raises her hand as if acknowledging an audience.
The air grows thick with the scent of greasepaint and old velvet.
“Listen, lady,” August/span>/spanAugust barely lets that woman up in the window — even if she may be an innocent bystander — finish her sentence. He takes another shot, right at her face.
the faint sound of someone weeping, echoing from the brick walls themselves.
The tabby cat emerges from behind the dumpster, completely unharmed despite the earlier shot. It sits down and begins grooming itself with deliberate calm, as if nothing happened. Its amber eyes fix on August with what almost looks like disappointment.
More theater ephemera appears around the alley: a crumpled playbill near his feet, stage makeup scattered on the ground, and what looks like a piece of rope coiled near the ivy-covered gap. The rope is old hemp, the kind used in theaters decades ago.
The morning light flickers again, and for just a moment, the alley looks different – older, with gas lamps instead of electric lights, and the sound of horse-drawn carriages in the distance.
“Oh for fucks sake.” August breathes a sigh under his breath when the stage changes again. Instead of the old alleyway, there’s now a pretty victorian rendition of his surroundings. Down to the horse-drawn carriage that fades away in the distance. The cat, that’s evidently unharmed and has slipped out of the ivy vines to sit right beside him, stare then promptly begin grooming, is given a dully unamused look returning that disappointed one it gives August. “I’m going to put another one in your face, you rodent.” But alas, he crouches down, picks up the rope that’s just by his feet, hefts it, and looks around in search at the even older than before pamphlets for a play.
“Understudy: Margaret Kells.”
The hemp rope in August’s hands feels heavy, substantial. There are dark stains on it that could be old blood, and it’s been fashioned into a noose. The knot work is professional, theatrical – the kind used for stage hangings that weren’t meant to actually harm anyone.
The cat stops grooming and pads over to the ivy-covered gap, pawing at something hidden there. A glint of brass catches the gaslight – another mask, this one showing tragedy’s weeping face, partially buried in the earth behind the ivy.
From the cobblestones beneath the dumpster comes a new sound – not scratching, but muffled tapping, as if someone is knocking from below. The rhythm matches the cadence of iambic pentameter.
The weeping grows louder, and now August can make out words between the sobs: “My moment… my one moment on the stage…”
Above, the silhouette in the window gestures dramatically, as if delivering lines to an unseen audience.
Completely ignoring that face up on the self-made stage crying out her lines, August looks over at the cat that has left back to the ivy, and revealed that second mask. The weeping, sad look on it. His gaze pans from it, down to the rope tied to a noose in his hand, weighed by dry blood. “I don’t like the insuniation you’re making here, cat.” But he does throw the rope over his head, crouch lower, and start to dig past the vines towards that brass grate beyond in an effort to yank it out.
August’s fingers close around the cold brass of the tragedy mask, and immediately the weeping stops. The silence is profound, almost oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of that rhythmic tapping from beneath the cobblestones.
The cat sits back on its haunches, watching with those intelligent amber eyes as August holds both masks – comedy in one hand, tragedy in the other. The brass feels warm now, almost alive, and there’s a faint vibration running through both pieces, as if they’re resonating with each other.
The gaslight flickers, and suddenly the alley is filled with the ghostly outline of theater seats, row upon row stretching back into impossible darkness. An audience of shadows sits waiting, expectant. The silhouette in the window above has moved – she’s no longer gesturing but standing perfectly still, hands clasped, as if waiting for her cue.
From beneath the dumpster, the tapping becomes more insistent. The cobblestones there look different now – older, with what might be the outline of a coal chute cover barely visible beneath decades of wear.
The rope around August’s neck feels heavier, and somewhere in the distance, a theater bell chimes three times.
“The final act,” whispers a voice that might be the wind, or might be something else entirely.
August says “Don’t tell anyone!“
Just before he can tore out the grate, August is greeted with nothing but slate and wall. His curses are spent under his breath while he withdraws with both masks, and he’s evidently lost within that ever revolving descent into the past around his surroundings. There is, however, a coal chute not very far away- one that he approaches slowly to kick at it, see if he can open it, but alas, the whole effort seems to be beyond August. His annoyance is immeasurable when he turns away from it all to crouch, continue cursing a hefty amount of expletives while his masks are laid aside, his noose is thrown off, and he brings out a chalk to start drawing on the floor. Something arcane, something foul and corrupt. A rendition of sigillum dei that’s twisted with inverted faith.
“Enter stage left,” “Final monologue,” “Bow to audience.”
The ghostly theater seats become more solid, more real. The shadow audience leans forward expectantly, and a few begin to clap slowly, encouragingly, as if waiting for a performance to begin.
The cat approaches the discarded masks and sits between them, looking pointedly at August. Above, the silhouette in the window raises her hands to her heart in the classic pose of a tragic heroine.
From the coal chute beneath the dumpster comes a new sound – not tapping, but a voice, muffled and desperate: “Please… just let me have my moment… let me finish what I started…”
The theater bell chimes again, and a spotlight seems to fall on the space where August kneels, as if he’s center stage. The rope lies coiled nearby like a stage prop waiting to be used.
The audience of shadows begins to applaud more insistently, but it’s not menacing – it’s hopeful, pleading.
“I am not giving you your moment and letting you hang me, lady,” August speaks to the ether like a deranged lunatic. His gloves are tugged free off of his hands and hung at his batman belt, and he takes point beside the circle he’s finished. From behind, in a thin scabbard, he draws out an athame that curves and gleams wicked, and it’s used to slice into his palm. Blood drips from the fist he holds over the circle, with an incantation he begins in latin; loud and clear.
“No, no, that’s not the script! You’re ruining it!”
The cat hisses and backs away from the circle, its fur standing on end. The brass masks on the ground begin to vibrate, and the comedy mask’s frozen smile seems to waver, as if it might start weeping.
Above, the silhouette in the window throws her hands up in theatrical despair and turns away, as if she can’t bear to watch.
The theater bell chimes discordantly, off-key and jarring. The spotlight flickers and dims, and the ghostly theater seats begin to fade back into shadow.
“Wrong genre,” comes a new voice – bitter, jealous. “She wants her tragedy, not your… whatever this is supposed to be.”
The temperature drops noticeably, and frost begins to form on the brick walls despite the warm morning.
As the old ghosts of here and now begin to scream their desire for tragedy, and not at all whatever August is doing, he’s too happily obliging himself. The cat hisses away, fearing for its life – while the lights begin to flicker, dim and the eyes within the walls that previously applauded retreat with their bitter hisses. “O’ You, who walk with clocks unbound, whose name is lost yet still resounds!” Every word of latin draws out the infernal thrum of power in resistance to the sickening growth of deadly desire of his assailants. “I beckon through the fractured chime, twist the thread and splinter time! Let seconds stagger, future fade, and past obey the path I’ve laid!” As soon as the last syllable is spoken, the ground fractures. An effort in a bargain made to call upon the legions far, far below, ones that August doesn’t name, but cracks splinter high across the ceiling to yank free the batman that they’ve stolen into the alley, and lay ruin at their dark knight’s behest.
“You’re destroying everything! A century of waiting, and you’re just… breaking it all!”
The brass masks on the ground begin to melt, their features running together like wax. The cat yowls and flees toward the ivy gap, but even that sanctuary is crumbling as the building foundations shake.
From the coal chute comes desperate pounding, as if someone trapped below is trying to escape the chaos August has unleashed. The silhouette in the window above presses her hands against the glass, her mouth open in a silent scream.
The morning light flickers between gas flame and electric bulb and something else entirely – a sickly green radiance that makes the shadows writhe like living things.
“Stop!” comes another voice – the bitter, jealous one from before. “You’ll trap us all here forever if you keep this up! She just wants to perform! That’s all she’s ever wanted!”
The ground beneath August’s feet begins to give way, revealing glimpses of something vast and hungry stirring in the depths below.
The drop of blood beading beneath August’s fingers sizzles in its ascent into the circle, and batman turns his head to give a baleful, green-eyed look up at the noise that pleas that all they’ve wanted to do was perform. “Nah, I’m gonna do my own thing.” And before the ground that quakes viciously and starts to give away to reveal that vast, hungry thing stirring deep below, August slams his hand into the circle. The world is awash with flame, summoned and conjured in its infernal cleanse, sear and burn everything and yank it all back to the beginning of it all, before August even wandered here, and before the entity could manifest. It’s not a perfect fix, not a solution – but a delay. Perhaps the old theatre will have to wait another century, but for now — August is out by infernal decree.
77% – Completed early due to player’s destructive resolution)