Murphy’s Wednesday afternoon exorcism
Date: 2025-07-02 14:56
(Murphy’s Wednesday afternoon exorcism)
[Wed Jul 2 2025]
In empty shop
It is about 65F(18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Beacon and Lake/span>/spanThe empty shop sits wedged between O’Malley’s Pub and a shuttered bakery, its dusty windows reflecting the afternoon mist that clings to All Saints’ narrow streets. Inside, bare shelves line the walls and a thin layer of dust coats everything except for a peculiar clean circle near the back corner where Murphy stands transfixed. The air tastes metallic, like pennies left in rain.
A faint shimmer hangs in the space before Murphy, barely visible unless viewed from the corner of one’s eye. The distortion ripples like heat waves, though the shop feels distinctly cool. Behind it, shadows seem deeper than they should be, and occasionally something small moves just beyond clear sight.
Cara notices the old-fashioned cash register on the counter still has its last transaction showing: 15 cents, dated July 2nd, 1847. Robert spots Celtic knots carved deep into the wooden floorboards near the entrance, their lines filled with what looks like dried salt and herbs. The symbols feel protective, but also desperate.
From somewhere in the back room comes the distant sound of a child giggling, followed by a woman’s voice calling softly in Irish-accented English: “Brigid? Where are you hiding, love?”
The shop’s front door stands slightly ajar despite no wind, and the afternoon light filtering through the grimy windows seems to flicker without cause.
Cara taps her pockets, sighing as she confesses. “Could be I’m missing some of my equipment. Previous site recommended carrying compasses and various articles.” Her brows furrow as Murphy continues on, then she blinks, looking up from where she’d been patting down her pockets. Upon hearing that giggle Cara’s heels thunk to the ground, the shiver that ran down her spine apparently finishing with a jolt when it meets the old floorboards. She swallows hard as she catches that taste on the air, eyes widening with unwanted familiarity.
“I was pretty confused last time. Thomas and..Arachne? Yeah that chick. They did a better job figuring it out.” Murphy tries to summarize her last foray into the dramatic world of ghost busting. It’s then a voice calls out for Brigid and the woman nearly jumps out of her skin with both shock and excitement then she shouts at Robert and Cara, “SEE! You hear that? I’m not crazy.” she seems desperate to know she’s not alone in this.
Robert drifts his gaze over towards the doorway, his perceptive mind picking out the small details. And then he’s dragged back by Murphy’s words, and back to the sudden ripple that appears, and the creepy talking. His mouth curling into a deepning frown and a long sigh coming from his lips. “Oh. Arachne.” And then he continues, “Hey, hey. When you’re right, you’re right.” He answers quietly. “Lots of ghosts around this town. Insane.”
“Brigid, please, we haven’t much time left.”
Murphy’s validation seems to strengthen whatever force fills the shop. The clean circle around her feet expands slightly, and dust motes in the air begin moving in slow, deliberate spirals rather than drifting randomly.
Robert notices something else about the cash register – the brass keys are worn smooth in specific patterns, as if the same transaction has been attempted countless times. The date display flickers occasionally, showing brief glimpses of other years before snapping back to 1847.
A new sound emerges from the back room: the rhythmic creaking of floorboards, as if someone is pacing back and forth in distress.
Cara says “Anomaly confirmed. North then west of stop 103. Three on site.“
Having allowed herself that moment of fear Cara swiftly moves to professional mode, breathing through it and taking her weapon to a low ready in the classical training of a soldier. When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail. She glances about for threats, putting her hand to an ear to radio in a report of the groups findings. The creaking of floorboards has Cara move swiftly, weapon rising so she looks over the battle sight on her weapon, tracing the sound of the footsteps with the barrel of her gun.
“You were definitely about the put me in a mental asylum.” Murphy accuses Robert, her tone hints at self-satisfaction as she momentarily forgets they are probably all in a bit of danger. She soon returns to the situation at hand, she tucks her revolver in her waist band knowing she wont need it and she lets her sword hang limp at her side in her other hand. This time she steps forward with one free hand to brush it through the rippling air to try and feel it.
The messy haired woman glances towards the voice in the back, but doesn’t move to investigate just yet, “Don’t worry. I’ve done this one time so I’m an expert. We just have to figure out whats wrong and make the spirit feel better.”
“Looks like a code on the register.” Robert circles around the counter, mentally putting aside the salt and herbs. Familiar with the occult; yes. An actual ritualist: No. He’s more of a percussionist solver of it than anything else, as he opts to draw up to the register, studying the faded keys for a moment. “That’s not true, Murphy. I’d leave you to the loving tender care of our own staff that we both work for so they could help straighten you around.”
He snorts a laugh at her words. “Looks like some sort of transaction?” He leans over, lifting his sunglasses. “You got twelve cents?”
“For my darling Brigid, to keep you safe while Mama works. Hide well, little love.”
The moment the register opens, the lights flicker and a woman’s anguished cry echoes from the back room: “Brigid! Answer me, child!”
“Now you are the crazy one. Who carries small change anymore?” Murphy ask Robert at the question. She cocks her head at the shouting, frowning some as she starts to try to piece together the situation, “You think Brigid went missing never to be seen again, that would be the type of thing to make a momma spirit stick around.”
Despite the woman’s theories, she offers no solutions just yet.
“Oh joy… Therapy for the undead.” Cara utters in dry humor, an attempt to retain some control in the situation. Despite her obvious unease she lowers the weapon from her shoulder, letting it rest at hip height instead now though not quite releasing the firearm yet. It’s her emotional support gun now. She starts running through facts aloud. “July 2nd 1847. Dusty as hell… A woman’s missing a child by the name of Brigid.”
Robert sighs. He rummages through his pocket himself – fifteen cents, but in some strange currency. Wildlands? All bone and sea-shell clattering right on the counter. It’s a bit awkward to get it out of his armored vest as he manages to find it. And then he punches in the worn keys, in the exact same codes that’s worn down on the register with the clack clack of his fingers pressing down on the keys.
“Lost children is a pretty good reason to stay around.”
a small girl crouched behind wooden crates, giggling softly as footsteps search for her.
The pacing in the back room stops abruptly. Then, clear as day, a child’s voice whispers from everywhere and nowhere: “Mama can’t find me. I’m too good at hiding.”
Cara notices something crucial – the dust patterns on the floor show the same footprints repeated over and over, as if someone has walked the exact same path countless times. The woman’s prints pace frantically between the front counter and the back room, while smaller prints lead to the corner where Murphy stands, then simply… stop.
The afternoon light outside begins to dim slightly, though it should still be hours before sunset.
One hand HAS to come off Cara’s weapon now so Cara can point. She points to the smaller set of footprints. “Maybe we have to win the hide and seek? It can’t be that simple right?” She grimaces then adds. “Please don’t let the game end with a child corpse. That would ruin my day… probably my week.”
“Now if we need twelve cents, there’s going to be twelve cents laying around here. Thats how these things work.” Murphy says as a matter-of-factly while using escape room logic. If a key is required, the key has to be there. Murphy’s head snaps towards the sound of the child’s voice and her lips tug into a deeper frown, “Ugh creepy. Ghost children are the worse.”
Since Murphy is the closest to the corner she begins to investigate the area more closely, even stooping down to a crouch to check for anything on the ground.
Cara nods agreement with Murphy, her hands already back on the gun as she does a visual inspection of the ceiling as though expecting ghost children to drop from above.
Robert pulls open the register with a cha-ching, dropping the coinage into it after counting out the new entry and slapping it back shut with a CLACK. “I was thinking the register would be open up a secret entrance,” He admits. “And that’s why the buttons are worn down.”
The register’s drawer slides shut with finality, and immediately the lights flicker more violently. A child’s delighted laughter rings out, followed by rapid footsteps scampering deeper into the back room.
“Brigid! Oh, thank the saints, I heard you!” The woman’s voice grows stronger, more desperate. “Come out now, love. Mama’s found the medicine. We can make you well!”
Murphy’s investigation of the corner reveals something disturbing – the floorboards here are newer than the rest, as if they were replaced. Carved into one board, almost hidden by the angle, are the words “HERE LIES” before the text becomes illegible from wear.
The shimmer in the air grows more pronounced, and through it, Murphy can now see the ghostly outline of wooden crates that aren’t physically present. Behind them, a small figure in a tattered dress peeks out, then ducks back with another giggle.
From the back room comes the sound of bottles clinking and papers rustling, as if someone is frantically searching through medical supplies.
The temperature in the shop drops noticeably, and everyone’s breath begins to mist slightly.
“Oh fu–” Murphy almost swears out loud as she reads the ‘Here lies’ writing only to be cut off by the glimpse of the small figure peeking from the crates. She doesn’t move to the crates to follow. Not yet. Instead she stands and brings her foot down to tap the new floorboards to investigate if it’s hollow beneath, “There is new flooring here. I think something’s been covered up. We’re gonna have to rip this up.”
“Fuck.” Cara hisses under her breath as the tank top and body armor offers zero protection from the sudden cold of the room, Cara’s stance shrinking in on itself for warmth as the butt of the rifle again rises up to Cara’s shoulder, albeit low-ready again. Another grimace as she catches the beginning of the words etched into the floorboard. “Called it… but I suppose if there weren’t dead people there wouldn’t be ghosts.” She says through her tension. A look is sent towards the back room where the glass clinks.
Robert looks up from where he’s still poking around the register, his gaze drifting over the lights and listening to the voice, his frown deepening on his features. “Ghosts.” He says, with a long drawn-out sigh, as he at Murphy’s words. “Well, good thing I have an axe,” The man mutters as he turns, his booted feet thumping across and goosebumps prickling up across his own bare arms as he steps up to the other two girls.
And then without the slightest bit of hesitation, up comes his blade, flashing – then down, right into those new floorboards. CRACK!
Robert’s axe bites deep into the newer floorboards with a satisfying crack. The wood splits easily, as if it’s been weakened by time and moisture. Beneath, instead of the expected crawlspace or foundation, there’s a small hollow lined with rotting fabric – clearly a makeshift grave.
The moment the boards break, the child’s laughter stops abruptly. The temperature plummets further, and frost begins forming on the windows despite the July heat outside.
“No, no, NO!” The woman’s voice from the back room becomes a wail of pure anguish. “She was getting better! The medicine was working! She just needed to hide until the fever broke!”
The ghostly crates Murphy saw become more solid, and the small figure behind them is now clearly visible – a pale girl of about eight with fever-bright eyes and a tattered nightgown. She looks directly at Murphy with a mix of confusion and fear.
“Mama sounds scared,” Brigid whispers, her voice carrying the hollow echo of the long dead. “Did I hide too long? Is the game over?”
The lights flicker one final time, then steady. But something has changed – the dust motes have stopped their spiraling dance, and the metallic taste in the air grows stronger.
Outside, the afternoon light continues to dim unnaturally fast.
“This ain’t right.” Cara utters in a tone of low warning, sniffing the air and shaking her head which in turn sets her ponytail swishing. “There’s blood on the air. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast.”
Murphy steps back from the floorboards when Robert hacks at them to reveal the grave. Horrified at what’s revealed she grits her teeth only to meet the eyes of the ghostly child. The body of the child is between her and the spirit she’s looking at but it goes unnoted by either herself or the spirit child. She drops her facade of humor and her unfriendly face to speak softly to the child, “The games over. You should go back to your mama now before she misses you too much.”
Robert twists his axe, this way and that, calmly sweeping debris to reveal the tiny, still form. A sigh comes from his lips – tired, upset, tight, his knuckles whitening around his weapon as he reveals the truth of the matter. He nods back at Murphy. His voice comes out, strident and firm:
“It’s time for the two of you to go. Together.” He says, quietly. “Brigid, take you and your mother to where you know you both belong.”
“I failed her. I promised I could save her, and I failed. She’s been waiting all this time for me to make it right.”
The metallic taste grows overwhelming as the shop begins to blur at the edges. The walls seem to breathe, expanding and contracting like a living thing. Through the shimmer, more of the past bleeds through – medicine bottles scattered on a makeshift table, a woman’s shawl draped over a chair, the desperate remnants of a mother’s last attempt to cheat death.
Brigid looks between Murphy and the back room, her small hands twisting in her nightgown. “Mama’s crying again. She cries every time the game ends. But if I come out of hiding, does that mean…” Her voice trails off, understanding dawning in her ancient, childish eyes.
The afternoon light outside has dimmed to an unnatural twilight, and the frost on the windows begins forming intricate patterns that look almost like Celtic knots.
A sigh sounds as again Cara breathes through the tension, her attention on the twilight outside now, watching the door as the two with her try to resolve matters with the deceased child and her long departed mother. “… And though I walk through the valley of…” Can vaguely be heard, spoken softly to nobody in particular, too quiet a moment later for the rest to be perceived.
“Shit I thought that would work.” Murphy says with a glance to Robert and Cara but it gets darker and colder by the moment. She lifts her free hand to motion to the back rooms and says, “It’s her mama that’s in distress and needs to be put to rest, not the child.” she looks at a lost however as she says, “But how do you make this right? No mother should outlive their child, clearly she couldn’t deal with it.”
Robert puts the weapons away. Axe and shotgun, one at the side, the other properly over the shoulder. He nods back at Murphy, confirming that. “One’s connected to the other. And there is a clarity in sunlight… the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” Murmurs the man in familiarity as he steps forwards towards someone. He offers his hand to her. “Come on, Brigid. Let’s take a walk outside in the afternoon sun.”
Robert puts the weapons away. Axe and shotgun, one at the side, the other properly over the shoulder. He nods back at Murphy, confirming that. “One’s connected to the other. And there is a clarity in sunlight… the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” Murmurs the man in familiarity as he steps forwards towards Brigid. He offers his hand to her. “Come on, Brigid. Let’s take a walk outside in the afternoon sun.”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, please don’t let her suffer. Take me instead, take me instead!”
The moment Robert speaks of sunlight, something shifts. The unnatural twilight outside begins to brighten slightly, and the frost on the windows starts to melt. But Brigid shakes her head, backing deeper into the ghostly crates.
“I can’t leave without Mama. That’s not how the game works. She has to find me first, or I lose.” Her voice carries the stubborn logic of a child who has turned a desperate situation into rules that must be followed.
The metallic taste in the air pulses like a heartbeat, and Murphy notices something crucial – the shimmer in the air isn’t just showing the past. It’s showing the exact moment when Siobhan realized the medicine wasn’t working, when she made the choice to hide her dying daughter rather than let the authorities take her away.
The loop isn’t just about death – it’s about a mother’s refusal to let go, to admit defeat.
“You’re right. We can’t solve that kind of emotional wound.” Cara says, breaking off whatever chant she had been muttering. “Is there a way to brute force this thing? Seal the spirit in a… anything. The dead are dead. She deserves rest, but we’ve a duty to protect the living.”
Cara says “We can’t let this spill out.“
Murphy glimpses the shimmer and it clicks. She looks then towards the back rooms where the woman is and steps that way. Not all the way as to leave this area. But near enough so that she doesn’t have to shout to speak to a distant listener. “She’s gone. There’s nothing you could have done. You tried everything and sometimes thats not enough.”
There is a lengthy pause before she says, “I’ve lost everyone in my life, its just luck of the draw sometimes. The only thing you can do is accept it and move on.” she has a hollow tone to her voice at this last part, as though she speaks truth about losing everyone but has long come to terms with it and now its just a hollow spot in her soul that does not elicit sadness anymore.
Robert shifts his gaze over to Cara. “I mean, we could. Fire.” He says, quietly. “But that’s messy.” It seems he’s not resistant to the plan, only the side-effects. He lowers his hand now. He doesn’t fight, he just changes tactics, turning away and stepping aside from the blocking he does of the mother and the woman. “You’re right, Brigid.” The man answers quietly, gesturing at the woman. “But I think you’re not the one hiding anymore. Your mother is. I think it’s time she was found.”
Murphy’s words cut through the supernatural atmosphere like a blade. The frantic sounds from the back room stop completely – no more pacing, no more rustling of bottles, just a profound silence that feels heavier than the previous chaos.
Then, slowly, footsteps approach from the back room. Not the desperate pacing from before, but the measured steps of someone who has finally accepted an unbearable truth.
A translucent figure emerges – a woman in her thirties wearing a simple dress and shawl, her face etched with exhaustion and grief. Siobhan O’Malley looks at the broken floorboards, at her daughter’s small form revealed beneath, and finally at Brigid hiding behind the ghostly crates.
“Oh, my darling girl,” Siobhan whispers, her voice breaking. “I’ve been the one hiding, haven’t I? Hiding from what I couldn’t change.”
Brigid steps out from behind the crates, no longer afraid. “Mama? Did you find me?”
The metallic taste begins to fade from the air, and the unnatural twilight outside starts to brighten toward normal afternoon light. The frost on the windows melts completely, running down like tears.
“I found you, love. I finally found you.” Siobhan kneels and opens her arms.
As mother and daughter embrace, both figures begin to glow with a soft, warm light that pushes back the shadows in the shop.