Viviana’s Friday night exorcism
Date: 2025-07-18 23:19
(Viviana’s Friday night exorcism)
[Fri Jul 18 2025]
Maple Grove Play Garden/span>/spannight, about 70F(21C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At High and Lake/span>/span There is a waning crescent moon.
The compass sits on its stone pedestal near the fountain, larger than expected and gleaming dully under the moonlight. Its brass surface catches the light in strange ways, and the needle moves in slow, deliberate arcs rather than pointing steadily in any direction. A low humming emanates from the device, barely audible but felt as a vibration in the chest.
Viviana notices the shadows first. The oak trees cast their usual dark patches across the gravel paths, but some of those shadows shift and sway despite the still night air. A child’s laughter echoes from the playground equipment, though no children are visible. The fountain’s water reflects not just stars, but glimpses of unfamiliar constellations that flicker in and out of view.
The air around the compass shimmers occasionally, like heat waves rising from summer pavement, and through these distortions Viviana catches brief glimpses of the park as it might have been decades ago – younger trees, different paths, and structures that don’t exist in the present day.
The humming grows slightly louder as the compass needle pauses on what appears to be a waning crescent moon symbol, matching the phase currently visible in the sky above.
Viviana glances around, Viviana giving her bat a few lazy swings as she meanders through the garden, swinging her bat up and sighting down it towards the rest of the park. It was when she notices the compass, and Viviana glances towards it, stepping near it.
“Alright… you a ghost or something?” she says, glancing to the compass as she hears the child’s laughter, looking from it to the sky, matching the phases.
The compass needle stops its slow rotation as Viviana approaches, pointing directly at her for several heartbeats before resuming its measured sweep across the moon phases. The humming intensifies slightly, and the shimmer in the air around the device becomes more pronounced.
A cool breeze stirs through the park despite the still night, carrying scents that don’t belong – pine sap from trees that aren’t present, wood smoke from no visible fire, and something floral but alien. The child’s laughter comes again, this time from behind Viviana near the swings, but when she might turn to look, the playground equipment appears older, more weathered, with rope swings instead of modern chains.
The fountain’s water begins to flow in a different pattern, spiraling counterclockwise instead of its usual gentle cascade. In its dark surface, Viviana can see not just her own reflection but the ghostly outline of other figures – people who might have stood in this same spot years or decades ago. One appears to be a man in a long coat holding what looks like surveying equipment.
The brass compass grows warmer, though Viviana hasn’t touched it yet. Carved symbols around its rim that seemed like mere decoration now pulse with a faint inner light, and the meteorite needle catches the moonlight with an almost organic gleam.
From somewhere in the distance comes the sound of wings – too large and too many, just as described, passing overhead in formation.
Viviana pauses as she takes in those experiences. Her eyes narrow, and she glances down the way, then glances up to the sky. “So. This place…” Viviana says. “Or this compass,” Viviana adds, “Is like an anchor point. Not just to the past, but the past’s past and stuff,” she says.
“Is it funny, or dangerous?” Viviana says, squatting down by the compass. Viviana gives it a prod with the tip of her bat, her face scrunching up.
“… fuck. I hate this shit sometimes.”
The moment Viviana’s bat touches the compass, the humming stops entirely. For three heartbeats, perfect silence blankets the park – even the fountain’s water flow becomes soundless. Then reality snaps back with an almost audible crack.
The compass needle spins wildly before locking onto a different moon phase – a full moon symbol that begins to glow with pale silver light. The shimmer around the device expands outward in a visible wave, washing over Viviana and continuing across the park grounds.
Where the wave passes, the overlapping realities become more solid. The playground equipment flickers between its modern state and the older rope swings. The gravel paths show wheel ruts from carriages that haven’t traveled here in decades. Most unsettling, the reflection in the fountain now shows the man in the long coat clearly – he’s looking directly at Viviana with desperate eyes and appears to be shouting something, though no sound emerges.
The carved oak trees begin to creak and sway despite the still air, and their spiral grooves start to emit the same faint silver light as the compass symbols. The night-blooming flowers in the garden beds release a stronger, almost narcotic fragrance.
A new sound joins the distant wing beats – footsteps on gravel, circling the park’s perimeter, though no one is visible making them. The footsteps are getting closer.
Viviana clicks her tongue. She stands up, aiming towards the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel. Hefting up her bat, Viviana arcs the thing back. And when the sound of footsteps draws near to her, Viviana steps forward, and swings her bat as hard as she can, whiffing it at the source of the noise.
Viviana’s bat cuts through empty air with a sharp whoosh, but the moment it passes through the space where the footsteps originated, it meets resistance – like swinging through thick honey. The invisible presence stumbles backward with a grunt that sounds distinctly human, and the footsteps retreat several paces.
“Wait!” The voice materializes from nowhere, male and breathless. “I’m not… I’m trying to help!“
The compass needle jerks toward the sound, and in its silver glow, a translucent figure begins to take shape – the same man from the fountain’s reflection. He’s middle-aged with wild hair and a weather-beaten coat, clutching an antique surveying instrument. His form flickers between solid and ghostly.
“Ezekiel Thorne,” he says, raising empty hands. “I made this cursed thing. Been trying to warn people for seventy years, but nobody can usually see me unless…” He gestures helplessly at the compass. “It’s getting worse. The barriers are tearing. You have maybe an hour before this whole area gets pulled into the between-spaces permanently.“
The fountain water begins to churn more violently, and through its surface, glimpses of other locations flash by – a forest that never existed here, a version of the park covered in snow despite the summer night, and something that might be the same space but filled with structures of impossible geometry.
The wing beats overhead grow louder, closer.
“Well, fuck,” Viviana says to Ezekiel. She taps her bat against her shoulder, sticking out her jawline. “That sounds like a big fucking problem,” Viviana says.
“What do you think needs to be done with it? Does the compass just need to be broken?” Viviana asks, her eyes flicking from him towards the compass. “Or can we turn it off in some way?”
Ezekiel’s ghostly form solidifies slightly as he shakes his head vigorously. “Breaking it would be catastrophic – all that contained energy would release at once. The whole borough could get sucked into dimensional chaos.“
He gestures frantically at the compass. “The needle contains fragments of a reality anchor – a meteorite that kept multiple worlds in stable alignment for millennia. I was a fool, I broke it apart thinking I could map the spaces between worlds. But the fragments want to reunite, and they’re tearing holes trying to find each other.“
The compass begins to spin faster, and the silver light from the oak trees’ grooves pulses in rhythm with it. More overlapping realities bleed through – Viviana can see ghostly figures of park visitors from different time periods walking the same paths, unaware of each other.
“There are two other pieces,” Thorne continues urgently. “One ended up in the castle’s foundation stones when they rebuilt the north tower in 1923. The other…” He pauses, looking stricken. “I had it with me when I died. It should be in my grave in the old cemetery, but I don’t know if it’s still there.“
The fountain water suddenly geysers upward, and through the spray, something large and winged passes overhead – close enough that its shadow blocks the moonlight momentarily.
“We need to reunite the fragments, or find another way to anchor this reality before it’s too late.“
“Well that sounds like a fucking hard thing to get done in an hour, Ezekiel. Could you use your ghostly shit to figure out where your grave is?” Viviana says. “And digging up the castle’s foundation stones doesn’t seem doable,” Viviana says.
Viviana looks to the compass. “This shit started when it went to the full moon. Does turning it to the new moon buy us more time, or stabilize it for now, or whatever?”
Ezekiel’s expression grows more desperate. “I can sense the cemetery piece – it’s still there, about half a mile north. But you’re right about the castle foundation. That piece is buried deep, probably forty feet down and surrounded by tons of stone.“
He watches as Viviana eyes the compass. “Don’t touch the needle directly! The phases control which realities it’s trying to connect to. Full moon opens the widest channels – that’s why everything’s getting worse. New moon might slow it down, but…” He hesitates. “It won’t stop the process, just delay it. And if you turn it wrong, you could accelerate everything.“
The ghostly park visitors become more solid and numerous. A woman in 1950s clothing walks past, completely unaware of Viviana. Two children from what looks like the 1800s chase a hoop with a stick near the playground. Their laughter mingles with the modern child’s voice still echoing from nowhere.
“There might be another way,” Thorne says suddenly. “The oak trees – their spiral carvings aren’t decorative. They’re old, older than my compass. Indigenous shamans used them as anchor points between worlds. If we could channel the compass’s energy through the trees instead of letting it tear random holes…“
The winged shadow passes overhead again, lower this time. Something drops from above and lands with a wet thud near the fountain – a fish, but wrong somehow, with too many fins and scales that shimmer with their own light.
Viviana picks up the compass, gently, frowning down at it with a crinkle of her nose. “Then let’s try the tree thing,” Viviana says to Ezekiel. She rolls her chin, tugging the compass over towards the trees, the oak trees. She sets the compass down at a point between the spiral-cut trees, glancing back and forth.
“Look. I don’t mean to be a pain, but I’m not much for this magic shit,” Viviana says to Ezekiel. “But I like how, you know, normal-ass you’re being for a ghost.”
The moment Viviana sets the compass between the carved oaks, the silver light in their spiral grooves flares brighter. The trees seem to lean inward slightly, their ancient branches creaking as if responding to the device’s presence. The compass needle slows its frantic spinning and begins to pulse in rhythm with the tree carvings.
Ezekiel’s ghostly form becomes more solid, almost flesh-like. “Seventy years of being stuck between worlds teaches you to appreciate straightforward conversation,” he says with a wry smile. “The trees are responding – they’re trying to channel the energy, but it’s not enough. The compass is too powerful, and there’s only one fragment here.“
The overlapping realities around them shift. Instead of chaotic glimpses of different time periods, the ghostly scenes begin to organize themselves – past and present versions of the park layering over each other in a more stable pattern. The woman in 1950s clothing nods to Viviana as she passes, suddenly aware of her.
“It’s working partially,” Thorne says, excitement creeping into his voice. “But we need more anchoring power. The trees can hold this configuration for maybe twenty minutes before the strain breaks them.“
A new sound joins the mix – drumming, rhythmic and deep, seeming to come from the earth itself. The fish near the fountain flops once and dissolves into silver mist.
“Someone else is here,” Thorne whispers, looking toward the park’s edge.
Viviana swiftly draws her revolver from inside her coat, looking towards the edge herself. “Yeah, friendo?” Viviana says to Ezekiel. “A good kinda someone, or we dealing with a complication?”
Three figures emerge from the tree line, moving with deliberate, measured steps that match the drumming rhythm. They wear clothing that blends traditional and modern elements – leather jackets over beaded shirts, work boots alongside intricate silver jewelry. The leader, an elderly woman with steel-gray braids, carries a drum made from what looks like driftwood and hide.
“Lower the gun, child,” she calls out, her voice carrying easily across the park. “We felt the tears opening. Came to help.“
Ezekiel’s form brightens with recognition and relief. “Sarah Crow Feather. Her grandmother taught me about the trees before I made my terrible mistake.“
The woman approaches the compass setup, studying how the oak trees’ spiral carvings pulse with silver light. “Foolish cartographer’s work,” she says, but not unkindly. “The trees remember their purpose, but they’re old. Tired.” She gestures to her companions, who begin unpacking items from leather satchels – bundles of sage, small stones, and what appears to be more carved wood.
“We can strengthen the anchor,” Sarah continues, “but the ritual requires blood freely given and a choice made with full understanding. The trees will hold the dimensional barriers stable, but someone must tend them. Forever.“
The compass needle suddenly stops spinning entirely, pointing directly at Viviana.
“It’s chosen you as the anchor point,” Sarah says quietly.
“Hell yeah,” Viviana says. “I’ll take some Ransom help, if you’re uh… Nipmuc,” Viviana says. “Or… whatever,” Viviana says, sliding the revolver back into her coat. “Are we talking like… forever like… I’ll be bound to this spot forever? Cuz I got shit to do, and life to live, Sarah,” Viviana says. “What about ghost guy?” Viviana says, jerking her thumb back to Ezekiel.
“Whatcha think, Zeke? Want to be the eternal guardian of this barrier? Is that an option?”
Sarah nods approvingly at Viviana’s directness. “Nipmuc, yes. And no – not bound to the spot. The trees need someone who can walk between worlds to check the barriers, maybe once a month. You’d feel when something’s wrong.” She gestures to her companions, who begin arranging the carved wood pieces around the compass in a careful pattern.
Ezekiel’s ghostly form flickers with uncertainty. “I… I’ve been trying to fix this for seventy years, but I’m not fully in any world. The anchor needs someone alive, someone with roots in this reality.” He pauses, looking at the compass with longing. “Though if the ritual works, maybe I could finally rest.“
“The ghost can help,” Sarah says pragmatically. “His knowledge, your strength. But the choice must be yours, freely made.“
The drumming intensifies as her companions begin to chant softly. The overlapping realities around them stabilize further – the ghostly park visitors from different eras now move in harmony rather than chaos. The compass needle points steadily at Viviana, its humming taking on a more musical quality.
“Decide quickly,” Sarah adds. “The trees are straining. We have maybe five minutes before the dimensional tears become irreversible.“
The winged shadows overhead circle closer, and through the fountain’s churning water, glimpses of vast spaces between worlds become visible.
“I’ll decide one of your people can do it,” Viviana says. “It’s your point, and shit, but I’ll help. I freely decide to help,” Viviana says, her eyes flickering between the different realities at this point, Viviana’s face squishing.
Sarah shakes her head firmly. “Doesn’t work that way. The compass chose you – sylph blood, someone who already walks between air and earth. My people can strengthen the ritual, but the anchor must be someone the dimensional forces recognize.“
One of her companions, a younger man with intricate tattoos covering his arms, looks up from arranging the wooden pieces. “The trees are cracking,” he says urgently. Silver light bleeds from fresh fissures in the oak bark.
Ezekiel steps forward, his ghostly form more solid than before. “There might be another option. What if we don’t try to make the barriers permanent? What if we just stabilize them long enough to retrieve the cemetery fragment and reunite it with this one? Two pieces together might be enough to contain the dimensional bleeding without needing a permanent guardian.“
The compass needle wavers, spinning between Viviana and the direction of the cemetery. The overlapping realities flicker more chaotically – the stable layering Sarah’s ritual created is breaking down.
“Risky,” Sarah admits. “If we fail to get the second fragment, the backlash could tear holes across the entire borough. But it would free you from the binding.“
The winged creatures overhead let out calls that sound almost like words in an unknown language. Time is running short.
“*Slyph* blood?” Viviana says. “It just means I’m rangy and… fuck. FINE!” Viviana says. “Alright, let’s get this shit done, but I want you guys to look for someone else to take this over, okay?” she says.
“Or we look for the fragments after, or… whatever,” Viviana says to Sarah and Ezekiel. “I’ll just do the thing! Let me do it!”
Sarah’s weathered face breaks into a grin. “Good. Your blood carries air magic – makes you a natural bridge between realms.” She gestures sharply to her companions, who immediately begin moving with practiced efficiency.
“Cut your palm, let three drops fall on the compass face,” Sarah instructs as the drumming shifts to a deeper, more resonant rhythm. “Then place both hands on the largest oak’s spiral carving.“
Ezekiel moves closer, his form now almost fully solid. “I’ll guide the energy flow – seventy years of studying this mess has to count for something.“
The moment Viviana’s blood hits the compass, the needle stops spinning entirely and points directly north toward the cemetery. The silver light from the oak trees surges upward, creating pillars of luminescence that stretch toward the star-filled sky. The overlapping realities snap into perfect alignment – past and present versions of the park existing simultaneously but no longer chaotically.
The winged creatures overhead let out what sounds almost like approval before their calls fade into the distance.
“It’s working,” Sarah says with satisfaction. “The barriers are stabilizing. You’ll feel a pull when they need tending – maybe once a month, like I said. And we’ll keep looking for alternatives.“
The compass grows warm but no longer hums ominously. The dimensional crisis has passed.
Viviana pauses a few moments, after bleeding on the compass and stabilizing things. “… great,” Viviana says to Sarah. “I guess that’s it then?” she asks.
Sarah nods, watching as her companions carefully pack away their ritual items. The silver light in the oak trees dims to a gentle, steady glow – no longer the frantic pulsing of before. “That’s it for tonight. The immediate crisis is over.“
Ezekiel’s ghostly form begins to fade, but he looks more at peace than desperate now. “Thank you,” he says to Viviana. “I can feel the pull lessening. Maybe I can finally move on.” He glances at the compass one last time. “The cemetery fragment is still out there if you ever want to try reuniting them completely. But this… this will hold.“
The overlapping realities settle into a single, stable layer. The ghostly park visitors from other time periods fade away, leaving only the present night. The fountain returns to its normal gentle cascade, though the strange fish-thing has left no trace.
Sarah’s younger companion approaches Viviana with a small carved stone. “Communication token,” he explains. “If the barriers start acting up, hold it and we’ll know.“
“Welcome to the club of people who keep reality from falling apart,” Sarah says with dry humor. “It’s smaller than you’d think, but the benefits include knowing when the world’s about to end.“
The park feels normal again, though Viviana can sense something different – a new awareness of the spaces between things.
“Probably more,” Viviana says, glancing between them all. “I mean… I think it’ll be a good idea to look for the stones,” she says, taking the stone. “… and hey, I think the world’s about to end every day – at least until I get some coffee in me,” Viviana says, flashing a cocksure grin at the others as she starts to stride away.
Sarah chuckles, a sound like wind through dry leaves. “Coffee helps with most apocalypses,” she agrees. Her companions finish packing, moving with the quiet efficiency of people accustomed to cleaning up after supernatural crises.
Ezekiel’s form has become translucent again, but he manages one last wave. “Good luck, Viviana. And thank you – for the first time in seventy years, I think I might actually get some rest.” His voice fades as his ghostly figure dissolves into silver mist that disperses among the oak branches.
The compass sits quietly on its stone pedestal, no longer humming or glowing. Just an antique navigation device that happens to point to moon phases instead of magnetic north. The park settles into peaceful normalcy – crickets resume their chirping, the fountain gurgles contentedly, and the night air carries only the scents of summer flowers and fresh grass.
As Viviana strides toward the park’s exit, the carved stone in her pocket gives off a faint warmth – not urgent, just a gentle reminder of her new responsibility. Behind her, Sarah and her companions fade back into the tree line as quietly as they appeared.
The waning crescent moon continues its journey across the clear sky, and somewhere in the distance, normal night birds call to each other. The crisis has passed, but Viviana now carries a piece of the boundary between worlds.
Viviana swings her bat onto her shoulder, and picks up the cursed compass, frowning at it before tucking it into her pocket. And she then strides off, her work done.
The compass settles into Viviana’s pocket with surprising weight – not just physical mass, but the sense of carrying something significant. As she walks away from the park, the device remains quiet and still, its needle no longer spinning wildly but resting peacefully on the new moon phase.
The carved stone Sarah’s companion gave her pulses once in gentle acknowledgment, as if recognizing its companion artifact. Together, they form a complete set – one to monitor the dimensional barriers, one to navigate between worlds if needed.
Behind Viviana, Maple Grove Play Garden returns to its normal nighttime quiet. The oak trees’ spiral carvings retain only the faintest silver gleam, visible only to those who know to look for it. The fountain reflects ordinary stars, and the gravel paths show no trace of the otherworldly visitors who walked them just minutes before.
As she reaches the park’s edge, Viviana might notice that her awareness has subtly expanded. She can sense the thin places where reality grows soft, feel the gentle pulse of dimensional boundaries holding steady. It’s not overwhelming – more like gaining a new sense that operates quietly in the background.
The night air feels crisp and normal, carrying the promise that morning will come as expected, in this world, on schedule.
The scenario concludes with the supernatural threat contained and Viviana bearing new responsibilities as a guardian between worlds.
Viviana is a fuckin’ amazing guardian. She’ll need a fancy new title. Viviana – Space Guardian. No? Can we workshop somet titles?
“Threshold Keeper,” “Boundary Walker,” “Reality Warden.” The sylph blood in her veins responds to the air currents, and she can almost hear other possibilities drifting on the wind: “Dimensional Anchor,” “Crossroads Guardian,” “The Bridge Between.“
From somewhere in the distance comes the faint sound of Sarah’s laughter, carried impossibly far on the night air, followed by what might be her voice: “How about ‘The One Who Keeps Things From Getting Weird’?“
The compass needle twitches once, pointing briefly toward the castle on the hill where another fragment waits, then settles back to its peaceful position. Whatever title she chooses, the artifacts seem content with their new keeper.
The night settles around Viviana as she heads home, carrying the weight of worlds in her pocket and the satisfaction of a job well done. The borough of Killgrove sleeps peacefully, unaware of how close it came to dimensional catastrophe, protected by someone who swings a mean bat and isn’t impressed by cosmic responsibility.
“Fuckin’ A. Viviana Rothwell,” Viviana says, holding up her hands with gravitas. “The BRIDGE BETWEEN – the spooky and the weird, the gnarly and the divine. The crazy compass that looks for… fuck. What did this thing do again?” she says, prodding at the compass, and looking in the direction of the needle.
the compass doesn’t just point to otherworldly locations, it gradually pulls its surroundings INTO those locations. Right now, with the oak trees anchoring it and Viviana’s blood binding the ritual, it’s contained. But the needle still responds to the phases carved on its face, each one representing different levels of dimensional permeability.
The carved stone in her other pocket grows warm for a moment, as if reminding her that she now has backup if things go sideways again.
From the direction the needle briefly pointed – toward the old cemetery where Ezekiel’s fragment waits – comes the distant sound of wind chimes, though no breeze stirs the air. The castle looms on the northern hill, its towers dark against the stars, holding the third piece of the shattered reality anchor somewhere in its ancient foundations.
“Bridge Between the Fucked Up and the Slightly Less Fucked Up,” might be more accurate, given the cosmic scope of keeping multiple realities from colliding into each other.
“Hell yeah. Bridge between the fucked up and the slightly less fucked up. I can get behind that.” Viviana says, striding off. It was ok to conclude the patrol for reals now.
Approximately 45 minutesThreat level: ContainedReality status: StableGuardian status: Appointed and operational*
Viviana would hire some people with her Rothwell connections to dig up the stones and stabilize this shit in a week or three.
“I need a discrete archaeological team, no questions asked, and someone who knows about old castle foundations.” The Rothwell name opens doors, and having Sarah Crow Feather’s people as consultants would make the whole operation significantly less likely to accidentally tear holes in reality.
The compass rests quietly in her pocket, its dimensional chaos temporarily tamed but not forgotten. Three fragments of a cosmic reality anchor, scattered across the borough by one well-meaning but catastrophically wrong cartographer. Two more to find, one ritual to complete, and then maybe she can go back to normal patrols that don’t involve becoming a interdimensional guardian.
The night air carries the scent of approaching dawn, and somewhere in the distance, normal birds begin their morning songs. Killgrove sleeps on, protected by someone who knows that the best supernatural solutions often involve good old-fashioned planning and adequate funding.