Lykaia’s Saturday evening ghost banishing
Date: 2025-07-19 17:05
(Lykaia’s Saturday evening ghost banishing)
[Sat Jul 19 2025]
Stamford Memorial Gardens/span>/spanafternoon, about 79F(26C) degrees, and there are a few thin white clouds in the sky. The mist is heaviest At Hawthorn and Blackstone/span>/spanThe afternoon sun beats down on Stamford Memorial Gardens as Lykaia walks along the gravel pathway, her silver hair catching the dappled light filtering through the oak canopy. The cemetery stretches out before her in orderly rows, but something feels distinctly off about the peaceful scene. Near the older section where weathered Civil War headstones stand sentinel, fresh flowers that mourners left this morning have been disturbed. White lilies lie scattered in precise geometric patterns around several graves, their stems arranged in perfect thirteen-pointed stars. Red roses form intricate spirals, and baby’s breath creates small circles within circles on the grass.
A groundskeeper’s spade stands upright in the earth beside a granite marker, though no workers are visible anywhere in the cemetery. The tool sways slightly despite the still air, its metal blade glinting as it rocks back and forth with mechanical precision. From somewhere deeper in the cemetery comes the sound of rustling leaves, though the heavy summer air barely stirs the branches overhead.
The scent of earth and growing things hangs thick in the atmosphere, but underneath it lurks something else – the musty smell of old books and dried specimens, as if an abandoned library has been left to molder in the sun. Near a cluster of newer headstones, a patch of wildflowers has sprouted overnight in an impossibly perfect grid pattern, their colors arranged in a spectrum that seems too deliberate for nature.
Lykaia is looking around as she did hear about some sort of disturbance, and the flowers look to be precisely what she was looking for. She takes a deep breathe in and makes her way over to the Civil War headstones, and stops near the flowers. Trying to make sense of what she was looking at in their precise scatter into geometric patterns around a couple of graves. “Looks like the place… What do I remember about the patterns?”
As Lykaia approaches the Civil War headstones, the geometric flower arrangements become even more striking up close. The thirteen-pointed star made of white lilies surrounds the grave of “Corporal James Whitmore, 14th Connecticut Infantry, 1823-1863.” Each lily stem has been placed with mathematical precision, their heads all pointing inward toward the weathered granite marker.
The air grows noticeably cooler as she studies the patterns, and Lykaia notices that the flowers aren’t simply scattered – they’re arranged according to some kind of symbolic logic. The red roses spiral clockwise around an adjacent grave, while the baby’s breath circles seem to correspond to specific dates carved into the headstones.
A faint rustling draws her attention to a nearby oak tree where something pale flickers between the branches – perhaps just a trick of the shifting light, but for a moment it looked almost like a figure in old-fashioned clothing. The groundskeeper’s spade continues its rhythmic swaying, and now she can see that the earth around its base has been disturbed in a perfect circle, as if someone was attempting to plant something but never finished the task.
From her knowledge of folklore and supernatural phenomena, these patterns remind Lykaia of ritual circles – specifically the kind used in attempts to communicate with spirits. The thirteen-pointed arrangement is particularly significant in occult traditions, often associated with lunar cycles and crossing between worlds. The precision suggests someone with extensive botanical and symbolic knowledge, far beyond what a casual vandal would possess.
“Hmm.” Lykaia says, spending a moment longer to observe the patterns and to make sense of them. Then she looks to the oak tree, and the flickering figure. “Dealing with a ghost-related thing.” She says out loud. “Alright. Someone was trying to plant something… communicate. Why? Unknown…” She continues to talk to herself and then moves to the spade, trying to pull it out. “Okay. Let’s try see if we can plant something here, if we can dig the earth. Then we can see what happens when I break the thirteen-pointed arrangement. Shame really. Soldiers deserve their rest. Not to be brought up from it like this.”
The spade comes free from the earth with surprising ease, as if it had been waiting for someone to claim it. The moment Lykaia’s fingers wrap around the worn wooden handle, a sudden chill runs up her arm and the temperature around her drops several degrees. The tool feels oddly familiar in her grip, perfectly balanced despite its age.
As she disturbs the thirteen-pointed lily arrangement around Corporal Whitmore’s grave, the flowers seem to resist being moved – their stems feel heavier than they should, and they spring back toward their original positions when released. The moment she breaks the pattern completely, a low moan echoes through the cemetery, seeming to come from the earth itself rather than any visible source.
The flickering figure in the oak tree becomes more distinct – a tall, gaunt man in a faded tweed suit, his face obscured by shadow but his posture suggesting intense concentration. He appears to be holding something in his hands, turning it over and over with agitated movements. The phantom doesn’t seem hostile, but there’s an air of desperate urgency about him.
Near the base of the oak, Lykaia notices something glinting in the grass – scattered metal objects that look like old seed packets or specimen containers, their surfaces tarnished with age. The rustling sound grows louder, and now she can make out what sounds almost like muttered words, though too faint to understand. The wildflowers in their perfect grid pattern begin to sway despite the still air, bending toward the disturbed grave as if drawn by some invisible force.
“Has always been a bit huh to know I can see them when I’m not supposed to, to hear when I can’t clairaudience.” Lykaia continues to talk to herself as she now walks over to the figure, see what exactly he is fumbling about before making her next decision. Mid-way, she does say “Let’s see what the figure has, if he’s got nothing obvious, I guess I’ll be planting flowers on the last circle. Make it worthy of remembrance.”
“Thirteen specimens… lunar correspondence… the Whitmore grave shows the strongest resonance… but where are my notes? The storm scattered everything…” His voice carries the precise diction of an academic, tinged with decades-old desperation.
In his ghostly hands, he clutches what looks like a leather-bound journal, its pages fluttering though no wind disturbs them. Occasionally he glances up at the disturbed flower arrangement around Corporal Whitmore’s grave with visible distress, then returns to his phantom seed packets with renewed urgency.
The glinting objects in the grass prove to be actual metal containers – old specimen tins and seed packets from the 1940s, their labels faded but still partially readable. One bears the inscription “E. Thornwick – Botanical Research Division – Windermere University.” Another shows a hand-drawn diagram of a thirteen-pointed botanical arrangement with detailed notes about “spirit communication protocols.“
“Well. Fuck me. I have no clue to how to do rituals.” Lykaia says, letting out a bit of a groan, and a shake of her head. “Okay. Slow. First. I see the protocol… I’d assume this figure is Thornwick.” She looks back at him “Let’s see if I can take a look at his book. Would need everything I can to even grasp at doing a single ritual under precise instruction. Hoping the ghost isn’t fucking around and letting me find out that he’s made a mistake. Assume he needs me the ritual finished in order to grow free of what binds him.” She counts it, and then first moves to the figure to attempt and take the book from his hand.
As Lykaia reaches toward the spectral journal, Thornwick’s ghostly form suddenly snaps to attention, his shadowed face turning toward her with startling intensity. For a moment, his translucent features become clearer – wire-rimmed spectacles, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that burn with scholarly obsession even in death.
“You can see me,” he says, his voice carrying a mixture of wonder and desperate hope. “Finally, someone who understands! The research must be completed – forty-three years of work cannot be lost to a single storm!“
The journal in his hands solidifies slightly as he extends it toward her, though his fingers seem reluctant to let it go. “The botanical seance protocol… everything is documented here. But I cannot manipulate the physical specimens anymore, cannot arrange them properly. The communication circle must be precise – thirteen species in lunar correspondence, planted at the exact convergence points…“
His form flickers with agitation as he gestures toward the scattered seed packets. “The Whitmore grave sits on a natural ley convergence. If the ritual is completed correctly, it will prove that consciousness survives bodily death – the greatest scientific discovery in human history! But it must be done before the autumn equinox, when the veil grows thin again.“
The journal feels surprisingly solid in Lykaia’s hands when she takes it, its pages filled with meticulous botanical diagrams and detailed planting instructions written in precise academic script.
Lykaia opens the book, and then goes through it, looking for what Thornwick needs of her exactly. “Sure. And I was assuming that consciousness survives. On a theoretical… it’s energy. A little electric shock. Everything tends to be energy until sucked up into a black hole.” She considers as her phone vibrates again and she glances briefly onto it. She takes another moment to reply on it, then gets to work on completing the ritual to the best of her ability, planing the seeds, arranging the circles anew, even where she disturbed them. As precisely as she can as a supernatural knowing non-ritualist.
The journal’s pages reveal intricate diagrams showing the precise placement of thirteen different plant species in a complex geometric pattern. Thornwick’s meticulous notes detail lunar phases, soil composition, and symbolic correspondences – white lilies for rebirth, red roses for passion that transcends death, baby’s breath for the ethereal connection between worlds.
As Lykaia begins following the instructions, carefully planting seeds from the scattered packets and rearranging the disturbed flowers, Thornwick’s ghostly form grows more solid and animated. “Yes, precisely there – the vervain must align with the northeastern point, and the nightshade creates the binding anchor…“
The work is painstaking, requiring exact measurements paced off from the headstone and careful attention to the journal’s detailed specifications. As each plant finds its proper place, the air around Corporal Whitmore’s grave begins to shimmer with an almost visible energy. The temperature continues to drop, and a faint luminescence starts to emanate from the completed portions of the circle.
Thornwick hovers nearby, offering guidance with increasing excitement. “The final element – the moonflower seeds at the center point. They must be planted exactly at the convergence…” His voice carries decades of pent-up anticipation as the ritual nears completion.
The cemetery around them has grown unnaturally quiet, as if the very earth is holding its breath. Even the distant hum of cicadas has fallen silent, and the shadows seem to deepen despite the afternoon sun.
“Are you fey-blooded, Thornwick?” Lykaia asks, moving to grab the moonflower seeds, careful in her steps to not accidentally disturb anything. “Usually more accustomed to blood being used, not flowers. It’s interesting. How’s it done in replacement? No fan of slicing my palm for blood like ritualists do. If it’s flowers, may actually think about it.” She moves back with the moonflower seets, trying to plant them exactly at the center point at the convergence.
Thornwick’s spectral form pauses, a flicker of confusion crossing his translucent features. “Fey-blooded? No, I… I was simply a botanist. The flowers work because plants are living conduits – they bridge the gap between earth and air, between the material and ethereal realms. Blood magic is crude, barbaric. This is science!“
As Lykaia carefully plants the moonflower seeds at the exact convergence point, the entire botanical circle suddenly blazes with soft, silvery light. The temperature plummets further, and frost begins forming on the grass despite the summer heat. The air itself seems to thicken, taking on an almost liquid quality.
Thornwick’s excitement reaches a fever pitch. “It’s working! The veil is thinning! I can feel the boundary dissolving…” His form becomes more solid, more present, as if the ritual is somehow anchoring him more firmly to the physical world.
But something unexpected begins to happen. Instead of facilitating communication with Corporal Whitmore’s spirit, the circle seems to be drawing other presences. Shadows move between the headstones, and faint whispers echo from multiple directions. The ritual isn’t just opening a doorway – it’s creating a beacon that’s attracting every restless spirit in the cemetery.
Thornwick’s expression shifts from triumph to growing alarm as he realizes his calculations may have been incomplete. “This isn’t… there are too many of them. The convergence is stronger than I anticipated…“
Lykaia tries to quickly distort the ritual by using her foot to mess up the moonflower seeds. “Fuck me. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. Gonna need to stop this. Then Thornwick, THINK. What’s the problem? It’s attracting. How do we get what you want without? Then you teach me about flower rituals.”
As Lykaia’s foot disturbs the moonflower seeds, the silvery light flickers but doesn’t extinguish completely. The botanical circle has already established its connection, and the convergence continues to pulse with ethereal energy. The approaching shadows slow their advance but don’t retreat entirely.
Thornwick’s ghostly form wavers with panic and frustration. “Wait, no! The ritual must be completed or I’ll remain trapped forever!” He paces frantically around the circle’s edge, his academic mind racing. “The problem… yes, the problem is scale. I designed this for a single spirit communication, but the ley convergence here is far more powerful than my 1940s instruments could measure.“
He stops abruptly, his spectral eyes brightening with sudden inspiration. “A focusing mechanism! We need to narrow the beacon, make it specific rather than general. In my notes – page forty-seven – there’s a containment protocol using iron filings and salt to create boundaries…“
The whispers from the shadows grow more insistent, and several ghostly figures begin materializing more clearly among the headstones – Civil War soldiers, Victorian-era mourners, more recent spirits. They’re drawn to the light but seem confused, uncertain.
“If we can modify the circle to target only Corporal Whitmore’s spirit specifically, using his personal resonance… something from his grave, his era…” Thornwick’s voice carries desperate hope mixed with scholarly excitement.
“The shovel.” Lykaia says, turning around to grab it while another hand reaches into her belt pouches to get a hold of a iron and a bag of salt. “Well, we’ll be bringing a lot of people back, with how many have become Corporeal now.” She shrugs. She doesn’t really care, turns the pages and tries her best to correct as Thornwick instructed. “Where do I set the salt? Remember, ain’t a ritualist.”
Thornwick’s ghostly form brightens as he sees Lykaia’s supplies. “Yes! The iron will ground the excess energy, and the salt creates barriers. Pour the salt in a smaller circle around just Whitmore’s headstone – inside the botanical arrangement. The iron filings go at the cardinal points to create anchors.“
As Lykaia works, following his hurried instructions from page forty-seven, the approaching spirits slow their advance. The salt line seems to create a visible barrier, shimmering faintly in the ethereal light. The iron filings spark briefly when placed, each one creating a small focal point that helps contain the wild energy.
“Now touch the spade to Whitmore’s headstone while standing in the center,” Thornwick instructs, his voice tight with anticipation. “The iron tool will create a direct connection to his specific resonance – 1863, Connecticut Infantry, died of dysentery at Gettysburg according to the records.“
The moment Lykaia follows his instruction, the chaotic whispers from the other spirits fade to a background murmur. The silvery light focuses into a tight beam around Whitmore’s grave, and a new presence makes itself known – not the confused, desperate energy of the other ghosts, but something calmer, more grounded.
A translucent figure in a Union Army uniform begins to materialize near the headstone, looking bewildered but not distressed. Thornwick practically vibrates with scientific excitement. “It’s working! Controlled spirit manifestation! This will revolutionize our understanding of consciousness and death!“
Lykaia makes a modern, European salute to the figure in the Union Army uniform. “Keep an eye out Thornwick, everything’s looking like it’s supposed to? All looking good? No issue?” She glances around herself. “You said you’s be stuck. Coming back to life when this is complete? Don’t forget to tell me how to flower ritual.” She tells Thornwick, keeping her gaze on the figure in the union unfirm.
Corporal Whitmore’s spirit straightens and returns Lykaia’s salute with military precision, though confusion clouds his translucent features. “Ma’am… I don’t understand. Where am I? The last thing I remember was the fever breaking at the field hospital…” His voice carries the accent of 1860s Connecticut, formal and bewildered.
Thornwick circles the contained ritual space, practically glowing with triumph. “Perfect manifestation! Clear communication! The scientific implications are…” He pauses, suddenly realizing something. “Wait. I’m not crossing over. The ritual was supposed to prove consciousness survives death, not trap me further in this liminal state.“
The other spirits around the cemetery have begun to fade back into shadow, the focused energy no longer calling to them. But Thornwick remains as ghostly as before, his excitement dimming into renewed concern.
“Something’s wrong,” he mutters, consulting his spectral journal again. “The completion should have released me to whatever comes next. Instead, I’m still bound here. Perhaps… perhaps the ritual only proves what I already knew, but doesn’t resolve my unfinished business.“
Corporal Whitmore looks between them with growing alarm. “Spirits? Sir, are you saying I’m… that I’ve been…” His form wavers as the reality of his situation begins to sink in.
The botanical circle continues to pulse with contained energy, but the expected resolution hasn’t occurred.
“I’m sorry soldier. Yes, you fell in Gettysburg. Eighteen-sixty-three.” Lykaia says, lowering her salute but keeping upright. “You are currently a spirit. I apologize for bringing you from your rest, mister Thornwick wished to prove consciousness remains which, in hindsight, if you looked at him, he is a ghost with consciousness.” She keeps her eyes on the former Union soldier. “Pleasure to meet. Know the difficulty, disease at the front’s a nightmare. Modern medicine’s better with that shit, but it’s still happening.”
Corporal Whitmore absorbs this information with the stoic dignity of a soldier, though his spectral form trembles slightly. “Eighteen sixty-three… that would make it…” He pauses, calculating. “Good Lord, it’s been over a century and a half. The war… did we preserve the Union, ma’am?“
Thornwick suddenly stops his frantic page-flipping, a look of dawning realization crossing his ghostly features. “Of course! I’ve been approaching this entirely wrong. The ritual proves consciousness survives, yes – but my unfinished business isn’t the research itself. It’s that I’ve been so obsessed with proving life after death that I never actually lived!“
He turns to face both Lykaia and the Corporal, his academic excitement replaced by something deeper. “Forty-three years I’ve spent trying to document the afterlife instead of accepting my own death. The research was complete the moment I died and remained conscious. I just… couldn’t let go of the need to prove it to others.“
The botanical circle’s energy begins to shift, becoming warmer, less urgent. Corporal Whitmore nods with understanding. “Sometimes a soldier’s duty is knowing when the battle’s over, sir.“
The containment circle holds steady, but both spirits seem to be reaching some kind of internal resolution. The oppressive atmosphere in the cemetery begins to lift slightly, though the ritual remains active.
“Negative, corporal.” Lykaia answers, indeed, still keeping most of her straight posture towards Whitmore, though her head does turn to Thornwick. “Mister Thornwick. I don’t think living is so difficult. As long as consciousness reigns. You can still enjoy the afterlife, to preserve, to remember, to document and write.” She holds up the book. “How would you feel about teaching me now about flower ritualism?”
Corporal Whitmore’s expression grows solemn at Lykaia’s answer about the Union, but he nods with acceptance. “I see. Well, at least I served with honor. That’s what matters to a soldier.“
Thornwick’s ghostly form seems to solidify slightly as understanding dawns on his features. “You’re right. The research continues, even in death. Perhaps… perhaps that’s exactly what I’m meant to do.” He looks at his spectral journal with new appreciation. “Teaching others, sharing knowledge – that’s how scholarship truly lives on.“
The botanical circle’s energy begins to pulse more gently, and both spirits seem to grow more peaceful. Thornwick approaches Lykaia with renewed purpose. “Flower ritualism works on sympathetic resonance – each plant carries specific vibrational frequencies that correspond to different aspects of consciousness and reality. White flowers for purification and new beginnings, red for passion and life force, blue for communication and wisdom…“
As he begins to explain, the oppressive atmosphere in the cemetery continues to lift. The other shadowy spirits that had been drawn by the ritual fade back to their rest, no longer agitated by the uncontrolled energy.
“The key is understanding that plants are living bridges between the physical and spiritual realms,” Thornwick continues, his academic enthusiasm returning in a healthier form. “They don’t require blood because they already contain life force – they simply need proper arrangement and intent.“