Viviana’s Wednesday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-07-23 20:47
(Viviana’s Wednesday evening exorcism)
[Wed Jul 23 2025]
Maritime Square/span>/spannight, about 75F(23C) degrees, and there are a few wispy white clouds in the sky. The mist is heaviest At Thornberry and Franklin/span>/span There is a new moon.
The gravel crunches softly beneath Viviana’s feet as she approaches the silent fountain at Maritime Square’s center. The thick summer air hangs heavy with the scent of jasmine and damp earth, while overhead the oak and maple canopies block out most of the starlight.
A mahogany box sits abandoned on the fountain’s stone rim, its tarnished silver hinges catching what little light filters through the leaves. The lid hangs open, revealing a large brass compass nestled in faded velvet. Even from several feet away, the compass needle’s slow, continuous counterclockwise rotation is clearly visible against the aged ivory face.
The brass surface gleams with an unusual patina – patches of deep green that seem to form organic patterns like tide pools or cellular structures. Despite the cool night air, a subtle warmth radiates from the object, and the astronomical symbols etched around its rim appear to shift slightly when glimpsed from the corner of one’s eye.
The park feels unusually quiet tonight, with even the typical insect chorus muted. The only sounds are the soft rustle of leaves overhead and the distant hum of the university’s late-night activities beyond the tree line.
“The amount of weird shit that just… appears in this town,” Viviana says. She was wandering along the paths, a vape pen touching her lips as she glances towards the box. “If that wasn’t something fucky, it’d be stolen by now,” Viviana says. Running her tongue over her teeth.
“Huh. Another compass,” she says. “I’ve seen one of these before,” she adds.
a crescent moon, Saturn’s rings, what appears to be a comet, and several others that don’t match any standard celestial notation. They seem to pulse with a barely perceptible light, synchronized with the needle’s rotation.
From this distance, about eight feet away, Viviana can make out an inscription on the inner lid of the mahogany box, though the brass letters are tarnished and difficult to read in the dim light. The velvet lining shows water stains and age, but the compass itself appears remarkably well-preserved despite its obvious antiquity.
The jasmine scent grows stronger, almost cloying, mixing with something else – a metallic tang like copper pennies or blood.
Viviana chews on her lip. “Where did you fucking come from, I wonder?” Viviana says, unsheathing her bat and leaning it over to poke at the box, her eyes narrowed.
“C. Blackwater – Observatory Commission – 1847 – Tempus Navigare.” Below that, in smaller script: “For those who would chart the currents of time itself.“
A sudden chill cuts through the humid air around the fountain, though the rest of the park remains warm. The leaves overhead rustle without any wind, and for just an instant, Viviana catches the sound of distant voices – not from the university beyond the trees, but seeming to come from the very air around the compass.
Viviana frowns as she leans over the box, after poking it with her bat. “Tempus fucking Navigare sounds like a frat slogan,” Viviana says to no one in particular. Glancing up at the chill and the quiet voices, she says, “A time compass, huh? Not the first. Probably won’t be the last – I guess… do I just smash it?” Viviana asks.
“Not… smash… contain… the rupture…” The words fade in and out like a radio signal losing reception.
The brass surface begins to emit that strange warmth more intensely, and now Viviana can see her breath misting in the suddenly frigid air. The water in the fountain basin starts to ripple in concentric circles, though nothing has disturbed its surface.
From somewhere nearby – or perhaps somewhen else entirely – comes the sound of footsteps on gravel, approaching the fountain from multiple directions at once.
“I’m sick of containing time fucking ruptures,” Viviana says. “I miss when it was fucking ghosts and shit, but alright,” Viviana says. “I guess that’s part of the time rupture experience. It just happens over and over, like a broken fucking clock.”
The footsteps grow clearer, overlapping in impossible ways – heavy boots from one era, light slippers from another, the clip-clop of horse hooves on cobblestones that haven’t existed here for decades. The compass needle spins faster now, and the astronomical symbols around its rim begin to glow with a faint, sickly green light.
A flash of movement catches Viviana’s peripheral vision – a figure in a long coat hunched over surveying equipment that isn’t quite there, translucent and wavering like heat shimmer. The scent of old tobacco and lamp oil mingles with the jasmine.
“The alignment… must complete the alignment…” The voice is clearer now, desperate and scholarly, with the precise diction of the mid-1800s. “The temporal harbor… so close…“
The temperature around the fountain drops another ten degrees, and frost begins forming on the compass’s brass surface despite the summer heat just feet away.
Viviana sticks her tongue out of the corner of her lips, glancing around the environment. “After the last time, I guess I’ve been thinking about this shit,” Viviana says. “What if time didn’t exist, not like we thought about it, and whatever, and all time is happening at once, which allows for these weird-ass ruptures,” Viviana says.
She did have a slightly hazy tone of voice. Probably a little extra THC in her vape today.
“Fuuuuuuck, so I need to turn this compass which way to align it so it doesn’t shatter time?” Viviana asks.
The ghostly figure of Cornelius Blackwater becomes more solid, his wild hair and ink-stained fingers clearly visible as he frantically adjusts instruments that flicker between existing and not existing. His eyes are wide with the fervor of discovery and the terror of what he’s unleashed.
“Not turn… not align…” his voice echoes from multiple time periods at once. “The rupture feeds on movement… on change… stillness… perfect stillness…“
The compass needle suddenly stops its rotation, pointing directly at Viviana. The moment it does, a wave of disorientation washes over her – for just an instant, she experiences the park as it was in 1847, complete with gas lamps and cobblestone paths, then 1923 with children playing, then 1943 with students huddled during an air raid drill.
The frost on the compass spreads outward in fractal patterns, and the mahogany box begins to creak ominously.
“The meteorite fragments… they anchor it to this moment… but the anchor is failing…“
“So what the fuck do I do?” Viviana says, looking up at the figure, her tongue sliding over her lips as the images flash around her. Distracting, too distracting. She pushes the heel of her hand into her eyes, and groans.
“Not the night for this, fucking Cornelius.”
a Victorian woman in mourning dress, a group of 1960s protesters, a maintenance worker from last Tuesday.
“The eclipse alignment… it comes again… in minutes, not years… you must ground the energy before the rupture widens…“
The temperature plummets further, and now Viviana can see her breath in thick white puffs. The ghostly footsteps circle closer, and the scent of ozone fills the air like an approaching thunderstorm.
Blackwater points a translucent finger toward the base of the fountain. “The anchor stones… they must be reset… or all of time bleeds through…“
Viviana straightens up, slinging her bat over her shoulder. “I got it, I got it,” Viviana says, stooping down to look at the stone, she pokes one with her finger. “Where’s the anchor stones? Pretend like I know nothing about all this, step by step instructions.”
Viviana says “Don’t worry, you don’t sound drunk yet, keep it up.“
Blackwater’s form flickers more solidly as he gestures frantically at the fountain’s base. “The foundation stones… three of them… carved with the same symbols as the compass rim…“
As Viviana examines the stonework, she can make out three larger stones embedded in the fountain’s circular base, each about the size of a dinner plate. They’re partially obscured by decades of moss and grime, but faint astronomical symbols are barely visible carved into their surfaces – the same shifting markings as on the compass.
“They must align with the compass face… Saturn to Saturn, comet to comet… but the decades have shifted them…” Blackwater’s voice grows more urgent as the needle begins to wobble. “Turn them… match the symbols… before the eclipse energy peaks…“
The ghostly figures around the fountain grow more numerous and solid – dozens of people from different eras all occupying the same space, their temporal echoes bleeding through stronger now.
The compass begins to emit a high-pitched whine, and cracks appear in the mahogany box.
Searching to find the symbols, Viviana brings her vape pen out of her pocket, decidedly non plussed today to the person’s anxious energy. “Fuck, fuck, just gimme a second,” Viviana says, drawing her hands down to the stones to mess with them, aligning them carefully in the direction that she was directed to. Saturn to Saturn, comet to comet.
The first stone grinds heavily as Viviana turns it, moss and decades of grime scraping away to reveal the carved Saturn symbol more clearly. As it clicks into alignment with the compass, the temperature around that section of the fountain rises slightly, and some of the ghostly figures begin to fade.
The second stone – the comet – proves more stubborn, requiring both hands to rotate. When it snaps into position, the compass needle’s wobbling steadies somewhat, and the high-pitched whine drops to a lower hum.
But the third stone won’t budge at all. Years of weather and settling have locked it in place, and the symbol is almost completely obscured by a thick layer of mineral deposits and moss.
“Hurry… the alignment window closes…” Blackwater’s voice grows fainter as more cracks spider across the mahogany box. The brass compass itself begins to vibrate against its velvet housing.
The ghostly crowd presses closer, their overlapping voices creating a chorus of temporal confusion. The frost continues spreading outward from the fountain in crystalline patterns.
Viviana reaches into her pack, slipping out a knife. Using the knife, she digs all around the stone, clearing it of debris. When it doesn’t move still, she sits on her butt, and uses her foot to kick it, trying to loosen the stone.
Once she does, she is able to turn it, as the last stone clicks into place. “Always fuckin’ hurry here, hurry there,” Viviana grouses.
The moment the third stone clicks into alignment, a pulse of energy radiates outward from the fountain. The ghostly figures suddenly snap into sharp focus for one heartbeat – Viviana can see every detail of their faces, their clothes, their expressions of confusion and fear – before they fade away entirely.
The compass needle stops its erratic movement and points steadily north for the first time in over a century. The astronomical symbols around its rim dim to their original faded state, and the unnatural warmth dissipates from the brass surface.
Blackwater’s form becomes solid one final time, his wild eyes meeting Viviana’s with profound relief. “The anchor holds… the rupture contained…” His voice carries gratitude and exhaustion. “Thank you… the temporal currents are calm once more…“
The frost melts away instantly, leaving only normal summer humidity. The oppressive weight in the air lifts, and even the insects resume their nighttime chorus. The compass sits quietly in its mahogany box, looking like nothing more than an antique curiosity.
Blackwater’s ghost fades with a peaceful smile, finally able to rest.
Viviana falls back onto her back, bringing her vape pen to her lips to take a longer drag off of it, blowing out a cloud of sweetly scented smoke afterwards. “Hooray for me,” she says, blithely. “We did it.”
The park settles into peaceful quiet around Viviana as she lies on the grass, the normal sounds of a summer night gradually returning. The compass sits motionless in its box, the needle pointing true north like any ordinary navigational instrument.
A gentle breeze stirs the oak leaves overhead, carrying away the last traces of ozone and metallic tang. The fountain’s water reflects starlight filtering through the canopy, no longer rippling with temporal disturbances.
From the university beyond the trees comes the distant sound of late-night students walking home, their voices and laughter a comforting reminder of the present moment. The jasmine scent returns to its normal pleasant intensity, no longer cloying or overwhelming.
The mahogany box sits open on the fountain’s rim, harmless now but still radiating the weight of its history. The anchor stones beneath remain properly aligned, their symbols barely visible in the dim light but holding their crucial positions.
Maritime Square has returned to being just a quiet park on a warm July night, its temporal currents finally calm.
Viviana pushes to a stand, brushes off her pants, and wanders off.
Viviana’s footsteps crunch softly on the gravel path as she walks away from the fountain, leaving the compass to sit peacefully in its mahogany box. The night air feels normal again – warm and humid, filled with the typical sounds of summer in the Ivory Quarter.
Behind her, the fountain stands silent and still, its water reflecting the scattered starlight that filters through the canopy. The three anchor stones remain properly aligned beneath the surface, their ancient symbols holding the temporal currents in check.
As Viviana disappears into the shadows between the oak trees, heading back toward the university district, Maritime Square settles into the kind of quiet evening it was always meant to have – just another peaceful corner of New Haven where students might sit and study, or couples might walk hand in hand, without the weight of fractured time pressing down upon them.
The compass needle points steadily north, finally at rest after more than a century of restless spinning.
Viviana concludes the patrol.
The gravel path leads Viviana back toward the university district, where the Gothic Revival spires and observatory domes stand silhouetted against the deep purple sky. The familiar sounds of late-night campus life – distant music from dorm windows, the hum of streetlights, the occasional laugh from students walking between buildings – welcome her back to the ordinary world.
Behind her, Maritime Square rests in peaceful darkness. The compass will likely be discovered by groundskeepers in the morning, who will probably assume someone left behind an antique from an estate sale. They won’t know that the seemingly ordinary navigational instrument once threatened to tear holes in the fabric of time itself, or that three carefully aligned stones beneath an old fountain are all that stand between New Haven and temporal chaos.
For now, the anchor holds. The rupture is contained. And Cornelius Blackwater finally rests, his century-long vigil ended by a sylph with a baseball bat and enough practical sense to follow directions.
Another night in New Haven concludes without the world ending – which, in this city, counts as a victory.
Approximately 45 minutes]