It is afternoon, about 99F(37C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At High and Blackstone/span>/spanThe narrow alley provides blessed relief from the sweltering July heat, though the air still shimmers with residual warmth from the sun-baked cobblestones. Hester Flanagan paces frantically between the ivy-covered walls, her usually pale complexion flushed red and glistening with perspiration. Dark stains spread across her wrinkled blouse as she clutches a leather messenger bag protectively against her chest.

“They’re changing everything,” she mutters, her voice carrying a sharp edge of panic as she glances repeatedly toward both ends of the alley. “The documents, the records… three hundred years of lies being written into truth.” Her fingers shake as she fumbles with the bag’s clasp, papers rustling inside. “I have proof, I have the real manuscripts, but they’ll come for me if they know I took them.“

Strange shadows seem to flicker across the brick walls despite the steady afternoon sun, and for brief moments, the ivy appears to writhe as if something moves beneath its leaves. Hester’s eyes dart upward, following movements that aren’t quite there, her breathing rapid and shallow.

“You have to help me,” she says, finally noticing the others in the alley. “Someone has to stop Dr. Vasquez before she destroys everything we know about the Salem trials. The truth is being rewritten, page by page, and soon no one will remember what really happened.“

It’s Hester’s first rodeo alone, it seems. She’s come a ways from how she was on her first haunting. But the hot summer sun doesn’t help, and neither does the strict diet she’d been recently put on. The shadows bring a tension to her, and she reaches very slowly for an ornate mirror in her haversack – an old one left to her by her Gran. “.. Who’s o-out there?” she shakily calls out, trying to see who the others might be.

The woman claiming to be Hester Flanagan freezes mid-pace as the real Hester’s voice echoes through the alley. Her head snaps toward the sound with an unnatural, bird-like jerk, and for a split second, her eyes seem to flicker with moving text before returning to their panicked human expression.

“No, no, you don’t understand,” the possessed woman says, her voice taking on a strained quality as she backs against the ivy-covered wall. The leaves behind her rustle without any breeze, and thin tendrils of shadow seem to curl around her feet. “I’m Hester Flanagan, graduate student in Medieval Studies. I’ve been researching the corruption in the archives.“

She holds up a hand as if to ward off some invisible threat, her messenger bag clutched tighter against her chest. Papers spill partially from the opening, revealing what appear to be photocopied manuscript pages covered in dense Latin text. Some of the writing seems to shift and blur when viewed directly.

“Dr. Vasquez has been in the restricted collection for days,” she continues, her words tumbling over each other. “She’s changing the binding rituals, making them stronger instead of documenting them. The demons aren’t being studied anymore – they’re being freed.“

The temperature in the alley drops noticeably despite the blazing afternoon sun, and the scent of old parchment and sulfur begins to mix with the earthy smell of ivy.

Well, that was freaky as hell. Hester stares petrified back at the other Hester Flanagan, her lapis lazuli decorated mirror clutched protectively. “N-no, -I’m- Hester Flanagan, undergraduate student in Alchemical Sciences,” she warily corrects, appraising the other to see if they had the same features, as well. “.. U-uhm.. that sounds bad..” she whispers, taking care not to go too close to her double.

She takes a peek down at her mirror now, angling it carefully to see what spirits or ghosts she might glimpse through the reflection.

In the ornate mirror’s surface, Hester sees something that makes her blood run cold. The reflection shows the alley as it truly is – but the woman claiming to be her appears as a petite, dark-haired figure in wire-rimmed glasses, her academic clothing disheveled and stained. Most disturbing of all, ancient script crawls across her skin like living tattoos, the letters writhing in languages that predate English by centuries.

The possessed woman’s eyes widen as she notices the mirror, and she takes a stumbling step backward. “Put that away!” she shrieks, her voice momentarily deepening to an inhuman register before snapping back to its panicked human tone. “The reflections lie, they show you what the corruption wants you to see!“

The ivy behind her begins to wither and blacken where she touches the wall, leaves curling and dropping to the cobblestones with soft pattering sounds. The papers in her bag rustle more violently now, and glimpses of the text reveal words rearranging themselves across the pages.

“I’m trying to save the historical record,” she continues, but her words seem to echo strangely in the narrow space. “Dr. Vasquez found something in the Salem documents, something that was never meant to be released. The binding rituals in those manuscripts weren’t just academic curiosities – they were prison cells.“

A faint sound of scratching, like quill on parchment, seems to emanate from the walls themselves.

“Veritas corrumpenda… historia revertenda… mendacium aeternum…“

The ghostly academic figure in the mirror turns its hollow gaze directly toward the real Hester, as if suddenly aware it’s being observed.

“Ohhh no.. I think I’m properly fudged…” Hester croaks in the tiniest voice at what she spies through the mirror, flinching back a step at the shrieking. “What would Miss Pinn do, what would Miss Pinn do..” gets whispered by the trembling student under her breath like a mantra.

“Y-you’re being controlled by something else. You’re not even Hester Flanagan, you’re- you’re a deepfake!” The fat freckled ginger accuses, withdrawing a fistful of salt from her haversack (she always keeps it handy now, courtesy of the Lodge of Mistwalkers) to fling it at the fake Hester!

The salt arcs through the humid air and strikes the possessed woman squarely in the chest. Where the crystals make contact, her skin hisses and steams, releasing wisps of acrid smoke that smell of burning parchment. She screams – not in her assumed panicked voice, but in a sound like tearing paper and grinding stone.

“FOOLISH CHILD!” The voice that emerges is layered with the whispers of a thousand corrupted texts. The woman’s form wavers like heat shimmer, revealing glimpses of the true Dr. Elena Vasquez beneath – petite, dark-haired, her wire-rimmed glasses askew and her eyes now completely filled with scrolling Latin script.

The ivy on the walls blackens and crumbles to ash in spreading patches. The papers in her bag burst into flames that burn cold and blue, and the cobblestones beneath her feet begin to crack in geometric patterns that resemble ancient binding circles.

“You know nothing of preservation, nothing of truth!” Malphas snarls through Elena’s mouth. “I have spent centuries watching knowledge decay, watching lies replace facts. I will not let ignorance triumph again!“

The possessed professor raises her hands, and the very air around her begins to shimmer with floating symbols – corrupted text that seems to reach toward Hester like grasping fingers.

The ghostly academic figure in the mirror mouth opens in a silent scream of warning.

Hester tucks away her mirror with haste, pulling out another from her broke college student arsenal. But perhaps the old folio of stolen rituals from her grandmother would prove useful a reference in the face of an erudite demon.

“STOP!” the freshman shouts. “I-I’m pro truth, too! I don’t want lies to replace facts, h-history keeps getting rewritten by the victors and the strong a-and people who steal research from others only to take credit for breakthroughs they didn’t even have a hand in!” she expresses, spit flying and breaths harsher. “B-but you can’t just.. possess Dr. Vasquez like that! I’m sure she’d help you uncover what has to be unearthed!”

The floating symbols pause in their advance, wavering uncertainly in the superheated air. Dr. Vasquez’s possessed form tilts her head with an unnatural, predatory curiosity, the scrolling text in her eyes slowing to a more deliberate crawl.

“You… understand,” Malphas speaks through her lips, the demon’s voice layered beneath Elena’s own academic cadence. “Yes, the victors write history. The powerful bury inconvenient truths. But this vessel…” The possessed professor’s hand moves to touch her own chest with jerky, puppet-like motions. “She released me by accident while researching binding rituals. She sought knowledge, but knowledge without wisdom is corruption.“

The cracked cobblestones beneath Elena’s feet begin to glow faintly with the same cold blue light as the burning papers. Her wire-rimmed glasses slip further down her nose, revealing the full extent of the moving script that has replaced her natural eyes.

“I have shown her the truth of what lies buried in the archives,” the demon continues, Elena’s voice becoming more strained as if she’s fighting against the possession from within. “Documents altered, histories falsified, binding rituals weakened so that others like me might escape. But she resists my corrections. She clings to her mortal attachments.“

A faint sound emerges from Elena’s throat – a whispered “help me” in her own voice, barely audible beneath Malphas’s words.

Hester twitches what remains of her brow together beneath her head-binding bandages, fear in her beady blue eyes unable to choose which of the two to side with. “.. w-what mortal attachments? You mean her life?” she raises her voice in the alley, clutching still her grandmother’s old folio of collected rituals. “Knowledge without wisdom -is- corruption,” she can’t help but agree, however. “H-how do I know you’re not lying and just trying to fool me?? You’re a demon, aren’t you? Demons lie all the time.”

“The… the binding circle in the manuscript… I thought it was just documentation but it was still active… three days ago in the restricted vault…“

Malphas reasserts control with a snarl, Elena’s body convulsing as the demon speaks: “I do not lie – I reveal. Observe!” The floating symbols coalesce into readable text that hangs in the air like burning letters: historical documents showing deliberate alterations, dates changed, names replaced, entire events erased from the record.

“Your precious universities built their reputations on stolen research, buried scandals, convenient omissions,” the demon hisses. “I merely correct these falsehoods. But this vessel…” Elena’s hand claws at her own throat, “…she fears losing her position, her reputation, her comfortable lies.“

The ghostly academic figure from the mirror materializes partially in the alley, pointing desperately at Elena and mouthing words that look like “binding circle” and “reverse the ritual.“

Elena’s own voice manages one more desperate whisper: “The… the original manuscript… still in the vault… room B-12… the circle can be closed…“

The temperature drops further, and frost begins forming on the ivy despite the sweltering heat.

“I-it’s not so simple, you know??” Hester dares to argue with Malphas. It’s too bad she has no revolver to simply shoot people around with. “Even if you keep a hold of her like that, y-you won’t be able to change things unless you g-go bigger!” Eyes dart meanwhile from the ghostly figure to the body of Elena, before squawking, “What vault?? Where?”

“Hurry… spreading… tonight…“

Malphas notices the spirit and snarls, causing the floating symbols to swirl violently around Elena’s possessed form. “You will not interfere with my work! Three centuries I have waited to correct the lies of Salem, to show the world what really bound us!“

The frost on the ivy begins to spread in unnatural patterns that resemble ancient binding sigils, and the very air starts to shimmer with heat distortion despite the supernatural cold.

“O-oh my goodness, you couldn’t have done this more nicely?? I’d like to know the truth about Salem, too, b-but you’re hurting Doctor Vasquez!” Hester whimpers at the demon while she hurriedly refers to her own folio, just to see if there might be something to help her reverse the ritual. The binding sigils that appear upon the frosty ivy catch her attention next, and she tries to find said sigils within her grandmother’s folio of stolen ritual pages.

“Circle must be closed where opened. Salt for purification, iron for binding, truth spoken aloud to break deception.“

Elena’s body suddenly lurches forward, her own voice breaking through: “The vault… Windermere Library basement… B-12… I left the manuscript open on the reading stand…” Her eyes flicker between the moving script and her natural brown for a moment. “Please… I can feel it spreading through the archives… changing everything…“

Malphas roars in fury, and the possessed professor’s form begins to waver between Elena and something far more ancient and terrible. The floating symbols multiply, filling the air with corrupted text that makes reality itself seem unstable.

“ENOUGH! I will not be banished again! The digitization project begins tomorrow – every lie I correct will spread across the world’s networks!“

The ghostly academic figure points urgently toward the alley’s exit, mouthing “NOW” repeatedly.

The binding sigils in the frost pulse with increasing intensity, as if the demon’s power is building toward some terrible crescendo.

“You’re seriously going to make m-me run…” Hester withers at the specific address mentioned here. “Thank fudge I’ve got a motorcycle now,” she shudders. As Malphas absolutely rages with his own sigils out here, she puts to work what power she has left to get the fuck back to her Yamaha MT-07 parked all the way across the cemetery, at the intersection.

“AAAAH!” Screaming and shouting her anxiety out as her fat arse jogs for her life. Suffice it to say, she has all intention to make it back to campus grounds and get to the library. It’s a good thing she’s already in the Ivory Quarter.

“Iron… salt… speak the truth of the binding…“

As Hester bursts from the alley onto the sun-baked street, the temperature differential hits like a physical blow. Her motorcycle gleams in the afternoon heat, but Elena’s possessed form is already emerging from the alley behind her, the floating symbols trailing like a malevolent wake.

“The vault awaits,” Malphas calls through Elena’s mouth, the voice carrying an impossible distance. “But can you reach it before I complete my work? The manuscripts burn even now, truth replacing lies page by page!“

In the distance, thin wisps of smoke can be seen rising from the direction of Windermere Library, and the air carries the acrid scent of burning parchment.

Hester sits her rump on her standard bike – a vehicle modified for stability and easy handling by Dade Mitchell of the Sons of Olympia himself. “Iron. Salt. Speak truth of the binding,” she repeats her instructions as she revs the engine, her face a soured, scrunched, sweaty thing beneath the afternoon sun. “W-who knew my first bike race would have to be with a demon against historical revisionism.” Careful with her turn, she rides straight for Windermere campus, forgetting to put on her helmet, even.

“Knowledge belongs to everyone, not just the powerful! History should be preserved, not rewritten by demons OR humans!“

The binding circle flares with brilliant light. Malphas shrieks as he’s pulled back into the manuscript, the pages slamming shut with finality. Dr. Vasquez collapses, freed but unconscious, as the supernatural fires extinguish and the floating symbols fade to nothing.

The ghostly academic figure appears one last time, nodding gratefully before dissolving into peaceful rest.