Esme’s Wednesday morning exorcism
Date: 2025-07-30 11:38
(Esme’s Wednesday morning exorcism)
[Wed Jul 30 2025]
At front yard
It is morning/span>/span93F(33C) degrees, and there are clear skies. The mist is heaviest At Carnation and Oakwood/span>/spanThe summer heat presses down on the small park as Esme arrives to find Marcus already waiting by the defunct fountain, a canvas messenger bag at his feet and several sketchpads spread across the weathered bench beside him. He looks up as she approaches, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Esme, perfect timing,” he says, his voice carrying its usual warmth but somehow feeling hollow, like an echo of itself. “I’ve been thinking about that installation concept we discussed – something that could really capture the essence of Fairefield’s creative spirit.” A few pigeons scatter as he gestures toward the art supplies, and Esme notices how they seem unusually agitated, cooing in distress before taking flight entirely. The air feels strangely heavy despite the clear skies, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician’s guitar falls silent mid-song. Marcus pats the bench beside him. “Come, sit. I have so many ideas to share with you.“
Esme strolls up to the bench with narrowed eyes. “Marcus, we definitely didn’t have a meetin’ today.” She frowns a touch, starting to withdraw a can of hairspray from her bag, giving Hester a nod. “But sure, tell me ’bout this installation.”
Hester trips over the lawn on her hurrying way through, her clothes and arm bandages mostly splattered in rat goo and icky red. Wincing, she tries not to call too much attention to herself while she gets closer to where Esme is, staying low and elbow-crawling her way like a chonky slug in the grass.
Marcus’s smile falters for just a moment before reforming, his head tilting slightly as he watches Esme’s hand move toward her bag. “Of course we did,” he says, his voice taking on an oddly flat quality. “You were so excited about exploring the intersection of performance and visual art.” His fingers drum against the bench in a rhythm that doesn’t match any music, and the remaining pigeons near the fountain begin walking in small, agitated circles. As Hester approaches through the grass, Marcus’s gaze snaps to her with unnatural precision, tracking her movement despite her attempts at stealth. “And you brought a friend,” he continues, his eyes never leaving Hester’s crawling form. “How wonderful. The more creative minds, the better.” The air around the bench seems to shimmer slightly in the heat, and Esme might notice that the scattered art supplies – charcoal, brushes, small vials of what looks like paint – are arranged in a pattern that’s almost geometric, almost purposeful. A jogger passing on the path stumbles slightly, shaking her head as if clearing fog before continuing on with notably less spring in her step.
“Do I look like someone with an interest in tha performance and visual arts? Sounds more like a fuckin’ Mask’s task to me.” And with a swift kick of her combat-clad foot, Esme is sending some of the scattered art supplies out of their geometric pattern to hopefully direct the attention back to herself and away from Hester
Alas, even if Hester were digging her chin (chins) into the soil, Marcus still sees the hill that her silhouette creates there. The geometric pattern catches the nerd’s eye, who may be familiar with similiar artistic and deranged possessed around town. The shimmering air brings her to rub behind her glasses, as well – just to make sure she wasn’t merely imagining the strange energy.
Using Esme’s distraction, she hurriedly reaches into her haversack and charges right for the bench, flinging a handful of salt around it! “AAAAAA!!”
The salt hits the ground around the bench in a wide arc, and Marcus recoils as if struck, his carefully maintained facade cracking. “What are you–” he begins, but his voice distorts mid-sentence, becoming deeper and layered with harmonics that shouldn’t come from a human throat. The scattered art supplies that Esme kicked begin sliding back into their geometric pattern of their own accord, charcoal sticks rolling across the gravel with purpose. Marcus’s eyes flash with something that isn’t quite anger–it’s hunger, ancient and patient. “You’re interrupting something important,” he says, rising from the bench with movements that are too fluid, too controlled. The temperature around them seems to drop several degrees despite the blazing sun, and the fountain behind him begins to emit a low, resonant hum even though it hasn’t run water in years. Several windows in the surrounding Victorian buildings slam shut simultaneously, as if the neighborhood itself is recoiling. Marcus takes a step toward Hester, and where his foot touches the salt line, small wisps of steam rise from the ground.
“No, I think we’re interruptin’ something that’ll make Fairefield worse.” Esme lifts her can of hairspray and her lighter. “If tha 63rd thinks they’re gonna keep a hold on here, they’ve got another thing comin’.” She promises the demon. “More salt, Hester!” And as she shouts this to Hester, she sprays the can of hairspray down and brings her lighter to life, sending a stream of fire toward the being – mostly just as more distraction.
“Y-yeah! 63rd.. is just a less based version of- of 69th!” Hester rides some backup hype for Esme’s words, as dorkishly as the nerd might. “More salt for the salty one, c-coming up!” she pants heavily through another fistful of salt – this time slung right at Marcus’ face. Nevermind that he might get some of that in his eyes. “Oh my goodness, maybe we can trap him inside a salt circle,” croaks the prospect, clumsy steps smashing one of the paint pots that form that perfect geometric pattern. “.. oops.”
The makeshift flamethrower sends Marcus stumbling backward with an inhuman shriek that echoes off the brick buildings, his form wavering like heat distortion. Salt strikes his face and he claws at his eyes, but instead of tears, thin wisps of black smoke curl from where the crystals touch his skin. “You don’t understand,” he snarls, his voice now clearly layered with something else speaking through him. “This vessel has given me access to decades of creative energy. I will not be denied!” The broken paint pot releases not paint but a thick, oily substance that seems to absorb light, and the geometric pattern begins reforming around the spill with supernatural persistence. The fountain’s humming grows louder, almost musical, and the iron scrollwork on the surrounding fence begins to vibrate in harmony. Marcus raises his hands and the remaining art supplies – brushes, charcoal, small metal implements – lift into the air around him like a defensive barrier. His eyes have gone completely black now, reflecting nothing. “The sun sets in hours. When it does, this form will be mine permanently, and your precious artistic district will feed me for centuries.“
“Salt circle, now!” Esme encourages Hester as she kicks around a few more things on the art supplies before they fan upward like that shield. She advances forward with the hairspray for a few more secondsto try and cause some potential mini explosions of the glass vials in his face before she ceases. “No. You’re not going anywhere.” She focuses hard on the person, catching those black eyes in between the barrier of supplies. “In fact I think you’re pretty tired of Fairefield and New Haven in general and need to go back to Hell.”
“Your hairspray flamethrower worked!!” Hester shrieks excitedly at Esme, hope alighting in her beady blues. Once Marcus starts to go all Art Attack Magneto on them, however, the fat freshman cowers away. “O-oh no, that’s not good…” croaks the freckled one. A hasty set of nods comes at Esme’s instruction, the lass snapping into action. Her cardio for the past weeks is once again put to the test – and this time, with the effects of her caloric deficit – as she jogs as fast as her corpulent self can while unloading all of her salt in a closed circle around Marcus. “W-why do demons want to do art so much?? Why not science??” she complains.
The floating art supplies explode in small bursts of flame and glass as Esme’s makeshift flamethrower finds its targets, sending Marcus staggering backward with another inhuman wail. Black ichor drips from small cuts on his face where the glass struck, but the wounds seem to seal themselves almost immediately. As Hester completes the salt circle, Marcus finds himself trapped within its boundaries, his movements becoming jerky and constrained as if fighting invisible bonds. “Science creates,” he hisses through Marcus’s mouth, his voice now purely demonic. “Art… art is pure inspiration. Raw creative force. I don’t just feed on what is made – I devour the very spark that makes creation possible.” The salt line begins to glow with a faint white light, and Marcus claws at the air as if trying to break through an invisible barrier. The oily substance from the broken paint pot starts to bubble and smoke, releasing tendrils of darkness that press against the salt circle’s boundaries but cannot cross. The fountain’s humming reaches a crescendo, and cracks begin to appear in Marcus’s human facade – his skin flickering between flesh and something that looks like living shadow.
“Hell yeah, Hester!” Esme enthuses as the salt circle seems to be working. “See, Marcus that sounds bad for the art districts.” She draws in a breath and looks a little nervous for half a second before gathering up some courage – like she’s about to do something she’s actually never done before. “As a Daughter of Hel, I call upon her power that flows through my blood and compel you to leaven this city and never return!” As she speaks, she steps forward – careful not to disturb the circle – wrapping her hand around Marcus’ throw while her eyes briefly take on a greenish glow.
As Esme’s hand closes around Marcus’s throat, her eyes blazing with otherworldly green fire, the demon’s shriek becomes something beyond sound – a vibration that rattles windows and sends every bird in a three-block radius into panicked flight. The salt circle flares brilliant white, and Marcus’s body convulses as two distinct forces war within him. “NO!” the demon roars, but its voice is already growing weaker, more distant. “I will not be banished by some half-blood whelp!” Black smoke begins pouring from Marcus’s mouth, nose, and eyes, coiling upward like a tornado of shadow before being pulled inexorably toward the ground by Esme’s touch. The oily substance from the broken paint pot ignites in cold blue flames that cast no heat, and the geometric pattern of art supplies crumbles to ash. Marcus’s human features begin to reassert themselves through the flickering shadow-skin, his own voice breaking through in desperate gasps. “Help… me…” he whispers, even as the demon fights to maintain its hold. The fountain’s humming reaches a deafening pitch before suddenly cutting to absolute silence, and the air itself seems to hold its breath.
The demon’s form writhes and stretches like taffy as Esme’s underworld power tears it from Marcus’s body, the shadow-stuff becoming increasingly translucent with each passing second. “This… is not… over!” Vex’thara’s voice echoes from a dozen directions at once, growing fainter. “There are others… other vessels… other cities…” The last wisps of black smoke spiral upward before being yanked downward through the earth itself, leaving only the acrid smell of sulfur and burnt ozone. Marcus collapses to his knees within the salt circle, gasping and retching, his eyes their normal brown again but filled with confusion and terror. The oppressive weight that had settled over the park lifts like a fog, and somewhere in the distance, the street musician’s guitar resumes its melody with renewed vigor. The art supplies scattered around the bench are now just ordinary charcoal and brushes, their supernatural arrangement broken forever. Marcus looks up at his rescuers with dawning recognition and horror. “Oh god,” he whispers, his voice hoarse but human. “What did I do? The artists I met with… I remember feeling so hungry when I talked to them, but not for food…“