Amber’s Wednesday evening exorcism
Date: 2025-09-24 20:12
(Amber’s Wednesday evening exorcism)
[Wed Sep 24 2025]
In a Warm Inviting Living Room
This open layout living room connects directly with the entryway to the south and the small dining room to the east. A glass patio door to the west leads outside to a private garden. The walls have a pale aquamarine off-white paint with white cornices and baseboards. The floor is a hardwood with a light colonial maple stain with an area rug centered underneath a couch.
In the center, acting as a dividing line to the entryway, is a large dark beige couch made from recycled and distressed leather. The couch is facing north towards a broad fireplace, with a large screen television hanging above.
It is about 65F(18C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Thornberry and Lake
The warm glow of the living room’s lamps casts long shadows across the hardwood floor as Casey and Amber step through the front door. Detective Rodriguez had called them in as consultants after the crime scene team finished their initial sweep – “Something’s not right about this one,” he’d said over the phone. “We need people who understand the… unusual.“
The room appears deceptively normal at first glance. The dark leather couch sits undisturbed, facing the fireplace where a large dark stain mars the stone hearth. Yellow police tape cordons off the area around the fireplace, and chalk outlines mark where Marcus Whitfield’s body was found. A dining table visible through the eastern archway still holds the remnants of an interrupted dinner party – five place settings with food barely touched, wine glasses abandoned mid-sip.
But there are details that don’t fit the official story of a simple accident. Scorch marks streak across the pale aquamarine walls in impossible patterns, as if something had burned the air itself. The area rug beneath the couch is bunched and twisted, furniture pushed askew as if by tremendous force. Most unsettling of all, an ornate hand mirror lies shattered on the floor near the fireplace, its antique silver frame twisted into an unnatural spiral.
The house feels too quiet, too still, as if it’s holding its breath. Through the western patio door, the private garden is shrouded in the evening’s heavy mist that’s been blanketing Fairefield all week.
“I went to your first concert, too, but we didn’t talk,” Amber admits with an easy shrug before returning her attention to the scene ahead. She squints at the Detective, “I know dead bodies. And weird stuff. So…” She shuffles on over to the corpse to check for details.
Casey seems mildly confused. She was called, but being new to society business and rather clueless she just showed up without expectations. Now that she’s been greeted with the crime scene she turns her gaze upon the various clues, but the one that stands out most to her is the mirror thats been twisted unnaturally. Occult things and magic would be the femme’s interest after all.
Amber approaches the cordoned-off fireplace area, her trained eye immediately catching details the initial investigators missed. The chalk outline shows Marcus fell backward, his head striking the stone hearth, but the blood spatter pattern is wrong. Instead of the expected arc from impact trauma, dark stains streak upward along the fireplace stones in finger-like patterns, as if something had clawed at the walls above where he fell. More disturbing, there are no defensive wounds on the outline’s positioning, no signs he tried to break his fall. His arms are positioned as if he’d been thrown.
Casey kneels beside the shattered mirror, careful not to disturb the twisted silver frame. The glass fragments don’t reflect the room’s warm lighting properly – instead, they seem to absorb light, creating dark spots on the hardwood floor. As she leans closer, the temperature around the mirror drops noticeably, her breath misting slightly. Etched into the frame’s baroque silver work are symbols that definitely aren’t decorative – they’re occult sigils, worn smooth by age and handling. One fragment of mirror glass, larger than the rest, still clings to the frame. In its surface, Casey catches a glimpse of movement that doesn’t match her own reflection.
The scorch marks on the walls seem to pulse faintly in her peripheral vision, and somewhere in the house, a door creaks softly despite the still air.
Casey jerks back from the mirror when the movement within the glass startles her and she instinctively looks away. She stands and looks towards Amber and the body and ask her, “I’ve got a theory, but I want to hear what you think first.”
“Shit’s all backwards,” Amber murmurs with a faint frown, eyeing the blood. “Didn’t fight back, I guess. Gut says some kind of invisible monster.” She glances to Casey, “Mirror’s a good call. With mirrorgates and shit, I swear half the bad shit comes through mirrors. Find anything over there?” She grows still, listening. Not just to Casey, but to sounds elsewhere with her supernatural hearing.
“I didn’t mean… I couldn’t control…“
The scorch marks on the walls have definitely grown more pronounced, the burnt patterns seeming to writhe slightly in the lamplight. Through the western patio door, the garden mist has thickened considerably, pressing against the glass like searching fingers.
The house’s stillness breaks as a door slams shut somewhere upstairs.
“You can sometimes peer into the other ‘places’ with mirrors and rituals. But there’s things into those places you probably don’t want to meet.” Casey tells Amber with some mid-level knowledge on the matter. “Either he summoned someone..or was possessed by something on the other side.” she extends an index finger and points towards the dinner table and the five placings. “But that doesn’t explain that at all. So maybe I’m way off base.”
“It looks like it definitely murderized him,” Amber eyes the body again, tensing at the slamming door, “If you know how, wanna start trying a banishing ritual on whatever’s lingering here?” She flicks her gaze to the burnt patterns, then back to Casey, “I wanna check out upstairs and make sure that isn’t something else waiting for us.”
a leather-bound journal lies open, its pages covered in frantic handwriting. The visible page shows sketched diagrams of the same occult sigils from the mirror’s frame, along with desperate notes: “The ritual worked too well – she’s so angry – can’t get her back in – Marcus tried to stop me but she threw him like a doll.“
The temperature in the room drops another ten degrees, and frost begins forming on the patio door’s glass. The remaining mirror fragment in the twisted frame starts to emit a low, almost inaudible humming sound.
Upstairs, something heavy crashes to the floor.
“Uh I can’t banish what I dont know. We should totally stick together though. You know how horror movies go.” Casey tells Amber as she quickly chooses to stand by the other woman’s side as if to believe there is some security to be had with her rather than being alone. “Lets see what it is..and then I will try.”
Amber eyes the burnt wall, then back towards the stairs, “I feel like we have two problems and can’t really leave one for the other.” She glances to the journal, “Read that for clues, then? Whatever’s upstairs can come get us if it wants.” She makes a claw-like hand-gesture at the burns, attempting to ward against the spread.
“Day 3 – The mirror responds to my calls now. I can see her clearly – Constance Thorne, died 1892, burned as a witch but she was innocent. Day 5 – She speaks to me during rehearsals. Her rage is intoxicating for the role. Day 7 – Tonight’s dinner party – I’ll show Marcus how authentic my performance can be.“
The final entry, written in shaking letters: “God forgive me – I opened the door too wide. She’s free and she wants revenge on anyone who reminds her of those who killed her. The men especially. I have to trap her again before–“
Amber’s warding gesture causes the scorch marks to flicker and retreat slightly, but the effort draws attention. The humming from the mirror fragment crescendos into an angry shriek. Upstairs, footsteps begin pacing back and forth with increasing agitation.
The frost on the patio door spreads inward, creating crystalline patterns that spell out words: “THEY BURNED ME ALIVE.“
The house’s lights flicker ominously, and the temperature continues to plummet.
Casey zips up her hoodie to try and combat the cold but her legs are still bare and chilled by the freezing temperatures. She squats down by the journal to read through up to day 7. She expels a misty breath and says, “Ok..God I’m so out of my depth with this. Is it corporeal? A spirit?..it’d be a spirit. Ok that helps.” the femme talks it through with herself.
“Sounds like a ghost. Got her name?” Amber wonders, pulling some red chalk from her hoodie to start tracing a circle around the shards, “Know enough to chant?”
“The seller mentioned strange accidents – three previous owners died violently. Should have been a warning.“
As Amber begins tracing the red chalk circle around the mirror shards, the temperature drops so rapidly that their breath becomes thick clouds. The humming transforms into a woman’s voice, distorted by rage and a century of imprisonment: “Elena… promised… to set me free… but she trapped me again… I will not be caged!“
The pacing upstairs stops abruptly. Heavy footsteps begin descending the staircase with deliberate, measured steps. Each footfall echoes through the house like a death knell.
The frost on the patio door spreads faster, new words appearing: “MEN LIKE HIM BURNED ME. MEN LIKE HIM MUST PAY.“
The lights flicker more violently, and somewhere in the walls, something begins scratching – long, deliberate gouges as if claws are raking through the interior structure.
“Constance.” Casey says at first then she corrects herself as she reads back to be precise. “Constance Thorne.” the heavy footsteps at the stairs draws a nervous glance from the femme and she mentions, “I’m sympathetic but I don’t think this ghost will appreciate feminist support.” she stays within Amber’s circle then and begins a chant in latin. She butchers it quite a bit but the words do form the beginnings of a relatively standard ghost banishing ritual.
“Ghosts aren’t actual people. They’re echos. Just the angry, clingy part of who they were,” Amber explains, tracing runs along the outer edge of the circle. “So we’re going to silence the echo so it doesn’t suffer anymore. And so it doesn’t kill you like the last guy. Sound good?” she seems tense but relatively calm, working with some experience, “She doesn’t need to be stuck like this forever. Even if she’s just a shard.”
Casey’s Latin flows haltingly but with growing confidence as the ritual takes shape. The words seem to resonate with the mirror shards, causing them to vibrate within Amber’s chalk circle. The scratching in the walls intensifies, as if something is trying to claw its way out.
The footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs. Through the archway leading to the entryway, a translucent figure materializes – a woman in a tattered 19th-century dress, her hair wild and singed, her face twisted with rage and madness. Constance Thorne’s ghostly form flickers between solid and ethereal, her eyes burning with supernatural fire.
“You speak of mercy,” Constance’s voice echoes from everywhere at once, “but I have known only betrayal. Elena promised freedom, then caged me again when I sought justice!“
The ghost’s attention fixes on Casey’s chanting, and her expression shifts to fury. “Another witch! Another deceiver!” She raises her hands, and the scorch marks on the walls begin spreading toward the circle.
Amber’s chalk barrier glows faintly red, holding for now, but cracks are already appearing in the hardwood floor around its perimeter. The mirror shards pulse with increasing intensity.
Casey shows her lack of nerve and skill in incantations when she sees the translucent figure materialize. She continues her chant, but accelerates it with some stuttering. Realizing she’s mucking it up just makes her more nervous, more stuttering, rapid fire trying to get the words right by repeating the verses till she gets them right.
Amber finishes her runes, pocketing the chalk. She bites her hand, letting blood drip in the circle as her chanting joins and supports Casey. She gestures again with those clawed fingers to ward the area around them, hoping to keep the spirit at bay until the pair have completed the banishment ritual to destroy the ghost.
Amber’s blood hits the chalk circle and ignites with crimson fire, creating a protective barrier that pulses with dark energy. Her warding gestures push back against Constance’s advancing scorch marks, the two supernatural forces clashing in the air between them.
Casey’s stuttered Latin begins to find its rhythm as Amber’s support steadies her. The mirror shards respond to their combined effort, rising slightly off the floor and spinning within the circle. Constance’s form wavers, becoming less solid.
“No! I will not be silenced again!” The ghost’s shriek shatters the remaining wine glasses on the dining table. She lunges forward, but Amber’s barrier holds, crackling with protective energy. “I have suffered enough! Let me have my vengeance!“
The temperature plummets further as Constance pours her rage into breaking their defenses. Ice crystals form on the walls, and the house groans under supernatural pressure. The mirror shards spin faster, their dark reflections beginning to show glimpses of a burning pyre from 1892 – Constance’s final moments.
“You would trap me as Elena did!” Constance’s voice cracks with anguish beneath the fury. “I only wanted justice for what they did to me!“
The barrier flickers dangerously as hairline cracks spread through Amber’s chalk circle.
Casey subtly steps just a little bit behind and to the side of Amber to subconsciously rely on her for protection. She finds her stride with her chanting, working her way through the verses she knows in her rough latin. Determined to send Constance back to the place she belongs out of this world.
Amber continues her gestures, trying to keep up a ward that isn’t really designed to be maintained for very long. It’s honestly probably fading between each blow, requiring Amber to bring it up again. She does look concerned now. She pause from her chanting, leaving Casey to maintain it, and says, “Not trapping you. Freeing you from the suffering and eternal mission. It’s over.”
a frightened woman, falsely accused, dying in agony.
“I… I remember now,” Constance whispers, her form becoming more translucent. “I was so angry for so long, I forgot… I forgot who I was before the fire.“
The scorch marks on the walls begin to fade, and the supernatural cold starts to lift. But the mirror shards pulse with one final surge of energy – the last of Constance’s earthly tether fighting against release.
“Will it… will the pain stop?” she asks, looking directly at Amber with eyes that are no longer burning with rage, but filled with a century of exhaustion.
The chalk circle holds steady now, no longer under assault, waiting for the final words of banishment.
“I’m sorry.” Casey breathes out as a cloud of frosty miss then then she finishes off her chanting with final words of banishment and a grimace comes across her face as she does so. The guilt replaces the fear on her face.
“It’ll stop,” Amber assures more quietly after Casey’s words, letting the shields fall as she speaks those final words in sync with Casey.
Constance’s form begins to dissolve like morning mist, her features softening into peace for the first time in over a century. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice fading to barely a breath. “I can finally… rest.“
The mirror shards crumble to silver dust within the chalk circle, releasing one final pulse of warm light that chases away the last of the supernatural cold. The scorch marks fade completely from the walls, leaving only the normal warmth of the living room’s lamps.
As Constance disappears entirely, the house settles with a deep sigh, as if it too has been holding its breath. The frost melts away from the patio door, and through the glass, the heavy mist that had been pressing against the windows begins to lift, revealing the garden beyond.
The crime scene remains – the chalk outline, the bloodstains, the overturned furniture – but the oppressive weight of supernatural rage is gone. Only the twisted silver frame remains as evidence of what truly happened here, and even that seems somehow less menacing now.
Casey and Amber stand in the quiet aftermath, their breath no longer misting in the returned warmth of the room.