Ambrose’s Saturday evening ghost banishing

January 25, 2026

Date: 2026-01-24 19:49

(Ambrose’s Saturday evening ghost banishing)

[Sat Jan 24 2026]

At front yard

It is night, about 6F(-14C) degrees, and there are clear skies. Ankle high mist flows through the area. The mist is heaviest At Panama and Blackstone/span
There is a waxing gibbous moon.

Ambrose settles in in the snowfall, watching the grounds in the front yard of the building for a time. As a vampire, thus unaffected by the weather, he’s not too cold or offput by this location nor task. The further drop of temperature doesn’t alarm him, doesn’t draw a chill out of him — no noise at all, in fact. Stillness.

Stepping forward a few paces, practiced footfalls near-silent, he pauses to watch the specter of the woman, and to gauge her doings. He’s got supernaturally keen eyes, ears, and sense of smell, trying to glean anything he can from her babbling. Only after a moment does he pipe up, well-versed with ghosts, if not at his current best to deal with one. “It’s so often fruitless, is it not?” A shot in the dark.

The ghost’s head snaps toward Ambrose with unnatural speed, her translucent features sharpening into focus. Up close, he can see the soil stains on her jacket are arranged in patterns that shift subtly, like living things. Her eyes are the pale green of new shoots, and they fix on him with an intensity that suggests she’s seeing through him as much as at him.

“Fruitless?” Her voice echoes strangely, as if coming from multiple directions at once. “No. Never fruitless. The work… the work continues. Must continue.” She gestures at the fountain with her pruning shears, and where the ghostly blades pass through the air, reality seems to thin. For a moment, Ambrose can see through to somewhere else–a version of the park where summer reigns eternal, where the trees are heavy with impossible fruit that glows softly.

Then the vision snaps shut like a closing eye.

The woman’s form flickers again, more violently this time. She clutches at her chest, and the roses around them respond, their blooms pulsing in rhythm with her distress. “Something’s wrong. The balance. The anchor. Five years of calculations, three years of cultivation, and now…” She trails off, seeming to notice Ambrose properly for the first time. Her expression shifts to confusion.

“You’re not one of them. Not Fae. But not… entirely mortal either.” She tilts her head, studying him. “When did the city start sending vampires to inspect municipal parks?“

The fountain behind her stutters again, and a crack appears in its stone basin.

No stranger to deals in the dark, with demons, the dead, or the dread, Ambrose lingers to watch the ghost, to accept her vision. There’s a lot that he sees, and not much that outright stuns or startles him; startle response isn’t something that comes easily. But her words, still, earn a tilt of his head and a mild narrowing of his eyes — not of suspicion, but of interest. “I have no particular love for the Fae,” he admits evenly enough, “… despite having been alongside them so oft in the Illusium Court. A few friends. Lot of enemies. Hatred for the Wild Hunt.”

Unblinking baby-blues flitting from the fountain back to the gardener-ghost that tends it, Ambrose lifts his chin mildly. “The city did not send me. If anyone lays claim, it is the Vasquez family and the Order, in that… order.” The smallest of smiles, ghosted away. A tick of his chin toward the fountain. “The Summer Court?” he hazards. “A gate.”

The ghost’s expression shifts, something like relief crossing her translucent features. “Not Summer. Never Summer. They’re too…” She makes a frustrated gesture with her free hand. “Too much. All passion and no precision. This required delicacy. Mathematics. The thin spot was already here, you understand. Natural. I simply… cultivated it.“

She moves closer to Ambrose, her boots making no sound on the frost-covered ground. As she passes near one of the silver-blue roses, it turns to follow her like a flower tracking the sun. “Eloise Ashford. I designed this park. 1919 to 1924. Five years to create something that would last forever.” Her voice holds pride, but also growing panic. “It was supposed to be stable. Self-sustaining. A garden that exists in both worlds simultaneously, anchored by the fountain.“

The park flickers again, more severely this time. For a heartbeat, Ambrose can see the pathways covered in summer grass, then winter snow, then something that might be neither or both. Eloise clutches at her chest again, and this time her form becomes almost transparent.

“Something’s disrupting the anchor. The fountain. I can feel it like… like someone’s driving nails through my ribs.” She looks down at her hands, seeming to notice their ghostly nature for the first time. “How long has it been? I was just here. I was completing the ritual. The coldest night. January…” She trails off, realization dawning. “What year is it?“

The crack in the fountain’s basin spreads, a thin line of darkness that seems to go deeper than stone should allow.

One of Ambrose’s own hands gently lifts, limp-wristed, toward Eloise, and his wrist turns. It’s not like a handshake, nor like he’s reaching out to touch her; it’s more like he turned an invisible dial down in midair, as he telempathically wills a steadiness into the spectre herself, if not the fountain’s crack. That’s beyond him. The words come like they often do from him: in a steady sotto, matter-of-fact, spoken evenly if they are dire.

“It has been one hundred and two years since you finished designing the park; it is January 2026.” Breezed right through, the shock hopefully dampened by both his psionics and his manner of speech. “Whatever accounting you need to do for the anchoring, you need to factor in another centennial.” The other hand lifts, fingers crooked precisely toward the fountain — and toward that growing crack. “I am no stranger to rituals, but my connection is… dampened. I can help you, though. I can echo.”

Eloise’s form stabilizes under the influence of Ambrose’s telepathic touch, her edges sharpening even as her expression goes slack with shock. “A century,” she whispers. “A hundred years of…” She looks around the park with new eyes, seeing it perhaps as it truly is for the first time since her death. “It worked. It actually worked. The garden endured.“

Then her gaze snaps back to the fountain, and the wonder in her face transforms to horror. “A hundred years. The Fae I bargained with. The agreement was for a century of maintenance from their side in exchange for creating a permanent threshold. The term expired.” She moves toward the fountain with sudden urgency, her ghostly form passing through a bench without slowing. “They were supposed to renew or I was supposed to… but I’m…“

She stops at the fountain’s edge, staring down at the crack. Where it splits the stone, Ambrose can see something moving in the darkness beneath. Not water. Something else. The air around the fountain grows colder still, and frost begins to creep up from the crack like grasping fingers.

“The anchor is failing because the Fae stopped maintaining their end. Without that balance, the threshold is collapsing inward. The park will be pulled entirely into their realm, or…” She turns to Ambrose, and her eyes are desperate. “Or it will shatter the thin spot entirely, and everything I wove together will unravel. A century of growth, gone in moments.“

She looks at his outstretched hand toward the fountain. “You said you can echo. Can you… can you sense what’s needed? The mathematics of it?” Her form flickers again, weaker this time. “I can barely hold myself together. The park and I, we’re the same thing now. If it breaks…“

The crack widens another inch. A petal from one of the impossible roses falls and, upon touching the ground, simply ceases to exist.

keeps his hand poised toward the fountain, but as someone keeps speaking, his head sags a little, chin toward chest. It’s a bit profound, given his usual emotionlessness, himself. And given his vampirism, it’s not like he got tired or worn. It’s a telegraphed acceptance. “… you as well as I know that there is little that can be done to undo a bargain with Demons or Fae. The bill always comes due.”

Still sloughing waves of stability and acceptance, Ambrose informs Eloise, “Your agreement was upheld, and the price will be paid, but — as is always the case — the devil is in the details, with the Fae.” The ritual he begins is also one of stability, edging the gardens away from a shattering fate.

“If it is pulled into the Other, the Fae will maintain it evermore — and you can rest,” Ambrose enthuses to someone, the barest tinges of emotion touching his voice. “… and if it is shattered, then you can rest, and the City Between will heal where the garden stood… and your garden will bloom into something new entirely. With a century of story behind it.”

Continuing to weave magicks, slow and precise, whispering between sentences, Ambrose adds on for someone, “You know as well as I that… part of the beauty is in the fact that it is finite. And you had a glorious, gorgeous century however it shakes out.”

Continuing to weave magicks, slow and precise, whispering between sentences, Ambrose adds on for Eloise, “You know as well as I that… part of the beauty is in the fact that it is finite. And you had a glorious, gorgeous century however it shakes out.”

“If it is pulled into the Other, the Fae will maintain it evermore — and you can rest,” Ambrose enthuses to Eloise, the barest tinges of emotion touching his voice. “… and if it is shattered, then you can rest, and the City Between will heal where the garden stood… and your garden will bloom into something new entirely. With a century of story behind it.”

keeps his hand poised toward the fountain, but as Eloise keeps speaking, his head sags a little, chin toward chest. It’s a bit profound, given his usual emotionlessness, himself. And given his vampirism, it’s not like he got tired or worn. It’s a telegraphed acceptance. “… you as well as I know that there is little that can be done to undo a bargain with Demons or Fae. The bill always comes due.”

Eloise goes very still. The park around them seems to hold its breath with her, the flickering pausing mid-shimmer. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, almost fragile. “Finite. Yes. I… I knew that. When I designed it. Everything beautiful is temporary. That’s what makes it worth preserving in the first place.“

She looks down at her translucent hands, turning them over slowly. “I died completing this. I remember now. The cold. My heart stopping. But I was smiling because it was . It was perfect.” Her form wavers, but not from distress this time. Something else. Release, perhaps. “And it lasted a hundred years. How many gardens can claim that?“

The crack in the fountain continues to spread, but Ambrose’s ritual begins to take effect. The wild, chaotic energy bleeding from the threshold starts to smooth, to flow in more controlled patterns. The park’s flickering slows, becoming almost rhythmic. Predictable.

Eloise moves to stand beside Ambrose, watching his work. “You’re not trying to fix it. You’re… guiding it. Letting it choose.” She’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “I spent five years trying to make something eternal. But you’re right. The Fae kept their bargain exactly as written. A century of maintenance. Not forever.“

The roses around them begin to glow softly, and the temperature starts to rise ever so slightly. The park is making its choice. The crack widens further, but instead of darkness, golden light begins to seep through. Summer light. The scent of eternal spring wafts up from the fountain.

“It’s going to them,” Eloise says softly. “The park is choosing the Fae realm.” She looks at Ambrose. “Will people still be able to visit? Or will it be lost entirely?“

“So many of us visit the Other, Fae or not,” Ambrose assures Eloise more sincerely when he turns, more of his regard falling on her. A heavy dose must be granted the fountain to maintain the ritual and provide the blood, but there’s almost a subtle envy from him. “A rest sounds so… tempting, sometimes. Lucky you that your time approaches and you can, if you wish. Relieve you of your watch.” It’s almost a prattle at this point, chased by under-the-breath Latin.

“Even if no one else visits, I will. You will not be forgotten.” Another beat to regard her form. “… were you related to Cornelius Ashford? The inventor? I helped him finish his business, too — with the Wings. Found them a new home.” Back toward the fountain: “… and same for your garden.”

Eloise’s expression transforms, genuine surprise breaking through her fading form. “Cornelius. My brother.” A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “He always said his inventions would outlive him. I suppose we both succeeded in that, didn’t we? Though I imagine his wings found a more… practical application than my impossible garden.“

The golden light from the fountain intensifies, and the park begins its final transformation. The geometry shifts one last time, but smoothly now, guided by Ambrose’s ritual. The pathways curve into patterns that hurt to look at directly, leading to places that exist just slightly sideways from reality. The trees grow taller, their branches heavy with fruit that glows like captured starlight.

Eloise watches it all with an expression of peace. “A century. And now it becomes something new. Something I could never have imagined.” She turns to Ambrose, and her form is growing more transparent by the moment, but her voice is steady. “Thank you. For not trying to trap me here. For not trying to force the park to stay broken between worlds. For understanding that… that endings can be beautiful too.“

The crack in the fountain reaches its widest point, and then, instead of shattering, it blooms. Vines of silver and gold spiral up from the depths, weaving through the stone, transforming it. The water that flows now is not quite water–it’s liquid light, liquid summer, liquid dream.

“Will you tell people?” Eloise asks, her voice barely a whisper now. “That it was loved? That it was tended? That someone cared enough to die for it?“

The roses around them begin to sing, a sound like wind chimes made of glass and starlight.