Encounterlogs
Sarahs Odd Encounter Sr Belle
In the dining room of the Lodge, Sarah's peaceful coffee is disrupted by the chilling sight of a young woman's ghost in a straitjacket, a spirit evidently driven by madness. Despite Sarah's attempt to ignore the specter, it possesses a nearby waitress, causing a scene as the waitress convulses and drops a milk tin. Sarah, claiming to be a doctor, attempts to manage the situation, warning onlookers of a seizure and cautioning them to keep their distance. She confronts the spirit, brandishing her scalpel and threatening to call in an exorcist, only to witness the waitress physically vent her ghostly invader in frustration.
The liberated spirit then aggressively pursues Sarah, who tries to evade it within the Lodge before the ghost's attempt at possession rattles her to the core. The spiritual assault is harrowing, seeming to invade Sarah's very essence through her eyes, ears, and mouth. Sarah braces and endeavors to fight against the overwhelming force, clinging to her physical defense mechanisms with the desperation of one under siege. Support is on its way, but the ghost's influence convinces Sarah that she must escape the Lodge, which she increasingly perceives as a trap designed to ensnare her. In a twisted bid for freedom, Sarah flees into the cold night, discarding her lab coat and diving into the dangers of the outside world.
In her frantic flight to evade her supposed captors, Sarah's experience becomes a blur of paranoia and searing panic. Despite running and stumbling through the harsh, snowy streets, she cannot shake the feeling that she is the one insane, trapped in an endless loop of escapism and confinement. Rescue efforts by her allies are interpreted as further attempts at imprisonment, her psyche a tumultuous battleground of reality versus the ghost's manipulative whispers. Eventually, in an intense confrontation, the Hand's ritualist and bodyguard apprehend Sarah, and through a powerful exorcism and physical restraint, they finally manage to free her from the spirit's grasp. Shaken and exhausted, Sarah is helped to her feet, the ghost banished, yet the harrowing ordeal leaves her questioning the boundaries of her own sanity.
(Sarah's odd encounter(SRBelle):SRBelle)
[Sun Nov 19 2023]
In the dining room
This section of the structure has been set with a number of tables for a
more traditional dining experience. Hardwood floors and walls continue into
this section as well and lights hanging from the rafters above keep the area
well lit. Arched windows set with heavy glass show glimpses of Hart Street
in the north.
Foot traffic is common along the outer edges of each arrangement of tables.
Wait staff are commonly seen bustling from the kitchen to the east to either
patrons seated nearby or to the deliver food or drink to the bar or a booth
nearby.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(Your target has been cursed with madness in a public local, it is up to them to manage the affliction as best they can before their allies can arrive to handle the situation, subduing or calming them back down or working some sort of counter magic and at least removing them from the public eye.
)
Sarah sits in the Lodge, drinking coffee. The smell of the forest still tickles her nostrils, along with the coppery scent of blood, but it's a pleasant sensation. The memory of the cool late Fall air leaves her skin still chill, but warm coffee is a savior... until in a sort of double-vision she sees a spirit, floating directly through the wall behind the bartender.
The spirit is a young woman, in her mid-twenties, with dark, disheveled hair. Perhaps troublingly, the spirit-woman is wearing a straitjacket. It's hard to know when a ghost is mad out of some essential character and when it is their undead state, but regardless, the look on this apparition's face is crazed.
Sarah looks up from her coffee, staring at the spirit in question. Her coffee cups shakes ever so slightly in her hand - not so much as to spill the coffee, but a little bit. She manages to control it before long enough, putting it down most serenely. She could be believed to be blind to the spirit, if it wasn't for her long insistence on looking slightly aside from it, at the bar. She finally manages to bring herself to look up at it, then speaking softly, as if reminding herself of something, not wanting to alarm the rest of the lodge, perhaps. "Is there something one wants here, I wonder?" she asks, then looking at the coffeecup again. Breathing deeply.
The spirit wants something, it seems: a body, perhaps. There is a strange, milky shimmer in the air as the spirit passes into the counter waitress just in front of Sarah. The air seems to ripple, and then the straitjacket-wrapped ghost seems to be sucked like smoke into an over hood into the eyes, ears, mouth and nose of the diner waitress.
The waitress is in her late thirties, a little plump, with her hair pulled up into a bun. She's been a relaxed, cheerful presence while Sarah is sitting here, all 'hons' and 'sugars', but as the ghost is sucked into her there is a very visible shudder. It's a whole-body ripple that runs down her figure, followed by a crash as she drops the metal tin of milk she was about to use to make a milkshake.
Around the room, patrons look up with surprise as the sound of the crash echoes through the Lodge.
curses under her breath, then drawing herself up, straightening her lab coat before waving her left hand around. "Everyone," Sarah shouts a little loudly, "I am a doctor. She is having a seizure and may act in unexpected ways. Please keep away from her." she instructs, her right hand moving into her pocket. She finds something there. Her scalpel. She seems to relaxed as her hands grip the familiar object, comforted. She speaks then to the spirit, softly under her breath. "I am not sure what you're attempting here." she murmurs, "But if I have to call in an exorcist, you will be spending the rest of your days staring into the void."
Ah, a hero: the waitress turns to look at Sarah, and there is a little madness in her eyes. She moves towards the doctor, and then there's a look of surprise when the waitress' body bumps against the counter, as if the spirit controlling her forgot that she was insubstantial. A move, again, as if trying a second time to just walk through physical reality, and then some frustrated confusion.
Elsewhere in the Lodge, people are definitely backing up: Sarah's exhortation to the other patrons has them abandoning their plates and drinks to head for the exits. Perhaps in Haven such warnings have an extra-strong incentive for compliance.
Sarah clacks her tongue, taking a few steps backwards. "Sure am happy to be in the Lodge..." she murmurs as she cocks her head, trying to keep plenty of distance between them, should she figure out the magical world of physical reality. "That's a lot of energy you're wasting." she tries to tell the spirit, perhaps in hope that it will give up. She grabs for her phone, which she would use to text an expert, should she have reception. A command to do something about this, before it becomes more of a problem. "You know, there's plenty of awful ways to bind a spirit." she tries to warn the waitress-possessed, "And I heard being forcibly vacated is terribly unpleasant." Heard from who? She averts her eye contact. Brave as she may be speaking, small hints in her body language betray her discomfort.
The text sends: one of the Hand's experts responds with some alacrity, indicating that he is on the way to the Lodge. He's on the other side of town, though, so his ETA is at least fifteen minutes.
The waitress bumps against the counter again: once, twice, three times, and then on the third there is a flash of ethereal light that only Sarah's clairvoyant eyes can see, as the mad spirit bursts from the waitress' body. Behind her, the waitress slumps, some look of horror on her face, while the crazed ghost beelines for the doctor.
Sarah grits her teeth as she reads the text, then pockets it once more. She looks up just in time to watch the spirit coming for her, then freezes. She tries to run - though careful not to leave the lodge, as she searches her messenger briefcase for a syringe - a paralytic to be precise. She's not very fast, unfortunately for her, so she takes every opportunity she can.
Sarah can get her hand on a paralytic without a problem, but now the spirit is heading directly towards her. She has only a moment to react, really: that ghost with her floating dark hair is almost on her. Indeed, as it draws close, it's hard not to stare at the spirit; the strands of her hair move almost on their own volition, like black tentacles or coiling ink dropped in water.
There's a scream from somewhere in the back, as a cook walks in. He, perhaps, is Sensitive, since he takes one look at what is going on and then turns to run.
Sarah reaches a wall, turning around and widening her eyes as she watches the ghost, so close now. She stares, her eyes fixed wide with fear at the spirit, she falls on the floor, syringe falling next to her. No glance afforded to the cook at all.
The ripple of the air is a strange mist: the spirit plunges towards Sarah, and as she does she elongates, stretching out like pulled taffy. As she dives for the doctor, the ghost becomes increasingly insubstantial, dissolving into smoke, and then Sarah can feel the assault of the entity.
Sarah does her best to draw her limbs close to her body, curling up, trying to stop the entity from using her - or hurting her - at all costs. She closes her eyes tightly, aiming, perhaps, to focus on her own muscles. On retaining control over them.
It seems to batter at her psyche, but the immaterial form batters at Sarah's body, too: she can feel pressure at her eyeballs as that spectral smoke tries to force itself in through her eyesockets. Her ears ring, hurting, as it tries to force itself in through her ear canals. Her nostrils flare against themselves as the ghostly vapor jets up her nasal passages like steam and then her lips are being forced apart by the ghost as it violates her mouth and throat.
Sarah winces at that pressure - maybe discomfort, maybe pain. She keeps her eyes closed best she can, trying to cover her own ears with her arms, curled into a ball as she is, Her head pushed down into the floor. Completely obsessed with trying to get that thing away from her insides, stop it from controlling her. Limit the damage it can do. Perhaps hoping either, support arrives or it runs out of energy, before it can do anything problematic to her.
The sense of violation is intense, rising: and then it's gone. Instead, something is inside Sarah. It's not puppeting her, not yet, but it wants to.
You need to get free. Your clothes are prisons. This place is a prison. They are coming for you, you need to escape.
Sarah's phone beeps, a message from the Hand's ritualist: << On the road >> Whether Sarah can read that in her present state is a far more open question.
Sarah rises slowly, her chest heaving with exertion. She knows for sure now. The Lodge isn't protecting her - it's the danger to her. Someone is doing this to her, using the lodge. She is sure of it. Convinced of it. She starts taking her lab coat off as she runs out of the lodge, perhaps hoping to get rid of any transmitter inside of it. As she does so, she runs onto the street and away, as quick as possible, intent on making sure the ritualist cannot find her.
And then she is in the street. The snow out here has been plowed, but it still lies in white piles along Hart Avenue. The feelings persist: Sarah is in a straitjacket, detained, and someone is trying to find her. Someone is trying to bottle her back up again. She's not crazy.
You're not crazy. You aren't. You just need to be free.
Down the street, a dark SUV is turning onto Hart from Prospect. The part of Sarah's mind that remains her own recognizes the plates: it belongs to the Hand, a bodyguard driving her ritualist towards the Lodge.
Sarah makes a mad dash away, towards the forest. She will go to Boston if that's what it takes. She runs and runs, falling painfully several times, over rocks, bumping into people. She is desperate to escape, especially from that SUV. She clacks her tongue at it as she heads off into an alley.
Down the alley, pounding. It feels as if Sarah's arms are constrained, even as without the coat the cold pricks at her skin. Inside, the spirit is wailing, and visions of being strapped down to a gurney fill Sarah's mind, of being wheeled down tiled hallways with flickering fluorescent lights making a chiaroscuro pattern of bright and dark. The prick of needles, over and over again, and faces, blurry, leaning over her.
The SUV pulls up short at the start of the alley. "President!" shouts a man, and then there are booted feet running after Sarah, along with the sound of someone chanting in Vulgate Latin, his incantation interrupted by huffed breaths as he runs.
Sarah doesn't wait a moment for the man. He's coming for her. She's certain of it. She runs through the alley, only seeing that self-same hallway. The forest - ever creepy, the sweet freedom beyond the doors. Her summoned follower a doctor, coming to prick her again. She isn't crazy. He makes her crazy. It's his fault. She's the only sane one. She- "A doctor?" she murmurs to herself. Isn't that familiar? Doesn't she have a medical degree? She shakes it off. Must be the pricks. The needles. They want to take put an icepick to her brain for sure. Steal her frontal lobe so she can truly be crazy as they say. It's all a giant conspiracy. She's sure of it as she falls over a missing brick, painfully splaying out over the ground. She starts crawling back up. Run. Must run.
The bodyguard is the fastest, sprinting after Sarah. When she breaks the back end of the alley to the forest behind the Lodge, he hesitates. "President!" he shouts. "Why are you running?"
Inside Sarah's head, the spirit is urging you to flee, even as your mind fills with the pain of shock after shock of of electric power.
The ritualist catches up: his chant is increasing now on the edge of the woods, as an amulet hung around his neck glows bright red.
"Leave me alone! You won't capture me again!" Sarah screams back, running and running away from that man, then wincing in pain as electricity courses through her mind, she sees red, eyes dripping past her cheeks. "STOP STOP STOP STOP" she pleads in endless shouts. The forest. She has to escape into the forest. It's her only chance now. Or she'll go back there.
The ritualist begins to chant at Sarah
"Exorcizo te, spiritus maligne, "
In nomine virtutis, exi ab hoc loco!
Caeli rore sanctificati,
Te impero, te adiuro, maledicte daemon,
Fugere ante hanc sanctam veritatem.
Virtute divina, te repello,
Per sacramentum crucis, per verba sancta,
Per magnam potentiam exorcistae,
Cede, cede, cede malum!
In nomine luminis, purgare te iubeo!
Aqua benedicta, ignis sanctus,
Terrae sacrae, aeris puri,
Te expellimus, te vincimus,
In nomine altissimi, abole daemon!
Pax et lux hanc domum repleat!
As the ritualist chants, the bodyguard makes an executive decision: he throws himself at Sarah, tackling her with a low thud, slamming his heavy body into hers. It's a tackle to take her down, to bear the doctor into the cold earth just south of the Lodge's back doors.
Sarah finds herself slammed on the floor hard, screaming and kicking and trying to crawl out from under him, towards safety. She is nowhere near as strong as a professional, unfortunately, her chances not very high as she does what she can to resist the violent constraint.
The ritualist's chants increase in volume, and he approaches Sarah, now: bending down, he dips his finger in a small pot, trying to inscribe a cross on Sarah's forehead as the bodyguard holds her struggling form. He breaks his chant only to murmur, "I am sorry, President."
With the ghost possessing you, there's an unnerving sensation of losing control, as if your body and mind are no longer your own. It feels like icy tendrils writhing within your soul, a chilling grip that turns your thoughts and actions alien. As the magic tears it away, each pulse is agonizing, a violent struggle tearing through every fiber of your being. Your heart pounds erratically, echoing the tumultuous battle within. The ripping sensation is both physical and spiritual, as if your very essence is being shredded apart. Amidst this torment, there's a cacophony of the ghost's whispers, screams, and chaotic emotions, blending with your own in a terrifying maelstrom.
The ashen cross on your forehead seems to burn as the ritualist chants, and you can feel the bodyguard as he holds you tight.
Sarah does all she can to escape which - in her current situation, isn't much. She bites at the finger, hoping to tear it off, though probably without much success in the position she's in. She cries and screams as she lays there, feeling herself being torn, both the spirit and herself, conflicting yet belonging together, she doesn't want to let go of who she is. Who is she? The spirit of course. She tries to focus on that spiritual essence, holding onto it tightly, desperately. It's her. The real her. She knows it is. She isn't dead - and she refuses to abandon her true self, the woman in the straightjacket. Not to these filthy doctors - doctors? - that want to take her away again. Never again.
There's a cry from the bodyguard as his finger is bitten; he responds with a rather vicious knee to Sarah's gut.
Then the chanting from the ritualist increases, his whole hand now on Sarah's forehead. It reaches a crescendo, and then...
... wave of relief engulfs you as your true self wins out and the ghost flees into some deeper ether, dissolving with a ripple of air that radiates out in concentric circles like the ripple of a stone thrown in a pond. Relief, yes: but a weary, hard-fought kind. It's like emerging from a long, dark tunnel into the faint light; you're relieved, yet the scars of the ordeal are deeply etched in your psyche. Your body relaxes, no longer a battleground, but the memories of the possession linger like shadows, a constant reminder of the vulnerability and terror you experienced. The sense of freedom is tinged with a wariness, a subtle tremor that maybe, just maybe, not everything is completely gone. You're safe for now, but the cross on your forehead still burns, a haunting reminder of the thin veil between the seen and the unseen.
The ritualist nods. "It is done," he pronounces to the bodyguard, who releases Sarah hesitantly. His voice is exhausted, his life force depleted with magical effort.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the bodyguard says, his voice gruff. As the big man rises, he offers Sarah a hand. "How're you feeling?"
The liberated spirit then aggressively pursues Sarah, who tries to evade it within the Lodge before the ghost's attempt at possession rattles her to the core. The spiritual assault is harrowing, seeming to invade Sarah's very essence through her eyes, ears, and mouth. Sarah braces and endeavors to fight against the overwhelming force, clinging to her physical defense mechanisms with the desperation of one under siege. Support is on its way, but the ghost's influence convinces Sarah that she must escape the Lodge, which she increasingly perceives as a trap designed to ensnare her. In a twisted bid for freedom, Sarah flees into the cold night, discarding her lab coat and diving into the dangers of the outside world.
In her frantic flight to evade her supposed captors, Sarah's experience becomes a blur of paranoia and searing panic. Despite running and stumbling through the harsh, snowy streets, she cannot shake the feeling that she is the one insane, trapped in an endless loop of escapism and confinement. Rescue efforts by her allies are interpreted as further attempts at imprisonment, her psyche a tumultuous battleground of reality versus the ghost's manipulative whispers. Eventually, in an intense confrontation, the Hand's ritualist and bodyguard apprehend Sarah, and through a powerful exorcism and physical restraint, they finally manage to free her from the spirit's grasp. Shaken and exhausted, Sarah is helped to her feet, the ghost banished, yet the harrowing ordeal leaves her questioning the boundaries of her own sanity.
(Sarah's odd encounter(SRBelle):SRBelle)
[Sun Nov 19 2023]
In the dining room
This section of the structure has been set with a number of tables for a
more traditional dining experience. Hardwood floors and walls continue into
this section as well and lights hanging from the rafters above keep the area
well lit. Arched windows set with heavy glass show glimpses of Hart Street
in the north.
Foot traffic is common along the outer edges of each arrangement of tables.
Wait staff are commonly seen bustling from the kitchen to the east to either
patrons seated nearby or to the deliver food or drink to the bar or a booth
nearby.
It is about 50F(10C) degrees.
(Your target has been cursed with madness in a public local, it is up to them to manage the affliction as best they can before their allies can arrive to handle the situation, subduing or calming them back down or working some sort of counter magic and at least removing them from the public eye.
)
Sarah sits in the Lodge, drinking coffee. The smell of the forest still tickles her nostrils, along with the coppery scent of blood, but it's a pleasant sensation. The memory of the cool late Fall air leaves her skin still chill, but warm coffee is a savior... until in a sort of double-vision she sees a spirit, floating directly through the wall behind the bartender.
The spirit is a young woman, in her mid-twenties, with dark, disheveled hair. Perhaps troublingly, the spirit-woman is wearing a straitjacket. It's hard to know when a ghost is mad out of some essential character and when it is their undead state, but regardless, the look on this apparition's face is crazed.
Sarah looks up from her coffee, staring at the spirit in question. Her coffee cups shakes ever so slightly in her hand - not so much as to spill the coffee, but a little bit. She manages to control it before long enough, putting it down most serenely. She could be believed to be blind to the spirit, if it wasn't for her long insistence on looking slightly aside from it, at the bar. She finally manages to bring herself to look up at it, then speaking softly, as if reminding herself of something, not wanting to alarm the rest of the lodge, perhaps. "Is there something one wants here, I wonder?" she asks, then looking at the coffeecup again. Breathing deeply.
The spirit wants something, it seems: a body, perhaps. There is a strange, milky shimmer in the air as the spirit passes into the counter waitress just in front of Sarah. The air seems to ripple, and then the straitjacket-wrapped ghost seems to be sucked like smoke into an over hood into the eyes, ears, mouth and nose of the diner waitress.
The waitress is in her late thirties, a little plump, with her hair pulled up into a bun. She's been a relaxed, cheerful presence while Sarah is sitting here, all 'hons' and 'sugars', but as the ghost is sucked into her there is a very visible shudder. It's a whole-body ripple that runs down her figure, followed by a crash as she drops the metal tin of milk she was about to use to make a milkshake.
Around the room, patrons look up with surprise as the sound of the crash echoes through the Lodge.
curses under her breath, then drawing herself up, straightening her lab coat before waving her left hand around. "Everyone," Sarah shouts a little loudly, "I am a doctor. She is having a seizure and may act in unexpected ways. Please keep away from her." she instructs, her right hand moving into her pocket. She finds something there. Her scalpel. She seems to relaxed as her hands grip the familiar object, comforted. She speaks then to the spirit, softly under her breath. "I am not sure what you're attempting here." she murmurs, "But if I have to call in an exorcist, you will be spending the rest of your days staring into the void."
Ah, a hero: the waitress turns to look at Sarah, and there is a little madness in her eyes. She moves towards the doctor, and then there's a look of surprise when the waitress' body bumps against the counter, as if the spirit controlling her forgot that she was insubstantial. A move, again, as if trying a second time to just walk through physical reality, and then some frustrated confusion.
Elsewhere in the Lodge, people are definitely backing up: Sarah's exhortation to the other patrons has them abandoning their plates and drinks to head for the exits. Perhaps in Haven such warnings have an extra-strong incentive for compliance.
Sarah clacks her tongue, taking a few steps backwards. "Sure am happy to be in the Lodge..." she murmurs as she cocks her head, trying to keep plenty of distance between them, should she figure out the magical world of physical reality. "That's a lot of energy you're wasting." she tries to tell the spirit, perhaps in hope that it will give up. She grabs for her phone, which she would use to text an expert, should she have reception. A command to do something about this, before it becomes more of a problem. "You know, there's plenty of awful ways to bind a spirit." she tries to warn the waitress-possessed, "And I heard being forcibly vacated is terribly unpleasant." Heard from who? She averts her eye contact. Brave as she may be speaking, small hints in her body language betray her discomfort.
The text sends: one of the Hand's experts responds with some alacrity, indicating that he is on the way to the Lodge. He's on the other side of town, though, so his ETA is at least fifteen minutes.
The waitress bumps against the counter again: once, twice, three times, and then on the third there is a flash of ethereal light that only Sarah's clairvoyant eyes can see, as the mad spirit bursts from the waitress' body. Behind her, the waitress slumps, some look of horror on her face, while the crazed ghost beelines for the doctor.
Sarah grits her teeth as she reads the text, then pockets it once more. She looks up just in time to watch the spirit coming for her, then freezes. She tries to run - though careful not to leave the lodge, as she searches her messenger briefcase for a syringe - a paralytic to be precise. She's not very fast, unfortunately for her, so she takes every opportunity she can.
Sarah can get her hand on a paralytic without a problem, but now the spirit is heading directly towards her. She has only a moment to react, really: that ghost with her floating dark hair is almost on her. Indeed, as it draws close, it's hard not to stare at the spirit; the strands of her hair move almost on their own volition, like black tentacles or coiling ink dropped in water.
There's a scream from somewhere in the back, as a cook walks in. He, perhaps, is Sensitive, since he takes one look at what is going on and then turns to run.
Sarah reaches a wall, turning around and widening her eyes as she watches the ghost, so close now. She stares, her eyes fixed wide with fear at the spirit, she falls on the floor, syringe falling next to her. No glance afforded to the cook at all.
The ripple of the air is a strange mist: the spirit plunges towards Sarah, and as she does she elongates, stretching out like pulled taffy. As she dives for the doctor, the ghost becomes increasingly insubstantial, dissolving into smoke, and then Sarah can feel the assault of the entity.
Sarah does her best to draw her limbs close to her body, curling up, trying to stop the entity from using her - or hurting her - at all costs. She closes her eyes tightly, aiming, perhaps, to focus on her own muscles. On retaining control over them.
It seems to batter at her psyche, but the immaterial form batters at Sarah's body, too: she can feel pressure at her eyeballs as that spectral smoke tries to force itself in through her eyesockets. Her ears ring, hurting, as it tries to force itself in through her ear canals. Her nostrils flare against themselves as the ghostly vapor jets up her nasal passages like steam and then her lips are being forced apart by the ghost as it violates her mouth and throat.
Sarah winces at that pressure - maybe discomfort, maybe pain. She keeps her eyes closed best she can, trying to cover her own ears with her arms, curled into a ball as she is, Her head pushed down into the floor. Completely obsessed with trying to get that thing away from her insides, stop it from controlling her. Limit the damage it can do. Perhaps hoping either, support arrives or it runs out of energy, before it can do anything problematic to her.
The sense of violation is intense, rising: and then it's gone. Instead, something is inside Sarah. It's not puppeting her, not yet, but it wants to.
You need to get free. Your clothes are prisons. This place is a prison. They are coming for you, you need to escape.
Sarah's phone beeps, a message from the Hand's ritualist: << On the road >> Whether Sarah can read that in her present state is a far more open question.
Sarah rises slowly, her chest heaving with exertion. She knows for sure now. The Lodge isn't protecting her - it's the danger to her. Someone is doing this to her, using the lodge. She is sure of it. Convinced of it. She starts taking her lab coat off as she runs out of the lodge, perhaps hoping to get rid of any transmitter inside of it. As she does so, she runs onto the street and away, as quick as possible, intent on making sure the ritualist cannot find her.
And then she is in the street. The snow out here has been plowed, but it still lies in white piles along Hart Avenue. The feelings persist: Sarah is in a straitjacket, detained, and someone is trying to find her. Someone is trying to bottle her back up again. She's not crazy.
You're not crazy. You aren't. You just need to be free.
Down the street, a dark SUV is turning onto Hart from Prospect. The part of Sarah's mind that remains her own recognizes the plates: it belongs to the Hand, a bodyguard driving her ritualist towards the Lodge.
Sarah makes a mad dash away, towards the forest. She will go to Boston if that's what it takes. She runs and runs, falling painfully several times, over rocks, bumping into people. She is desperate to escape, especially from that SUV. She clacks her tongue at it as she heads off into an alley.
Down the alley, pounding. It feels as if Sarah's arms are constrained, even as without the coat the cold pricks at her skin. Inside, the spirit is wailing, and visions of being strapped down to a gurney fill Sarah's mind, of being wheeled down tiled hallways with flickering fluorescent lights making a chiaroscuro pattern of bright and dark. The prick of needles, over and over again, and faces, blurry, leaning over her.
The SUV pulls up short at the start of the alley. "President!" shouts a man, and then there are booted feet running after Sarah, along with the sound of someone chanting in Vulgate Latin, his incantation interrupted by huffed breaths as he runs.
Sarah doesn't wait a moment for the man. He's coming for her. She's certain of it. She runs through the alley, only seeing that self-same hallway. The forest - ever creepy, the sweet freedom beyond the doors. Her summoned follower a doctor, coming to prick her again. She isn't crazy. He makes her crazy. It's his fault. She's the only sane one. She- "A doctor?" she murmurs to herself. Isn't that familiar? Doesn't she have a medical degree? She shakes it off. Must be the pricks. The needles. They want to take put an icepick to her brain for sure. Steal her frontal lobe so she can truly be crazy as they say. It's all a giant conspiracy. She's sure of it as she falls over a missing brick, painfully splaying out over the ground. She starts crawling back up. Run. Must run.
The bodyguard is the fastest, sprinting after Sarah. When she breaks the back end of the alley to the forest behind the Lodge, he hesitates. "President!" he shouts. "Why are you running?"
Inside Sarah's head, the spirit is urging you to flee, even as your mind fills with the pain of shock after shock of of electric power.
The ritualist catches up: his chant is increasing now on the edge of the woods, as an amulet hung around his neck glows bright red.
"Leave me alone! You won't capture me again!" Sarah screams back, running and running away from that man, then wincing in pain as electricity courses through her mind, she sees red, eyes dripping past her cheeks. "STOP STOP STOP STOP" she pleads in endless shouts. The forest. She has to escape into the forest. It's her only chance now. Or she'll go back there.
The ritualist begins to chant at Sarah
"Exorcizo te, spiritus maligne, "
In nomine virtutis, exi ab hoc loco!
Caeli rore sanctificati,
Te impero, te adiuro, maledicte daemon,
Fugere ante hanc sanctam veritatem.
Virtute divina, te repello,
Per sacramentum crucis, per verba sancta,
Per magnam potentiam exorcistae,
Cede, cede, cede malum!
In nomine luminis, purgare te iubeo!
Aqua benedicta, ignis sanctus,
Terrae sacrae, aeris puri,
Te expellimus, te vincimus,
In nomine altissimi, abole daemon!
Pax et lux hanc domum repleat!
As the ritualist chants, the bodyguard makes an executive decision: he throws himself at Sarah, tackling her with a low thud, slamming his heavy body into hers. It's a tackle to take her down, to bear the doctor into the cold earth just south of the Lodge's back doors.
Sarah finds herself slammed on the floor hard, screaming and kicking and trying to crawl out from under him, towards safety. She is nowhere near as strong as a professional, unfortunately, her chances not very high as she does what she can to resist the violent constraint.
The ritualist's chants increase in volume, and he approaches Sarah, now: bending down, he dips his finger in a small pot, trying to inscribe a cross on Sarah's forehead as the bodyguard holds her struggling form. He breaks his chant only to murmur, "I am sorry, President."
With the ghost possessing you, there's an unnerving sensation of losing control, as if your body and mind are no longer your own. It feels like icy tendrils writhing within your soul, a chilling grip that turns your thoughts and actions alien. As the magic tears it away, each pulse is agonizing, a violent struggle tearing through every fiber of your being. Your heart pounds erratically, echoing the tumultuous battle within. The ripping sensation is both physical and spiritual, as if your very essence is being shredded apart. Amidst this torment, there's a cacophony of the ghost's whispers, screams, and chaotic emotions, blending with your own in a terrifying maelstrom.
The ashen cross on your forehead seems to burn as the ritualist chants, and you can feel the bodyguard as he holds you tight.
Sarah does all she can to escape which - in her current situation, isn't much. She bites at the finger, hoping to tear it off, though probably without much success in the position she's in. She cries and screams as she lays there, feeling herself being torn, both the spirit and herself, conflicting yet belonging together, she doesn't want to let go of who she is. Who is she? The spirit of course. She tries to focus on that spiritual essence, holding onto it tightly, desperately. It's her. The real her. She knows it is. She isn't dead - and she refuses to abandon her true self, the woman in the straightjacket. Not to these filthy doctors - doctors? - that want to take her away again. Never again.
There's a cry from the bodyguard as his finger is bitten; he responds with a rather vicious knee to Sarah's gut.
Then the chanting from the ritualist increases, his whole hand now on Sarah's forehead. It reaches a crescendo, and then...
... wave of relief engulfs you as your true self wins out and the ghost flees into some deeper ether, dissolving with a ripple of air that radiates out in concentric circles like the ripple of a stone thrown in a pond. Relief, yes: but a weary, hard-fought kind. It's like emerging from a long, dark tunnel into the faint light; you're relieved, yet the scars of the ordeal are deeply etched in your psyche. Your body relaxes, no longer a battleground, but the memories of the possession linger like shadows, a constant reminder of the vulnerability and terror you experienced. The sense of freedom is tinged with a wariness, a subtle tremor that maybe, just maybe, not everything is completely gone. You're safe for now, but the cross on your forehead still burns, a haunting reminder of the thin veil between the seen and the unseen.
The ritualist nods. "It is done," he pronounces to the bodyguard, who releases Sarah hesitantly. His voice is exhausted, his life force depleted with magical effort.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the bodyguard says, his voice gruff. As the big man rises, he offers Sarah a hand. "How're you feeling?"