Rochambeau Garden



Restless Spirit

A form, a shadowy outline of a body, the remnant flutterings of a soul, flows in and out of the twisting trees around you, rises up from the rocky bench between the stairs, hovers, breathing putrefaction. The leavings of youthful attire cling shattered bits of self to the ether that wails and bark-dances in front of you. It scrunches like a caterpillar, various bits of bone arching out of its back in a spiky crest. As it looms up to you, jaw working in a chthonic parody of speech, frustration and rage cloud over its eyes; it starts to thrash. You stand your ground and wait for it to calm down into paroxysms of weeping, sobbing, clutching its torn garments and the fungal turf beneath it. Murmurs of old memories, now twisted into moss-growths on rocks, now cracked in the bark-shell standing triangle to your right, these old thoughts of a spirit-echo drift into your ears, screaming mutely of murder, darkness, acidic decay riding the moonless cloud-paths, starless shadowed spans of night, sucking all substance from brain-pan, heart-hold, life-roost. Suddenly, the same blackness descends onto the memory-reel, snuffs the weeping shade, returns it clutched in darkness to the Tartarean realms below.


The Burial Mound

From the overgrown mound in front of you, a team of diggers from Forensics are extracting the long-dead corpse of what might once have been a man. You pause, recalling the nightmarish vision of a ghost – it certainly was not real – that you had seen on your way in here.

Preliminary reports make note of the peculiar state of the gleaming bones. Some of them are badly scattered, and a few seem oddly dissolved at the ends. Others are strangely yellowed, with vague suggestions of charring. This charring extends to some of the fragments of clothing. The skull is in a very peculiar state - stained yellow, and with a charred aperture in the top as if some powerful acid has eaten through the solid bone. Weirdest of all, from the central cavity of the deteriorating corpse, a long blood-red vine grows, winding its way up the trunk of the nearest tree.