Showing posts with label Wildwyck County. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wildwyck County. Show all posts

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Gary Con VI Bound

I’m leaving for the still-wintery Midwest on Wednesday, travelling once again to Lake Geneva, WI to attend Gary Con VI. This year’s convention looks to be a good one for both myself and Goodman Games.

I’m bringing three new DCC RPG adventures to playtest: The Forging of the Ghost Ring, The First Phantasmagoria, and The Second Phantasmagoria. In addition to these three titles, I’ll be running Not Another Night on the Town, the follow-up to the “street crawl” adventure I took on tour with me in 2013. Unfortunately for anyone looking to register at the con, all the seats for those games are filled, but if you’re going to be at the Lodge and are looking to experience DCC RPG, Doug Kovacs will be running various pick-up games during the weekend. One way or another, if you want to play DCC RPG, we’ll find a way to make it happen.

On Friday morning, there will be a special seminar in the bar entitled “What’s New with Goodman Games?” This hour-long event features the Goodman Games’ crew unveiling our secret plans for 2014 and 2015, including a first look at forthcoming art and adventures. The event culminates with the announcement of a “hush hush” project that I’m excited to be part of. A Very Special Guest will join us to help make that announcement. I can say no more.

To add to my already busy schedule, I’ll be running two unofficial game sessions over the weekend. Wednesday night is the return of my Completely Unofficial Pre Gary Con Gamma World Game and Sunday night will see Down Where the Dead Men Go, a Call of Cthulhu game set in my Wildwyck County setting featured in Fight On! magazine. If you’re arriving early or staying late at the Lodge, track me down and I’ll squeeze you in if there’s room.

I’m looking forward to seeing a number of old friends and meeting new ones. As always, if you’ve got something you want me to deface with my scrawl, just ask.

I’ll see some of you in three days!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

How Painter, NY Got Its Name

I decided to treat myself this evening and put some design work aside so I could play with my own creations for a change. I’m in the midst of laying the groundwork for a Call of Cthulhu campaign set to start in the late summer/early fall and that means more paranormal fun in Wildwyck County. The first investigation focuses around the small hamlet of Painter, NY. Those of you who have Fight On! #13 will find it in area A3 in the map on the magazine’s back cover.

Half the fun for a Call of Cthulhu Keeper is creating the background and evidence an investigation requires. The following emerged from this enjoyable aspect of writing an adventure, but it’s a little too long to be included in the gazetteer portion of the Wildwyck County series of articles so I’m sharing it here.

Located in the upper northwest part of Wildwyck County is the tiny hamlet of Painter, NY. Situated at the edge of the Catskill Mountains with the towering crags of Windswept Mountain staring down at it, Painter is a quiet and quaint community far off the beaten path. With slightly more than 200 residents in the hamlet’s central community, Painter is only occasionally visited by hunters and outdoorsmen seeking recreation in the wilds of the mountains beyond.

Although the name conjures up images of bohemian artists at work, the town’s name is actually a regional derivation of the word “panther,” and its origin can be traced back to an event which occurred prior to the American Revolution. That tale, recorded by the author Allen Vanderlyn in his book, Curious Tales and Fanciful Legends of Wildwyck County (Royal Oak Press, 1901), appears below:

Simon De Witt had a frightful encounter with the catamounts along the shore of the pond that now bears his name. One of the many brilliant silver oases found throughout our fair county, this pond was conspicuous, in times gone by, for its large trout, and for the numerous deer that took drink from its waters. One day in late summer, De Witt visited the pond in search of deer. He sat beneath a towering tree that stood watch over the pond’s tranquil waters, waiting for his quarry to come. While thus engaged, his attention was drawn to a curious sound above him, and looking up, De Witt glimpsed a large catamount (or as was known in the dialect of the time, a “painter”) perched on a branch directly overhead. The animal stared down at him intently with luminous eyes as if internally discussing the merits of taking De Witt for his supper rather than a succulent doe. Believing there could be no benefit in procrastination, De Witt brought his musket to his shoulder and fired. The next moment he heard the satisfying sound of the great feline hitting the ground at his feet, the turf and fallen leaves now awash in crimson.

The report of his shot startled other feline forms in activity amongst the tree-tops and De Witt feared the wood filled with painters. Fear clutching his chest, the hunter realized his great peril.

Knowing the aversion the cat-tribe bears for water, De Witt waded into the pond up to his waist. As he reloaded his musket, taking great pains to avoid wetting his powder as his endeavored to complete his task with alacrity, De Witt counted no less than five panthers amongst the shoreline trees. This number is uncommon for catamounts, who hunt not like wolves in packs, but as solitary terrors, and the hunter concluded the beasts to be a mother and young; the latter being nearly full-grown yet continuing to follow the older cat on the prowl.

The hunter unleashed a fusillade of shots aimed at his sinuous foes from the pond, bringing down three more of the beasts in swift succession. The other two took to flight and were seen no more. De Witt then waded ashore, skinned the four painters and made his way homeward, sensibly concluding that it was a dangerous locality for the pursuit of a venison supper.

The legend of De Witt’s encounter—spread largely by the hunter himself—became a popular one in the ‘Wyck amongst the homesteaders and eventually grew to be part of the local canon of myths. When the first residents arrived in the area in 1817, they named the nascent settlement after the numerous beasts that legend held ruled the sylvan vale and dubbed the waters that pooled there “De Witt’s Pond” in honor of the legendary hunter.

I’ll leave it up to the reader (and the investigators) to decide whether this story has any truth to it or if it’s just a frontier “tall tale” or perhaps a bit of a red herring devised by a fiendish mind to throw them off the track of what might be really occurring in the shadows of the Catskills. If there is some truth to it, what could it mean? Are there were-panthers prowling the woods of the ‘Wyck? Could there be a temple dedicated to Bast erected by Hyperborean refugees hidden in the mountains? Did De Witt later meet a horrible demise when he wandered into the Dreamlands and found himself in Ulthar? I know, but I’m not telling…

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Rainy Night in the Garret

Here's what I come home to a night. Nothing fancy, but it keeps the rain off my while I write.

Now, with furnishings (and it really is that small)

The Reading & Writing (non-RPG material) Nook

Where I toil away on Stonehell 2 for you fine folks.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

Oh, That’s Right: I Have a Blog

Forgive the dearth of posts here for the last two weeks. As you might imagine, things are very hectic around these parts as I settle into a new life and new job. Despite the distractions, I’m still busy at work on various gaming-related projects and even managed to finish up a short one today. With a few moments to spare before I consider heading off to the Land of Nod (not the blog or fanzine, but the metaphorical place of dreams), I thought I’d bring you all up to speed on things.

I’ve finally managed to unpack and get settled into the new apartment. Unfortunately, without much time between accepting the position and my first day of work, I didn’t have a lot of lead time to find a place to live. The result is that I’m living in a much smaller space than I had hoped. It’s not a studio or what they laughing call an “efficiency apartment” (read: “motel room without the conveniences of an actual motel”), but it is a bit cramped, especially for the archivist and gamer whose library is one of the reasons people usually only help me move once.

The upside is that the place does have its charm. It was originally a large barn built in the 1880s that’s since been renovated and diced up into apartments. I have lots of old exposed wood beams and floors, as well as a pair of stained glass windows that look into the bedroom and what I’m calling the “reading and writing nook.” I can see the Wallkill River and its cataracts from my window and aside from the Mysterious Thing with Heavy Feet that Lives Overhead, my fellow residents are friendly, yet discreet. Being on the second floor, my place also comes delightfully equipped with a Superhero Emergency Escape Hatch, which is a fire exit leading to a shaft containing a ladder running down to the ground floor, located directly off of my bedroom. I’m contemplating starting a life of crime just so I can utilize it when the S.W.A.T. team starts breaking down the front door. When time allows, I’ll post some pictures of my new headquarters and you’re all invited to drop by for a delve into Stonehell the next time you’re in the neighborhood.

Speaking of Stonehell, work continues on the sequel and my determination to finish it and get it out by year’s end remains unabated. My work schedule and the whole process of relocating and unpacking have cut into the time I’d like to be writing the manuscript, but I’ve taken to getting up an hour early to get some design work accomplished before I start my day. I’m currently working on a quadrant on the 7th level called “The Welchers’ Halls” for reasons that will become apparent once you see what lies to the south of this section.

Those of you who contributed to the “Help Mike Relocate to the Wilderness Where He Belongs” Fund will all receive a special mention when the book comes out, as promised. I’m really dumbfounded by the contributions some of you made and am in awe that you were willing to part with your hard-earned cash to help out some guy who writes about monsters, magic, and other dubious pursuits, one many of you have never even met. Those funds were a real life-saver this week when I was hit with some unexpected bills above and beyond the astronomical cost of renting a Penske truck and filling that beast with gas. The alternator went on my car and I got hit with another $100+ bill for another repair. Without that extra money, I’d be scared spitless regarding how I would survive until my first paycheck clears. So although I’ve already thanked you all in email, let me do so again: “Thank you, thank you, thank you very much!”

With such limited space to live in, I had to leave the majority of my gaming collection in storage back on Long Island, but I’m trying to view that as a feature, not a bug. Aside from the B/X books, Stonehell I, and the Labyrinth Lord rulebook, I just have my 1st edition (2nd printing) Call of Cthulhu boxed set and my complete run of Wraith: The Oblivion (which got loaded onto the truck when I wasn’t looking). Call of Cthulhu is really , well “calling” to me right now, and I’m very tempted to make that the next campaign I run once I find my place here and a new gaming group. If I were to do so, I’d take the “Out of the Box” approach, using just the materials provided in the boxed set and pretending nothing else was ever written for the game. That idea really has my head whirling with possibilities.

The other reason that Call of Cthulhu is enticing me is that I’m now living in the real Wildwyck County. The series I’m writing for Fight On! is based on the landscape, history, and my own experiences in Ulster County as an undergraduate. Now that I’m an actual resident of Wildwyck, I’m hoping to tap into the rich history and atmosphere that pervades the country just outside my front door and make that series even better. I’m planning on watching the full moon rise tonight and brainstorm.

I made the initial efforts to locate a gaming group this week, joining a local Meetup group based in the area, but I’m not sure how that’s going to pan out just yet. So again, if you’re one of my readers and want the dubious honor of having me at your table, feel free to contact me at the email listed to the right. Unfortunately, my internet connection is less than efficient, meaning I won’t have the option of participating in FLAILSNAILS games for the foreseeable future, making me even more determined to find a local face-to-face group as understanding and tolerant of my penchant for weirdness as my last one.

Before I go, I want to remind you all once again that even though my postings may be reduced, my participation in the hobby is not. Some of you lucky bastards have already gotten their hands on Goodman Games’ new Dungeon Crawl Classics RPG and you’ll notice my name in that book’s credits. I did some of the spells for it and there’s one I’m most proud off. A No-Prize goes to the first one to guess which spell that is. Goblinoid Games will be releasing another game I designed using the Action Table System to Labyrinth Lord Society members in the near future and I hope you card-carrying members download it, give it a whirl, and let me know what you think. I charted a course into Bat Country when writing it and I hope that comes through in the final product.

In still other design news, I’m one of the contributing authors to The Secret Fire’s next supplement, Fragment I: The Way of Tree, Shadow & Flame. One of my co-designers on that book is an up-and-coming young lad who I think has a lot of potential, and I’m sure you’ll be hearing the name” Eddie Greenwood” again in the future.

Lastly, a reminder that I’ll be down in Texas for NTRPGCon to run a few DCC games (“Emirikol Must Die!,” a convention variant of my forthcoming Emirikol Was Framed! adventure from Goodman Games, as well as a converted (and possibly perverted) version of my first OSR release, “The Fane of St. Toad.” One of those sessions may have a secret special guest, but I’m not telling who or when. There’s also talk of Tim Kask and I doing a workshop on “Gonzo Gaming” with other guests, but that’s still being hashed out as far as I know. After getting to know and play with Tim at Gary Con, doing a seminar with him would be a great pleasure. One that would only be eclipsed if Dan Proctor and I win this year’s Three Castles Award for Realms of Crawling Chaos.

Oh, one more thing: this year’s Goodman Games’ Free RPG Day release features two adventures and another special treat. Those adventures were written by the most excellent Harley Stroh and I. My home group had a blast playtesting my contribution, even if things didn’t turn out so well for one of the PCs.

OK, I’m done. Off to howl at the moon a bit before bed. Thank you all again for the well-wishes, support (both verbal, financial, and professional), and camaraderie you’ve provided me since I first dipped my toe into both the OSR and the industry. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Monday, April 9, 2012

It Arrived By Mi-Go This Afternoon


Man, I have been waiting for this one! My interests have fallen largely away from sword-and-sorcery (exposure overload) in the past year and the Victorian Era is a favorite of me (sans Steampunk thank you very much). I may have to get a CoC Gaslight game going set in Wildwyck County once I take care of some big changes in my life. Now if only that Colonial Cthulhu source book that I've been hearing about for the last three years gets published, my archivist's heart could rest easy.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Wildwyck County: Case of the Wretched Writer, Part II

And now, the finale... 

 Three weeks passed and the investigators gleaned a few more nuggets of information during the hiatus. Luis completed his reading of the partial copy of Cultes des Goules. It provided him with a greater and more unsettling understanding of the forces that might very well be lurking in the dark corners of the world, as well as containing ancient incantations named “Draught of Dreams,” “Fortify the Mundane Blade,” “Call Forth the Forager of the Dead,” and “Draw the Voorish Sign,” but nothing that gave more insight into what Desmond was up to.

Jonathon and Wolfgang learned some historical facts about Newgrave and the Old Dutch Church. There was a Corbin Vickers, the patriarch of the Vickers whaling family who died very rich in 1710 and that it was he who constructed the mausoleum to house his and his family’s mortal remains. In a small monograph written by Alistair Philips and titled Folklore, Fables, and Frightful Tales of the Hudson Valley was a short account called “The Goblin in the Graveyard.” This three-paragraph tale told of a legend that there were once mysterious hoof-prints found in the snow around Newgrave during several days in December of 1712. A party of men tracked the prints back to the cemetery and staked out its grounds. They glimpsed a terrifying “hobgoblin cavorting amongst the stones” and fired at it with little effect. They eventually cornered it near a large mausoleum and stabbed it with bayonets before setting it alight and scattering its ashes in the Hudson River. After that, no more hoof-prints were seen.

Research about the church determined that it was founded in 1716 and it was the oldest church in Newgrave. However, there were also at least two references to the church standing on its current site prior to that date, making for a discrepancy in the historical record. They also learned that in 1883, the church took out a loan to make renovations on the building. As part of that process, an independent inspector examined the church to determine its structural integrity. During the inspection, a forgotten sub-cellar was found beneath the church. It was deemed not a threat to the church’s structural stability and no other mention of the subterranean space was given in the historic record.

Most disconcerting, however, was the discovery of a recent news article reporting the abduction of a young boy from his home on the night of October 13th. Freddy Cole was taken from his bedroom in an act that mimicked a similar kidnapping on September 28th, a date just prior to the investigators arrival in Newgrave. Something or someone was stealing children in Newgrave and the investigators had an idea of what if not who was responsible. Calls were made, telegrams were sent, and the four found themselves standing on the platform of Newgrave’s train station once again on the morning of October 26th, 1920. All three had acquired firearms in the previous weeks and now sported handguns and a single sawed-off shotgun between them. Venturing out to the parking lot, they found Desmond’s car parked in the lot (albeit covered in more leaves and debris than when they left it). They climbed in and returned to his home.

Gaining entry with their key, they found the place as they left it. The groceries left in the icebox had turned and it took a little time to clean the place out, but in short order they had a base of operations again. A trip down into the basement revealed that the earthen floor was undisturbed and that nothing had burrowed into the home in their absence.

Their plan was to return to Desmond’s apartment to see if he or another had returned to that place and then to scope out the Old Dutch Church, posing as individuals with interest in genealogy and historic architecture. They crossed their fingers that James would not be remembered by Reverend Mortensen as they were unwilling to split their numbers in light of their experiences from the weeks before.

The trip to the apartment showed that eldritch forces had not been idle since they departed Newgrave. Climbing the stairs to Apartment C, they found that the door had been broken open and that there was a definite cloven-hoof shaped mark in the wooden frame. A similar mark was found inside by the now-open floorboard that had covered the cavity in which the partial Cultes des Goules and bloodied knives were once secreted. The blood stains in the bathroom were gone, as if licked clean. Clearly at least one ghoul had discovered Desmond’s secret hideout.

The party stopped to check the apartment’s mailbox on the porch and question the downstairs neighbor, but the mailbox held only a note from Cook’s landlord reminding him that his rent was due and that the downstairs neighbor worked the nightshift at one of Newgrave’s many factories and slept most days. He hadn’t heard or seen anything unusual. The foursome headed for the church, aware that evil was afoot.

They discovered the Old Dutch Church open and heard Reverend Mortensen puttering around in the choir loft sorting hymnals. He came down to greet them and no look of recognition clouded his face when he saw James. It seemed the old minister was a little absent-minded. Sticking to their cover story, they asked the reverend some questions about the church, specifically the fact that there were references to the church prior to its construction. Reverend Mortensen said he was no scholar, but did state that it was common for the early Dutch settlers to meet in the home of a prominent citizen prior to the construction of a central place of worship, so it might have been those meeting that led to the discrepancy in the historic record. The existence of the sub-cellar was not spoken of by either side and the reverend graciously gave the investigators permission to look around the church while he sorted the worn out hymnals in the loft above.

When the clergyman returned to his labors, Luis slipped outside and gave the exterior of the church the once-over. The team wanted to get down into the basement and find the sub-cellar, but weren’t certain how to reach the lower level of the building. As Luis searched the outside, Wolfgang sauntered up to a door beside the altar and slipped into the sacristy when the reverend’s back was turned. In that space, he discovered not only a set of stairs to the basement, but a side door leading outside as well.

After Wolfgang slipped out, Luis returned and his arrival caught Reverend Mortensen’s attention. Looking down from the choir loft, the clergyman noticed that one of the four was missing, but a quick lie about him being in the washroom deflected the reverend’s suspicions. Meanwhile, Wolfgang had descended the stairs to find an unlocked office, a community room, and a robing room in the basement. All seemed ordinary, but there was a locked door at the end of the single hallway. He slipped back up the stairs while the three others left the church to see if they could find another way into the area where Wolfgang had vanished. As they rounded the corner, Wolfgang stepped outside, the door closing and locking behind him!

James once again proved to be more than a match for a lock and the four snuck back into the church and down the steps. Quietly inspecting the rooms below, they found nothing out of sorts and James got them access to the locked room—which was the boiler room. Old boxes of clothes and household goods destined for the church thrift store stood in heaps and a cobweb-covered oil burner kicked on in the gloomy, dusty space. As quietly as they could, the foursome looked about for a door leading to the supposed sub-cellar, but without avail. Hearing the reverend walking overhead, they determined to flee the building before being discovered and to come back later if need be. Luck was with them and they made it back to their car without being discovered.

As it was only early afternoon, the team decided that since they didn’t find the entrance to the sub-cellar, they might as well bite the bullet and go back to the mausoleum. So with much more firepower and light sources than last time, they pulled into the cemetery and made it back to the crypt. Inside, they discovered more cloven-hoof prints and saw that the stone slab to Nathaniel Vickers’ interment niche had been replaced by another stone. Knowing that Corbin Vickers was the family patriarch, they paused to defile his resting place, but found only bones and a collapsed, worm-eaten coffin.

They moved the stone to Nathaniel’s niche and made their way into the tunnels below. Both Jonathon’s and Wolfgang’s girth made their entrance a slow, grunting one, but eventually the four crouched in the low tunnel—Luis in the lead, Jonathon behind him, and Wolfgang and James in the rear ranks. Guided only by the downward slope of the tunnel and their torch beams, the investigators descended.

They came to the first of several side tunnels, each one being a mere 3’ in diameter and sloping upward at a greater angle. Luis shimmied up the first and came up through the bottom of an empty coffin, its contents sucked clean like the tasty nougat of some obscene candy bar. Once he recognized where he was, Luis shuddered and slid back down the shaft. As the team worked their way deeper into the warren, they encountered another side passage that Luis explored and found it terminated in a den filled with old bones that had been cracked and their marrow licked clean. Luis decided that they should stop exploring the side passages and continue straight down the main artery. The rest agreed and they forged ahead.

As they continued an unknown distance further into the earth, a glimpse of dim light was seen ahead, like the glow of many candles. Shutting off their lights, they crept forward to witness a ghastly sight. The tunnel terminated in a large earthen cavern. The walls were decorated with bones set in patterns both mundane and arcane. Candles stood everywhere. Several pillars adorned with bones rose up to support a gallery above their heads and three other tunnels exited the space. Upon the far wall hung a gruesome parody of "The Last Supper" wherein Christ and the Apostles dined on human flesh and drank blood.

But by far worse was that which squatted in the center of the room. A massive, bloated thing rising 15’ in the air with a body like a noisome grub and a human/dog head that was dwarfed by its giant girth occupied the room. Its massive gut roiled as if something within begged release and an obscene slurping sound emerged from its toothless maw. Standing before this beast was a ghoul, one that appeared far more human than the others they had seen. In fact, this ghoul still bore the familiar facial features of Desmond Cook!

Whether it was disgust or pity, the investigators wasted no time in bringing their weapons to bear and firing on both the beast and Desmond. Wolfgang drew his sword-cane and hoisted his girth up one of the pillars, waiting to drop down on Desmond once he rushed them. James fired directly at the beast, but his shot proved to be much less effective than anticipated. Luis and Jonathon also fired, but missed as the Desmond ghoul charged.

The fight that followed was rough. Wolfgang tried to set Desmond alight with a kerosene lamp and failed, while Jonathon and Luis battled their friend with both guns and a shovel. James’ shot caused a ripple to occur in the beast’s massive gut and a moment afterwards a small, child ghoul emerged from a vaginal-like opening that ruptured the creature’s stomach. The child ghoul rose from a pool of foul liquids, took unsteady steps like a newborn colt, and then rushed towards the four investigators looking to eat its first meal.

In the fight, the Desmond ghoul was slain, but the child ghoul worried Wolfgang’s flesh horribly and the giant German nearly died. James continued to pour bullets into the beast, aiming at the birth canal that now stood open in its belly. The child ghoul continued to fight Luis, and another ghoul appeared on the gallery above, staring down at the fight hungrily. Jonathon gripped the injured Wolfgang and made for the exit, but encountered a pair of ghouls coming down the tunnel. He readied his weapon and prepared to die fighting.

As all looked grim for the four, Luis’ next blow killed the child ghoul at the same time James’ final round slammed into the beast. With a horrendous shriek, the great, maggot-like thing died and the remaining ghouls began to wail and meep piteously. Their birth father slain, they vanished up the tunnels as the beast began its death throes. Flailing about as death claimed it, the beast slammed into the cavern walls and a shower of dirt and bones began to fall. The four investigators wasted no time in heading back up the tunnel and they climbed out just as a gout of dirt, stench, and debris blew out of the mausoleum and a large section of the Old Dutch Cemetery collapsed into the ground to leave a massive sink hole littered with ancient bones and decayed coffins. They limped back to their car and drove away from the scene before they could be stopped by authorities.

The four had learned the fate of Desmond Cook, if not necessarily all that led to his final state or what gave birth to the creatures beneath the earth. Their sanity shaken, but intact, and with wounds of their own to attend to, the foursome left Newgrave, NY with one less source of evil lurking in its shadows. It was a victory for the forces of light in that embattled place known as Wildwyck County.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Wildwyck County: The Case of the Wretched Writer, Part I

The following adventure was a play test for an investigation intended to introduce new players to the wonders and horrors of the Wildwyck County setting now being detailed in Fight On! magazine. Look for it in an upcoming issue. And for the record, the Wretched Writer is not me, despite what some might say.

As noted previously, I’m running Call of Cthulhu as the alternate game for my group, allowing me to take a break from straight fantasy and to better develop the setting I’m working on for Fight On! The last two Sundays saw four new investigators tackling a curious case in Wildwyck County, NY. What follows is a précis of that case.

The case began on the last day of September, 1920, when four men of diverse backgrounds were contacted by their mutual friend, Mr. Desmond Cook, a writer and bon vivant. The four men—Jonathon Fairchild, an English professor at Bishopsgate College; Wolfgang Heisenberg, a reconstruction aide (read “physical therapist”); Luis Johnson, a New York City book dealer; and James Stone, an art historian and sometimes fortune hunter—each received a telegram stating that Cook was on the verge of a great discovery, but that his life might be in danger. Having no one else to turn to, the telegram asked them to come to his home in Newgrave, NY, a small, historical city on the bank of the Hudson River. Although all four had previously lost contact with Cook following the deaths of his wife and child from the flu, they were not callous enough to turn their backs on a friend in need and departed for Newgrave the following morning.

The men arrived outside Cook’s rented home and became acquainted. After discovering their common reason for arriving, they knocked upon the door, eliciting no response from within. From the tone of the letter, this gave them concern and they quickly gained entry via a forced rear door and picked front one. Inside, the home showed signs of recent occupation and all evidence pointed to a single, bachelor resident. The fireplace held an inordinate amount of ash and charred wood as if a large blaze had been set in the near past and further examination of the home turned up other baffling and fearsome clues.

A bullet hole marred the wall near the cellar door and a search of the basement showed that a section of the earthen floor had been disturbed. The ground there was soft as if excavated and then filled in, but the group’s search turned up no buried bodies…which had been their initial concern. Ascending the steps, the group noticed an odd foot print on the lowest riser. To all eyes, it appears to be the mark of a cloven-hoofed animal, a large one at that. It was as if Cook had kept a billy goat under the house for unknown purposes.

Tossing the rest of the house uncover a fired revolver lying beneath the sofa and several clues amongst the drawers of Cook’s desk. A short journal indicated that he’d be engaged in certain research and experimentation, and that he was looking for something or someone in Newgrave. A particularly foreboding entry alluded to a “St. Carnivorous”—who or what that could be was open to much speculation. Furthermore, a note from a local book seller informed Mr. Cook that his purchase had arrived, while another letter from his landlady stated that the new locks he had requested had been installed. The apartment address given in that letter did not correspond to the house’s location, revealing that Cook had taken lodgings elsewhere in the city. A final clue was discovered when one of the investigators ran a pencil over the notepad they spotted on the desk. Someone had written a name on the pad and they were able to decipher the words “Na__h___el V_ck__s” impressed on the sheet below.

Climbing into Cook’s automobile (which stood parked at the curb, its keys in his desk) the foursome sped off to Aged Treasures, the book store mentioned in the note. Near the business district, they found the shop, a freestanding building with a green and gold sign declaring its name and purpose. The building’s interior was crammed with secondhand books and creaking shelves. The owner, a man who appeared more butcher than book seller, stood to great them.

Their initial attempts to clandestinely discover the title that Cook bought through the seller, Mr. Antoine Delacour, were unsuccessful as he prided himself on maintaining the anonymity of his clients. But when they produced the telegram Desmond had sent them and demonstrated that they already knew Cook had purchased a book through him, Delacour agreed to reveal the title of the book—provided they kept that fact to themselves. When they agreed, it was revealed that Cook had purchased a partial copy of the Comte d’Erlette’s Cultes Des Goules. Other than the title, Delacour could provide them with no other clue as to what Cook was involved in or where he was.

With nothing else to go on than the apartment address found on the other letter, the four piled back into Desmond’s Ford and headed towards the Dutch Hill section of town. A slight inconvenience occurred when they blew one of the car’s tires, but Luis was able to retain control of the automobile and guide it safely to the curb. A half-hour later, the men were back on the road.

At 16 Moss Stone Lane, they found a large Dutch Colonial home that had been partitioned into seven apartments. Cook’s rental occupied a section of the second floor and was accessed via exterior stairs in back of the building. The investigators climbed the staircase and once again entrance was achieved by picking the lock.

The apartment was small: an open living area, kitchenette, bath, and bedroom completed its layout. The space was almost completely unfurnished. A folding camp table stood in the living room and a cot and blanket was all that occupied the bedroom. A few canned goods lined the single shelf of the kitchenette. It was obvious that Desmond spent little time here.

In one corner of the living room was a spade and pick axe, and there were several dirty footprints on the aging floorboards. A search of the bathroom revealed blood stains around the drains of both sink and bathtub. Most compelling, however, were the three large, hand-drawn maps on the camp table. Each depicted one of the three cemeteries in Newgrave: Newgrave Rural, Our Lady of Souls, and Old Dutch. The maps were all done on butcher’s paper and were written in Cook’s tell-tale handwriting. Each bore short notes such as “No evidence,” “sealed mausoleums,” or “watchman’s route.” On the map of Old Dutch, one mausoleum was circled with an excited scrawl. It was obvious that Desmond was looking for something in one or more of Newgrave’s cemeteries, but what?

Gathering the maps, the four made to depart when James’ ears noticed a distinct difference in some of the floorboards in the room. Further investigations uncovered a cavity beneath one of the loose boards. Secreted inside it were a blood-stained butcher’s knife and cleaver, and a holographic book written in French. Two of the investigators spoke some French, and they were able to identify the book as being the partial copy of Cultes des Goules!

Although this was a major breakthrough for the investigators, they swiftly discovered that the cramped handwriting and archaic French proved to be more than a match for their translation skills. One of the four remembered that Newgrave was home to Vander Veer University, a well-respect institution of higher learning that boasted many fine academics in the “hard science” fields. They climbed back into the Ford and headed off to the university in hopes of finding a French professor or at least an English-French dictionary in the university library.

They had mixed results at the university. Asking around the Modern Languages department revealed that the university’s French professor, Pierre Britton, had neither classes or office hours that day and the secretary was loathe to reveal his home address or phone number to anyone not taking his course. The party headed to the library and was nearly stymied once again when they tried to borrow the library’s French dictionary from the Reference department. Only Jonathon Fairchild’s academic credentials at Bishopsgate College allowed them to walk out with book, and even then only after he signed a paper promising to return it in a week (He didn’t and I need to remember to charge him for a replacement copy). The foursome tried to dig up some more historical background regarding Old Dutch Cemetery, but they were informed that Town Hall or the local library might have more information than the university’s stacks.

The party decided that they should split up at this point. Luis would remain at Cook’s home to try and skim the partial Cultes des Goules for more information as to what they were up against. The other three would gather some supplies, visit the local library, and scope out the Old Dutch graveyard, and then return to the house to compare notes. After stopping at a local hardware store for shovels, ropes, electric torches, supplies to board up the doors and windows of Cook’s home, and a half-cord of wood to keep a large fire burning in the hearth, they dropped Luis off at the house, fortified it, and drove off to the library.

Hitting the historical records available at the library uncovered the fact that Old Dutch was the oldest cemetery in Newgrave. As its name suggested, it dated back to the original Dutch settlers. One legend spoke of witches’ sabbats being held in the cemetery during the 17th century and it was noted that the Old Dutch church was not located next to the boneyard, but three blocks over, indicating that the original structure had either been moved or destroyed at sometime in the past. Both the church and cemetery would be their next stop.

Driving past the cemetery, they dropped Wolfgang off to poke around while James and Jonathon visited the Old Dutch Church. Wolfgang discovered that the caretaker lived in a small cottage on the northeast corner of the graveyard and although initially easy-going, he became uncomfortable when asked about the oldest section of the cemetery. He cut the interview short soon after the topic was broached.

Over at the church, James and Jonathon weren’t having much luck. They got past Matilda, the hard-of-hearing cleaning woman, to speak with Reverend Caspar Mortensen, but when James started asking about their friend Desmond who “might be lurking around the church or cemetery, but don’t worry he’s not crazy or dangerous or anything; he just might be trying to dig up the dead for some reason” the poor Reverend gently but forcefully steered them towards the exit.

The trio reconvened and decided that, since dark was now falling, it would be the perfect time to examine the old section of the cemetery, the place where the caretaker didn’t want to go. They parked the car for a speedy getaway and headed towards the farthest portion of the graveyard. There, the lawn was unmowed, the bushes in badly need of pruning, and the stones themselves showed signs of neglect. Reading Desmond’s map by electric torch, they navigated their way to the circled mausoleum and discovered the name “Vickers” inscribed upon its lintel. This must be the place.

Jonathon and Wolfgang approached the crypt while James shone his light upon the façade of the structure. As Jonathon surveyed the door to the mausoleum, Wolfgang peered around its corner. And that when the walls of normality came crumbling down.

As Wolfie turned the corner, his light fell upon a leonine creature with a face that seemed to be a ghastly hybrid of human and Doberman Pincher. The creature crouched in the shadows, spittle and gore dripping from its jaws. As Wolfgang backpedaled away, James’ light revealed another such creature perched atop the mausoleum, staring down at the exposed back of the blissfully unaware Jonathon. James screamed, alerting the English professor and the trio made a mad dash back to the car as the creatures shied away from their torches’ light. As they ran through the old section of the cemetery, their bouncing torch beams fell upon at least two more of the creatures! They reached the car unharmed, threw themselves into it and raced back to Cook’s home.

Once reunited, the four brought themselves up to speed. James was very shaken by his encounter with the monsters and gripped his gun as well as his soup spoon as he nervously ate dinner. Jonathon was unconvinced that what he barely glimpsed in the torch-light was a “monster.” A local freak or “dog boy” from the carnival was a more likely explanation. Wolfgang, with a medical background, disagreed.

Luis, although not present at the cemetery, has his own sense of normalness challenged by the contents of the book he skimmed through. The book alleged that in days long past, witch cults called up the denizens of mouldering cemeteries to cavort with them. These creatures, these ghouls, were the caretakers of much occult lore, for when they ate the flesh of the dead they consumed their memories as well. Having dined on more than one self-proclaimed wizard, the ghouls would share their knowledge with the witches and warlocks in return for gruesome favors. Was this why Desmond was searching for a specific cemetery? To bargain with these “ghouls” for occult knowledge?

The four decided to return to the cemetery fully prepared in daylight to investigate the mausoleum. A nervous night passed without incident and the investigators headed off to the cemetery after consuming what could be their last meal.

Upon arrival, they discovered the caretaker mowing the lawn near the entrance and a generous bribe made him more willing to talk about the old section of the cemetery. He revealed that he too had heard stories of witches gathering there on dark nights in the 17th century and that his predecessor had told him tales of people coming to Old Dutch—foreigners mostly—who came in but were never seen leaving. Lastly, the caretaker admitted to seeing unusual footprints around the oldest part of the cemetery: footprints like a “big ol’ billy goat, like Old Scratch h’self might make!” He claimed that it’d take an explosion or an earthquake to leave his cottage and go into the grounds he was paid to care for after dark. He hinted that he’d pay no mind to the investigators so long as they didn’t drag him into their mess or get him fired. The four thanked him and headed deeper into the cemetery.

Arriving at the mausoleum, they noticed several hoof-mark tracks leading into and out of the crypt’s doorway. James discovered one set that paused within arm’s reach of his own from the previous night and shuddered at the thought of one of the ghouls standing right behind him. Entering the crypt, they found it to hold an empty bier and several interment niches with stone slabs. One was marked “Nathaniel Vickers” and a quick inspection determined that it could be moved. Wasting no time, Jonathon swung his pick axe at the slab and busted it into pieces.

Behind it was a niche large enough to contain a casket, but it was empty. A fetid, moist odor of loam and clay and rot blew out of the space and the four could see a hole at the back of the niche leading down into the earth. The cavity was small, but passable, and after a brief discussion, Luis volunteered to go into the niche and see what lay beyond it. With a rope tied around his waist and torch in hand, he shimmied into the niche and down the hole.

Beneath the mausoleum was a 5’ wide tunnel that led down on a 15° angle. Bits of wood and grey roots protruded from the damp burrow and Luis’ light determined that it ran thirty feet before meeting up with a smaller tunnel and then turning out of sight. The smell of moist death was thick here and Luis spent little time in the shaft. Tugging on the rope, he half-crawled and was half-yanked from the niche. The quartet exited the mausoleum to stand in the open air and sunlight and debated their next step.

They really, really didn’t want to go down into that tunnel and they argued as to whether they owed it to Desmond to do so. Some of the evidence they uncovered was somewhat damning to their old friend (blood stains, hidden knives, ancient tomes, evidence of grave robbing) and their brush with the unnatural was more than enough to dissuade them from getting themselves deeper in the circumstance surrounding Cook’s disappearance. In the end, a compromise was reached: Luis would try to decipher and comprehend the entire contents of the book they had found and see if it contained any more information that might shine more light on what was going on and what they faced. Jonathan and Wolfgang would do more research on Newgrave, the cemetery, and the old church to see if they were overlooking something. James would seek the help of an alienist for the next few weeks to help him deal with what he glimpsed in that night-shrouded cemetery. The four agreed to speak again in three weeks and decide where to go once they had more information. Parking Desmond’s car at the train station, they headed to their separate homes and left Cook to his own devices…for now.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Wildwyck County: Paul Strohd, Alternative Historian

A hint at things to come in the Wildwyck series. Again, this entry is set in the modern era, but its roots go back to the 1920s...and beyond.

Throughout New England and New York there are Neolithic anomalies. The most famous of these is Mystery Hill in Salem, New Hampshire, but numerous, less-famous examples exist. Of these lesser sites, many are slab-roofed chambers of stone, some of enormous size. Mainstream archeologists explain away these constructions as Colonial-era root cellars. More controversial historians speculate that they may have served as Native American tombs. Outright crackpots call them evidence of a widespread but undocumented Irish (or Norse, Atlantean, etc.) presence in the area. There is, however, another very unusual theory.

Paul Strohd lives just outside the village limits of Rotskill, New York. A thin, severe-looking man in his mid-fifties, Strohd hardly fits the image of the crazed crank arguing his favorite theory. He is always immaculately dressed and carries himself with an almost old-fashioned grace. He conducts himself in a precise and orderly manner, never succumbing to haste when working at a task. It is for this reason that so many people have difficulty reconciling the man with his work.

Strohd maintains that these Neolithic anomalies are evidence of an undocumented culture in New York and New England, but one that even the alternative history theorists are loathe to embrace. It is Strohd’s belief that these chambers were constructed by beings from another dimension, one that shares permanent yet uncommon connections with Earth. He has written three books on this subject, Uncanny Colonists, Walking Through Walls: A Guide to the Thought Temples of New York State (both self-published), and Ancient Anomalies Explained (Shadows Gather Books, 2004).

Strohd’s theory is that, prior to the arrival of Native Americans to the region, there were several seed colonies settled by extra-dimensional visitors scattered about the Northeast. These beings, dubbed “Exonauts,” arrived on Earth as refugees of a horrendous upheaval in their home dimension. It was their hope to establish dimensional beachheads in this world that would allow others of their species to escape the chaos raging in their native world. Unfortunately, the Exonauts were unable to achieve their plan and either died out or where absorbed by the native tribes when they arrived in the region. Their stone chambers and other anomalies remained untouched as they were considered cursed by the indigenous peoples.

Despite how ludicrous Strohd’s theory sounds, there are some campfire tales that seem to confirm that these sites are home to unexplained phenomenon. White-robed figures, hooded Viking-like entities, cloaked dwarves, and even Sasquatch-esque creatures have been glimpsed in and around these stone chambers. Whether these are the spirits of the long-gone Exonauts, glimpses of their home dimension, or some other phenomenon is, of course, unknown.

Strohd engages in regular speaking tours and is quite popular amongst the New Age crowd. His speaking fees allow him to continue his research and writing while maintaining a frugal lifestyle. This coming summer, he plans to take a three-week foray into the Adirondacks in search of more Exonauts sites and is currently looking for research assistants willing to work for room and board (or in this case, a tent and MREs).

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Wildwyck County: The Black Magic Club

A little ahead of the era in which the Wildwyck County material appearing in the pages of Fight On! magazine is set, but Black Magic Club has its roots in the 1920s and its original incarnation will appear in the period Wildwyck County supplements.

Once a month, in the old wing of Rotskills’s Brodhead Library, a cabal of men and women gather after night fall. Herbal potions are brewed, elixirs sipped, and ceremonial foodstuffs consumed. When the preliminaries are completed, one of their members begins to speak, weaving a captivating spell.

This is no occult coven, however. It is a meeting of the finest storytellers in Wildwyck County. For nine decades, this group has met in the Freedman Reading Room on the night of the full moon to tell tall tales, trade old legends, and recount historical anecdotes regarding the town of Rotskill. Limited to a membership of thirteen, the Black Magic Club began at the onset of Prohibition. With liquor outlawed and the taverns forcibly shut, some young men formed private and semi-private social clubs to hide their alcohol consumption. The Black Magic Club was one such organization and the only one to remain after the repeal of the Eighteenth Amendment in 1933.

The club got its name from the quick retort one member uttered not long after the club’s formation. When pressed by his wife as to what he was doing out at such an hour, Caleb Brown, a founding member of the social club, sarcastically replied, “Black magic.” When he regaled his fellow members with the anecdote, the name stuck.

Although the club’s membership is limited, the group does host occasional seminars and open houses to raise awareness of the importance of preserving oral history and folklore. It is safe to say that, amongst its members, there is no greater repository of local legend and history in town. This doesn't mean that they are completely free with all their tales: some things are better forgotten—or at least restricted to a close circle of people best suited as custodians of such knowledge.

The Black Magic Club’s current membership is comprised of Michael Harris, librarian and town historian; Selma Andersen, president of the local chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution; Bill Miller, a retired chemistry teacher; Thomas Cook, lawyer; Albie Soape, bar owner; Jessica Allgoode, self-proclaimed “woman of leisure”; Freddie McDougal, auto mechanic; Cal Harris (no relation to Michael), theatre owner; Sebastian Smyth M.D., endocrinologist; Robert Ericson, author; Ellen Guinness, retired seamstress; Jake Forlin, college student; and Gordon Swims, former editor of the Rotskill Crier. It is likely that one or two openings in club membership will be forthcoming. Ellen Guinness has stage II liver cancer and Jake Forlin has one year remaining at the university. Forlin’s membership in the Club is a most unusual one. Previous members have all been long-time residents of Rotskill and most have been in their late thirties. The Club, as is its right, won’t comment on why Forlin was granted entrance into their esteem body.

The Black Magic Club has self-published several anthologies of popular local legends and stories. Copies of these books are available in the Brodhead Library’s collection and offered for sale at Brick Alley Books on Main Street.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Wildwyck County: The Case of the Haunted House: Part IV

Back at the farm, they took precautions against possible possession. Weapons were unloaded and locked away, and the three kept close watch on one another for uncharacteristic behavior. Charlie’s wounds, incurred when dragged through the glass, were dressed and Chuck began to read the three small books liberated from the closet.

One proved to be an out-of-print book dating from the late 1800s. It was a commercially-released treatise of demonology, available through special dealers and more liberal-minded book stores. Although the information within was unsettling, it was nothing that had not been covered in other texts before. One section of the book was dog-eared, however, and the phrase “Knights of the Silver Twilight” was underlined several times. The investigators tucked this tidbit away to follow up on at another date.

The other two books were personal journals, scrawled in the spiderlike hand of Walter Corbitt, himself. Deciphering the scribbles would take some doing, and Chuck proceeded to brew a pot of coffee before delving into the arcane memoirs.

Reading the journals took two days, but the information within opened Chuck’s mind up to frightening new vistas of reality. In addition to several unsettling implications about the nature of the cosmos, the books also explained the process required to “Summon the Shimmering Walker.” It would take some weeks to master that process, so the journals were put aside for safe keeping. The investigators had learned their lesson about revealing ownership of strange books to outsiders.

Speaking of which, during the period while Chuck decrypted the journals, Joseph and Charlie attempted to track down the whereabouts of Father Sullivan. Father Andrew revealed that he was quite concerned about the missing priest as he had himself learned from the church records that Father Sully was an only child. Although finding his excuse for his sudden disappearance false, Father Andrew was loath to allow the two investigators into the absent priest’s quarters. He was hoping that this disappearance was due to poor decision making rather than a criminal act. Having experience with Irish priests in the past, Father Andrew was fervently hoping Father Sullivan would return soon, bleary eyed and shameful, but in sound health.

With no new information learned and the journals completed, the three decided that they could hide from their inevitable task no longer and drove back to Ashton to confront the house and the forces that inhabited it once and for all. Arriving on site, they discovered the upstairs windows still smashed, but the doors closed and unlocked. Suspecting either the wind or a concerned neighbor to be responsible for the shut doors, they ventured into the house one last time, tense and alert.

They made their way to the cellar door without delay, throwing upon its locks and descending down the creaking, rotting stairs. At the bottom, they discovered a small cellar with oiled dirt floor, several cluttered workbenches, an old barrel, and a side room that once held coal and firewood. Three of the walls were brick; the fourth was closely fitted wooden boards. This irregularity led them to believe that the wooden boards concealed another chamber and Charlie and Joseph took to demolishing the timber with their pry bars. They opened a gap large enough to look through and shone their electric torch into the small space beyond. A fetid stench filled their nose and the chittering of rats—dozen and dozens of rats—arose from the junk-filled cavity beyond.

As they peered inside, Chuck gave out a scream behind them! Turning, they saw a bloody wound across Chuck’s back and a rusty knife floating in mid-air before him! The knife slashed again, barely missing him. Joseph leveled his shotgun at the knife and let loose a blast, hoping to strike the invisible force wielding the weapon, but to no avail.

The three battled the knife, grasping a wooden barrel lid and using it as a shield. Despite their best efforts, both Charlie and Chuck were gashed by the blade, Chuck bad enough to lose consciousness as blood ran from his myriad wounds. As Chuck tumbled to the earthen floor, so did the knife, inert once again. Joseph applied first aid to Chuck, while Charlie heaved the bloodied dagger into the open barrel and then nailed the wooden lid in place to seal up the peculiar poignard.

Despite Joseph’s best efforts, Chuck remained unconscious and the two alert investigators debated a full retreat. Thinking back upon the battle, however, the both realized that the blade stuck slower and slower as the fight dragged on, as if the eldritch forces behind the attack were growing weary. Rather than risk giving those unknown powers the chance to recuperate, they decided to press on and see what lay beyond the timber barrier.

The rats had fled during the fight, so it was without incident that the two cleared an entrance into the space beyond. There they discovered another wooden wall, this one bearing the phase “Chapel of Contemplation” carved into the aged boards. Some more hard labor later, an entrance had been made into the chamber beyond that final wall.

The space beyond was obviously the remainder of the cellar. The floor was earthen and the walls were brick. It held little, but what it did contain gave the two pause. A crude pallet lay in the center of the room. Atop it was the thin, almost feral-looking, form of a naked dead man. A small table holding papers stood in the far corner and cobwebs hung like streamer from the ceiling above. The investigators moved towards the table, thinking that the paper would shed light on this final conundrum.

As they approached, the dead man rose to his feet. A stench like rotting corn wafted from his wizened form and white, burning eyes glimpsed the two. Charlie raised his revolver and blasted away at the walking dead man. His first shot struck the corpse in the skull, blowing away a part of its skull but to no effect. His second shot took the body high in the chest, blowing another hole in the corpse and causing a spray of stinking, black blood to erupt from its back, painting the walls with gore.

The corpse closed on Charlie, swinging ghastly claws at the terrified shamus, but missed their target as he scrambled away. Joseph swung his shotgun like a club, striking the corpse to little discernable result other than to gain the attention of Corbitt’s corpse. As the undead sorcerer moved in for the kill, Charlie fired his last shot at the body, blowing away the rest of the dead man’s skull. A cry erupted from the corpse, the chittering of rats sounded in the walls, and the body collapsed to the floor. Moments later, the body crumbled to dust, revealing a black stone amulet and chain where the corpse had lain.

The two attempted to collect the papers from the table, but time had nearly destroyed them and they too turned to dust when touched. Gathering a Mason jar from the one of the worktables near the stairs, Joseph looped the chain of the amulet onto his pry bar and deposited the necklace inside the glass container, securing the lid once inside. The two gathered up the unconscious Chuck and departed the site with great alacrity.

The trio was successful in uncovering the forces responsible for the Willow St. house’s uncanny events and despite the wounds suffered, emerged victorious. Fletcher Dobbs paid them the promised $100 bonus, a sum that came in handily as both Charlie and Chuck were admitted into the care of the good doctors at Ashton Hospital with knife wounds allegedly incurred during a mugging attempt. They are currently resting and recuperating, leaving Joseph in possession with both Corbitt’s journals and the mysterious amulet at his farmstead.

Wildwyck County: The Case of the Haunted House: Part III

Despite this turn of events, the trio decided to venture into the house on Willow Street. Parking outside, they approached the home, its curtains drawn as if to protect its gruesome secrets. With the key Mr. Dobbs had given them, they entered to see a gloomy hallway stretching from the front door to the rear of the house. A pair of French doors stood on their right, open to reveal the living room beyond. A trio of doors stood along the left wall of the hallway, the portals shut tight to protect their contents. The air was stale and dusty, with a faint hint of rotting food beneath it.

The investigators began with the living room, discovering it to be filled with numerous crucifixes and Catholic icons—even more so than could be expected in the home of devout Italian immigrants. Seemingly out of place amongst the religious paraphernalia was an outré painting that hung on the far wall. The piece was an odd mixture of style. It depicted the unmistakable Catskill Mountains to the northwest, their profiles easily identifiable to residents of the area. However, beyond those picturesque peaks was an abstract image that gave the impression of being a city of glittering gossamer drifting amongst the mist-shrouded mountains. Checking the painting closely, the signature “Nelson Blakely” was discovered. Who was this gifted painter and why was his work both evocative and slightly unsettling?

Connected to the living room was a modest dining room, its mahogany table set for dinner for three. A soup tureen sat on its dusty surface and another door beyond led out of the room, presumably to the kitchen. The scent of rot was stronger here and the investigators chose to move deeper into the house, discovering the kitchen and signs that rats had been at the pantry.

Exiting the kitchen, they entered the main hall to find themselves at the far end of the house. A set of stairs led to the second floor, while another closed door stood across from them. This door was sealed tightly—someone had installed a lock and no less than three deadbolts on the door. Besides the stairs was another door that led into the house’s mudroom. Old coats, buckets of coal, and a door leading outside were within this room, and the investigators noted that the exterior door also bore three deadbolts and two locks. Some resident of the house was concerned about his or her safety to paranoid levels.

The two well-secured doors made the three realize they had never inspected the inside of the front door, and they returned to the front of the house to do so, finding four deadbolts—rather new ones—to have been installed there as well. As they were yet unwilling to ascend the stairs, the three started with the first closed door off of the main hall.

The room beyond was stacked with junk: old water tanks, broken bicycles, rusting pipes, and other bits of trash that had accumulated in the house since its construction. Against one wall was a set of cabinets, sealed tightly by 2x4s nailed across its doors. The investigators attacked the lumber with their pry bars, suspecting that something of value or interest lay concealed within.

As they did so, a loud, booming, pounding was heard from upstairs as if an angry fist was pummeling the floorboards above. Charlie cried out nervously, “We’re getting into your cabinets and there’s nothing you can do about it!” The thumping repeated itself.

Chuck continued to attack the cabinets while Charlie and Joseph watched. With the screech of rusted nails coming loose, the last piece of wood was pulled free and the cabinets opened. Inside were three small books, dusty and dropped askew on the bare shelves within. These tomes were gathered with some caution and the sounds above ceased.

Charlie inched down the hallway, drawing his .38 revolver and taking up position at the bottom of the stairs. Joseph and Chuck proceeded to check the next room, only to find more junk: smashed furniture, broken boards, and other detritus bound for the fireplace. Chuck grabbed a long board, hefting it in his hands.

As the three reached the bottom of the stairs, the sound of scratching, long nails dragged across a hard surface began from the floor above, causing Charlie to rush from the house in a panic. The remaining two stared up the flight of stairs before grimly making their ascent. Charlie hovered by the front door, watching his friends vanish from sight. At the top of the stairs, Chuck and Joseph discovered another long hallway running the length of the house. Four doors stood along the left side of the hall; the right side was pierced with three curtained windows that let only a trace of sunlight into the house. Advancing to the second door from the stairs, the one from which the scratching seemed to be coming from, they tentatively grasped the handle.

The sounds stopped.

Pausing to steel their nerves, they opened the door to find a Spartan room beyond. A large bed, lacking a mattress stood against one wall. A chest of drawers occupied a corner next to a closed window. From the ceiling dangled a single bare bulb, swaying gently at the end of its cord.

As they stood in the doorway, the sound of tapping was heard. It seemed to come from across the room, near the shut window. Chuck threw the light switch, but the house was without power. Joseph stepped into the room cautiously and approached the window while Chuck covered him. Reaching the window, Joseph gazed out the pane, looking for the source of the tapping.

The bed frame lurched across the room, carving long scratches in the dry floorboards as it sped towards Joseph like a locomotive. The surprised Pole threw himself out of its path, missing being hurled through the window to the grounds below by inches! The iron frame crashed into the plaster wall, creating a spider web of cracks throughout the plaster around the window. As Joseph climbed to his feet, blood began to flow in rivulets from the shattered plaster. The two rushed down the stairs, nearly crashing into Charlie who had crept back into the house after the sounds ceased. The three poured out the mudroom door and ran down the alleyway to take cover behind their parked vehicles.

After a long pause and several nervously smoked cigarettes, the trio resolved themselves to re-entering the house and searching the remaining upstairs rooms. They returned to the upstairs before fear could overwhelm them again.

In the second floor hallway, they began to open the curtains to allow more light in and it was then that they noticed that someone had nailed the windows shut. As they had to put the “haunted room” behind them in order to explore the rest of the second floor, there was concern about possible routes of escape. Charlie produced his pry bar and began to break each window, clearing the glass from the frame as Joseph and Chuck started with the far room.

That room turned out to be the master bedroom: a queen-sized bed, more religious statuary, a bible, and dressing table lay within. As the approached a bookshelf on one wall, the two noticed that the sound of breaking glass had stopped. Chuck turned in time to see Charlie put down his pry bar on the window sill, reach down and grip a handful of jagged glass. Slowly, as if sleepwalking, Charlie opened his mouth and started to raise the razor-sharp shards to his face, intending to eat the broken glass. Chuck launched himself across the hall, tackling Charlie to the ground before he could dine on his possibly fatal meal. Joseph came out of the bedroom at his heels just as the door to the haunted room began to rattle in its jam, shaking as if in the grip of hurricane winds. The two gripped the dazed private eye between them and dragged him towards the stairs. As they passed the thundering door, they glimpsed blood oozing from beneath it to pool in the hallway. That was enough for the intrepid investigators and they fled from the house, rousing Charlie from his inattentive state, and then driving out of town to seek sanctuary at Joseph’s farm…

Saturday, March 3, 2012

Wildwyck County: The Case of the Haunted House: Part II

On the morning of Thursday the 7th, the trio once again met at Joe’s Cup & Saucer to plan their day’s excursions. In light of the discovery beneath the ruined chapel, a descent was in order, but more research was warranted before they placed their lives on the line in that crumbling cellar. Charlie, having had dealings with Wesley Carroll at the Sentinel, knew that he was off on Thursdays and that the investigators might have better luck accessing the morgue with him away from the desk. Also, further information regarding the Chapel of Contemplation’s conflict with Ashton’s Finest was needed, which meant a trip down the local constabulary headquarters.

The three men arrived at the Sentinel and found that Carroll was nowhere in sight. In his place was Steven “Sparky” McDowell, the paper’s intern and would-be newshound. Enthusiastic to a fault and somewhat uninformed regarding the paper’s policy on restricted access, Sparky obligingly got the investigators to the dingy back room that contained the paper’s archives. There, the men found further confirmation of the stories that Jim Dooley had spun at his newsstand the previous day as well as another article that never saw print. This one told of a French family, the LeFevres, who occupied the house on Willow Street in 1880 only to move out when the parents died and three of the children became crippled in violent accidents. The house stood vacant from then until 1909.

Leaving the Sentinel’s offices before being discovered, the trio went to Ashton’s central police station to see if they could access the records concerning the 1912 raid. Luckily for them, the desk sergeant on duty was Sergeant Richard “Dickie” Schultz, a cop that Charlie had dealt with in the past, sharing information and sometimes money in exchange for leads in his private cases.

Dickie had been a cop in Ashton for several years, but had no knowledge of the 1912 raid—a fact which allowed the investigators to look at files that seemed to cover a minor event in a closed case. Pursuing the official records brought new light on the Chapel as well as unnerving implications.

In 1912, the police collected several affidavits from Drybog residents implicating the Chapel of Contemplation in a series of missing children cases. A raid was launched on the Chapel, during which three policemen were killed and seventeen cult members died in either gunplay or fire. Fifty-four church members were arrested, including Pastor Michael Thomas, but only eight were ever convicted and sentenced. Pastor Thomas was given 40 years in the Snake Hill Penitentiary on five counts of second-degree murder, but escaped in 1917. His whereabouts are currently unknown.

Although this was all very surprising to the three long-term residents of the Ashton environs, even more disturbing was evidence that there had been a cover-up. The autopsy reports on the slain church members were all cursory, lacking common details usually found in such reports. This indicated that the medical examiner had not actually performed autopsies—he merely filled in the forms and swept the deaths under the rug. Other evidence in the official reports hinted that the entire raid had been silenced by a local official with some influence, explaining why the biggest criminal action in Ashton’s recent history was entirely unknown by its citizens. Who was involved and why they hid the raid was not clear. It might warrant more investigation at a later date.

In a related note, the file contained an aged news clipping going back to the previous century. The brief news item mentioned a similar raid conducted against the Congregational Church of Rotskill, NY in 1731; another lead or a further smokescreen?

Departing the police station with this knowledge, the investigators stopped at a local hardware store to acquire a coil of rope, pry bars, and a trio of electric torches. They piled into their vehicles and returned to the ruined chapel in Drybog. After ascertaining they were unobserved, Chuck and Joseph shimmied down a rope to explore the sodden cellar, leaving Charlie to keep an eye out for anyone seeking to stop them.

The cellar was damp and moldy. Ankle-deep water had seeped into the basement over the last eight years and the hole above let in scant illumination. Throwing their torch beams about, the duo perceived a blocky pair of filing cabinets in one corner and a massive, mold-covered desk in another. Near the writing table were two piles of rotted cloth, protruding from the stagnant water like mildewed islands.

The filing cabinets drew their attention first, and rifling through them uncovered a sheaf of decaying church records. Compiling all the partially-filled drawers into a single one, the two tied a rope to the drawer and Charlie hauled it out of the basement to be examined in detail later.

The desk proved empty, but chained to its surface was a massive folio bound in mildew-stained leather. The rusted restraint was easily broken and the tome carefully removed from the site. The two basement spelunkers then discovered that the piles of cloth contained the sodden bones of humans; perhaps church members who perished in the 1912 raid and whose remains lay undiscovered in the Chapel’s basement until now. Keeping a cautious eye on the bones, Joseph and Chuck scampered out of the basement and the three departed the site to sift through their finds.

Taking the records and book back to Joseph’s farm, the three quickly learned that the church records were precisely that: daily accounts pertaining to the operation of a religious institution. However, nestled amongst the mundane accounts was a small journal. Written partially in a cipher to hide the identities of various cult members, the investigators were nevertheless able to discern the name Corbitt amongst the alias. Specifically it was written that Walter Corbitt was buried in the basement of his home “in accordance with his wishes and with the wishes of that one who waits in the dark.” At last! A break in the case!

Elated to fine a possible cause of the house’s unsettling difficulties, the three turned their attentions to the large, leather-bound tome. Unfortunately for the three, none of whom graduated high school, the archaic Latin that the book was written in proved indecipherable. As it was beyond their own skills to decipher, the investigators decided to bring in an outsider to assist them.

Piling back into their cars, the three drove back to Ashton to pay a visit to St. Michael’s, the most prominent Catholic church in town. There they introduced themselves to Father Theodore Sullivan, a long-time resident and priest. Claiming that they were employed by a collector of rare books, the three told the good Father that they were hired to ascertain the authenticity of this particular book after their employer purchased it in an estate sale. Father Sullivan examined the book carefully before declaring it to be in Medieval Latin and seemed to contain certain instructions. It would take some work, but he could likely make heads or tails of the old book in a few days—at least enough to provide the three with a summary of its contents for their employer. The investigators agreed and left the book in Father Sullivan’s care.

With time to kill while the priest translated the ancient text, Joseph headed down to Ashton’s Templeton Price Memorial Library on Castle Ave. Within its quiet environs, Joseph found Miss Agatha Coleridge, the library’s foremost reference librarian. Producing his journal, Joseph showed Miss Coleridge the symbol he copied from the chapel’s crumbling walls. Together, the two consulted the library’s scant occult collection to no avail. Just as Joseph was about to give up hope, Miss Coleridge declared that she had an associate at one of Newgrave’s larger repositories of knowledge and that she’d be willing to forward the symbol to him and see if his library’s collection could shed more light on its origins. Unfortunately, the process would take a week or so. With no other options, Joseph agreed.

It was Saturday the 9th when the three finally decided to enter the house. Knowing that there were reported phenomenon on the second floor of the house and that Corbitt’s earthly remains were likely interred in the building’s basement, those two locations were deemed the most probable places to focus their investigation. To be safe, the trio staged a watch on the building from the late hours of Friday afternoon into Saturday morning. Working in shift to observe the house, they discovered that no one entered the place, nor were there signs of activity within its old brick walls.

Prior to their entrance, they reassembled at Joe’s Cup & Saucer to compose a missive to their employer, Mr. Dobbs, informing him that they had a break in the case and expected to have an answer soon. They finished breakfast and returned to St. Michael’s to see if Father Sullivan had completed his survey of the archaic text.

Arriving at the church, they were greeted by Father Andrew Dewey, the assistant priest at St. Michael’s. Father Dewey revealed to the three that Father Sullivan has departed the church abruptly the previous day, explaining that he received word that his sister was deathly ill and he was rushing to her bedside. Father Dewey expressed some surprise at this turn of advents, as Father Sully had never mentioned that he had siblings in the years the two had worked together. The investigators inquired about the book they had entrusted with the good Father, but Father Dewey could provide no information other than he knew nothing about such a text and that there was no such tome in Father Sullivan’s quarters in the rectory. Needless to say, this was very distressing to the three and they begged Father Dewey to alert them the instant he learned of Father Sullivan’s current whereabouts…

Wildwyck County: The Case of the Haunted House: Part I

The movement of posts from one blog to another continues. This is a recap of the events of a session of Call of Cthulhu set in Wildwyck County that occurred last summer. The tale plays out over several parts.

I haven’t mentioned it here, but I’ve been given the opportunity to run Call of Cthulhu as the backup game in my local group whenever the current referee needs a break. Our first session was on July 10th and I’ll be running it again on August 14th. This is giving me the opportunity to try out some of the material to be featured in the upcoming Fight On! article as well as scratch my itch for non-fantasy roleplaying—which is very, very nice.

I’m keeping things simple, allowing much of the campaign to develop based on the investigators’ actions and interactions with the surrounding environs. For our first session, we had three PCs and I used the Call of Cthulhu Quick Start to get things rolling. This gave me the chance to finally run “The Haunted House” scenario that had launched a thousand campaigns and appeared in every edition of CoC ever produced. I’ve always wanted to run it, but whenever I had the chance, the players were already familiar with it. At long last, with three neonates to Call of Cthulhu around the table, I finally got my wish.

The players loved it and what was intended to be a one-shot got the official go ahead to be the alternate game. I’m already looking forward to the next session. Since I’m letting the campaign develop organically, there is the need to document the events of the sessions in more detail than I’m used to. Any one of the NPCs, events, or items encountered can have great influence down the line. What follows is the first installment of my recollection of the inaugural session’s events. It quite long, so I’ve split it into several posts. If you are adverse to post game reports, you may want to skip the next few postings here at Secret Antiquities.

Also, be advised that many spoilers for “The Haunted House” scenario (later changed to “The Haunting”) appear below. If you’ve never played through that investigation, you may want to skip these posts as well. For the rest of you, I hope you enjoy this recounting of a most successful gaming session…

The year was 1920. The Great War was over and the Spanish Flu was in its death throes. Faced with so many reminders of their own mortality, it is no wonder that humanity found itself caught up in the Spiritualism movement, convinced that the shroud that separated the living and the dead could be breached by the common man. Séances, salons, and orators expounding on the secrets of the dead drew great numbers, especially in the pastoral town of Ashton, NY.

Moving amongst this local Spiritualist scene were three simple men, different in background and standing, but brought into friendly acquaintance by a shared interest in supernatural matters. Having become familiar through the regular séances held at Madam Grace’s riverside home, Chuck Adams, Joseph Bronowski, and Charlie Kovelček demonstrated that Spiritualism was no elitist pursuit. They were not learned men: Mr. Adams was one of a dying breed, a hunter and trapper who eked out a living in the wooded Catskills much like the settlers of old, relying on his wits and outdoormanship to earn his keep. Mr. Bronowski was also a man of the common clay, a farmer whose small parcel of land outside of Ashton’s limits provided him with his livelihood. Only Mr. Kovelček dwelt full time in town, earning his daily bread as a private detective specializing in photographing citizens engaged in activities they’d prefer to keep out of the public eye.

The events that took place on and around the week of October 5th-12th, 1920 began with a phone call to Charlie Kovelček. The man on the other end was Mr. Fletcher Dobbs, a well-to-do local entrepreneur who owned and leased several properties around Ashton. Mr. Dobbs was a lodge brother to Charlie’s cousin, Adam, and that family member has suggested his shamus cousin after hearing of Mr. Dobbs’ recent troubles. Hesitant to speak in more detail over the phone, Mr. Dobbs arranged a meeting with Charlie the following day at Joe’s Cup & Saucer, a popular diner on Palisade Ave. Mr. Dobbs suggested that if Charlie had any associates knowledgeable about inexplicable events he might wish to bring them along.

At 1 PM the following day, Charlie, Chuck, and Joseph sat at a booth at Joe’s awaiting their would-be employer. Mr. Dobbs arrived precisely on time, sliding through the door at Joe’s like a predatory fish swimming amongst guppies. His suit was pressed, his hair immaculate, and his pencil-moustache as neat as a scalpel incision. He spotted the trio instantly and took a seat in the booth.

His problem was simple in theory: Misfortune had struck a young Eye-talian couple, the Macarios, renting one of his properties on 1735 Willow St. in the questionable neighborhood of Drybog. The husband had gone inexplicitly mad a year ago, leaving the young mother alone at home with two young boys. Then, one month ago and just as abruptly, the mother had tried to stab the children to death. The boys fled the house with minor injuries and the police arrested the woman immediately thereafter. Both she and her husband were now patients at the Frost Hollow Asylum some hours south of town.

Mr. Dobbs admitted that he had heard certain rumors about the property prior to his purchase of it three years ago, but the house’s price was simply too good to pass up. He had done some minor renovations before renting it to the unlucky Macarios two years ago. In the wake of the recent events, Dobbs stated that he had heard the neighbors say that Mrs. Macario wouldn’t go into a certain second floor bedroom and that each family member claimed to have glimpsed an indistinct humanoid form with burning eyes in the home on different occasions.

This left Dobbs in an unfortunate situation. Although dismissive of the tales that the home was haunted, he was nevertheless unwilling to rent the property out again without getting to bottom of things. When he had complained to his lodge brother, he was given Charlie’s number and told that he was reliable, discrete, and had some familiarity with unusual phenomenon. If Mr. Kovelček, Mr. Bronowski, and Mr. Adams were willing to investigate the building and determine what was going on (and, should it prove to be more than simple hallucinations, deal with the problem), they would be paid a princely sum of $20 a day plus a $100 bonus on settling the problem to Mr. Dobbs’ satisfaction. With money like that being offered, the trio could hardly pass on the offer and readily accepted.

As it was mid-afternoon by the time their meeting adjourned, the men decided that a quick trip to the Ashton Hall of Records was all they had time for and piled into Charlie’s Model T. Passing by the New Town Hall, an impressive Greek Revival edifice that was completed, but now the subject of an investigation on official misappropriation of funds, the men pulled up in front of Old Town Hall, a former river captain’s palatial home turned public building. Descending down to the basement, they waved to Cecile, the records clerk, and began requesting public documents pertaining to the property at 1735 Willow.

After four hours of requests and pouring over the public records (and a very kind records clerk keeping the office open after closing), they had discovered scant information regarding the property. It had been constructed in 1835 by a prosperous merchant named Meriwether, but he sold the property soon thereafter to a Mr. Walter Corbitt, esquire after falling ill. Corbitt seemed to have remained in the home until at least 1852 when his neighbors brought a lawsuit against him, seeking to evict him from the neighborhood “in consequence of his surious [sic] habits and unauspicious demeanor.” The trio was unable to learn the outcome of the lawsuit before Cecile insisted the Hall of Records was closed for the evening.

With a little daylight remaining, the investigators decided to drive past the Willow St. location to glimpse the house firsthand. The house stood in Drybog, a section of former swampland drained in the early 1800s to make room for the expanding town. It remained a lower class neighborhood despite attempts to gentrify the area. A pair of recently constructed office buildings flanked the saltbox Dutch Colonial building, making it seem like an old, angry dog lurking between towering oaks. The neighboring buildings were all large homes that had been partitioned into separate small apartments rented by immigrant families or the nearly destitute. The only sign of life was a small newspaper and cigar stand that was in the process of closing.

The three stopped to chat with the proprietor of the newsstand who introduced himself as Jim Dooley, a resident of Drybog for over twenty years. The amicable Mr. Dooley was able to provide more information on the house and its unlucky former residents. In 1909, three people died in the Sheehan family, the residents of the property at that time. In 1914, the Schulyers lived in the home. Tragedy struck when their oldest boy, Bill, went crazy and killed himself with a butcher’s knife. And in ’17 or ’18, a third family had took residency, but moved out almost immediately after. The investigators thanked the loquacious Mr. Dooley before heading to their separate residences with the intent to start the investigation anew on the morrow.

Wednesday saw them back at the Hall of Records, this time searching for more information on Corbitt and the lawsuit. To speed up their efforts, Chuck Adams decided to check the “morgue” at the Ashton Sentinel, the local daily newspaper, to see if he could uncover any additional information regarding the house during the years between 1852 and 1909. Unfortunately for Mr. Adams, the clerk at the Sentinel was Wesley Carroll, a notorious stick-in-the-mud who was unwilling to let anyone down into the paper’s morgue unless they bore a letter of reference from the Mayor or a phone call from the Sentinel’s editor. Even Mr. Adam’s generous offer of $5 to look the other way failed to alter the prissy clerk’s resolve. Chuck departed and rejoined his fellows back at the Hall of Records.

After being informed by Cecile that she would not be remaining open for one second after 5 PM, the three delved back into the public record. The search was long and painstaking, but fruitful. It was discovered that Corbitt won the lawsuit that attempted to drive him out of the area. In addition, they learned that he died in 1866 and that the executor of his will was a Reverend Michael Thomas, pastor of the Chapel of Contemplation & Church of Our Lord Granter of Secrets. Further research determined that the Chapel closed in 1912 after an unspecified police action against the church. As it was getting late (and Cecile was giving them an evil glare), the three decided to drive past the Church before calling it an night. They traveled once again to the Drybog section of town and found the Chapel’s address at 11 West Creek Street.

West Creek Street ran through an even gloomier and more deserted section of the neighborhood than Willow St. Boarded-up windows faced the leave-strewn road and the Chapel turned out to be nothing more than collapsing masonry walls in the middle of an overgrown lot. Parking their cars, the investigators cautiously approached the falling stone walls and spread out. A splash of white deep inside the former church caught their attention and they entered to discover what it was. As they crossed the decrepit floor, a portion of the rotten boards gave way beneath Chuck and nearly dropped him into the damp cellar beneath the former chapel. Only his quick wits and a nearby standing column saved him for a probable broken leg. Looking down into the hole, the investigators sighted ancient furnishings in a basement filled with shallow standing water. It was decided that the cellar could wait for daylight before being explored.

At the far side of the chapel, the splash of white turned out to be a freshly painted symbol. A trio of Y-shaped lines formed a pyramid with an eye painted in its center. And although Joseph knew that both the pyramid and eye were potent occult symbols, this particular arrangement was unknown to him. Charlie snapped a photograph of the symbol while Joseph copied it into a small journal he carried. Scouring the area for more evidence uncovered a single set of footprints leading to and away from the paint, but no other indications of who painted the sigil. The three departed, planning to return when daylight was on their side…

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

A Face in the Shadows: Alistair Philips (Wildwyck County)

As some of you know, I've begun a series of articles for Fight On! magazine detailing a historical horror setting for use with Call of Cthulhu, GORE, or any other percentile-based rule system compatible with those titles. My second article, one detailing half of the towns, hamlets, and cities located in Wildwyck County, has been submitted for the next issue of FO! Of course, sometimes my brain and fingers produce more material than can fit comfortably within that most excellent publication's page count. The following was excised from the first Wildwyck article in Fight On! #13 due to such size restraints. When necessary, material from that series will be featured here for the edification and enjoyment of those interested in the Wildwyck County setting. Up first: Alistair Philips, a helpful NPC.

Wildwyck County is home to many interesting characters, some of whom can assist investigators seeking to uncover the ‘Wyck’s mysteries. Other parties will do their best to thwart such inquires, resorting to cold-blooded murder if necessary. Alistair Philips is one of the more friendly faces PCs embarking on a campaign set in Wildwyck County might encounter. His voluminous correspondence with friends, acquaintances, and the curious could serve as both an introduction to the mild-mannered historian and draw investigators living in other places to the lands along the Hudson River.

Alistair Philips, 47, historian and author
STR: 8                   CON: 12                DEX: 10                 
SIZ: 11                   INT: 15                  POW: 14               
CHA: 14                HP: 10                   Damage bonus: -1D2

Weapons: none carried; all at base percentages

Skills: Anthropology 35%, Archaeology 40%, Driving 42%, Evaluate 35%, Hear 65%, History 76%, Influence 56%, Language (Dutch) 65%, Language (French) 55%, Language (Latin) 70%, Natural Lore 45%, Occult 20%, Research 85%, Wildwyck Lore 21%,

Alistair Philips is the archivist for the Ashton Historical Society, as well as the author of numerous monographs regarding various aspects of Wildwyck County’s history. His position’s stipend and his monograph sales provide Philips with a modest living, allowing him to dedicate himself to incessant research into local history, the arrangement and maintenance of the society’s archival collection, and, his most favorite pastime, correspondence with a large circle of colleagues, acquaintances, pen pals, and folklorists around the world.

Philips stands 5’ 6” and is of slight build. A small pot-belly, the result of a bachelor’s diet and too little exercise, emerges like a hillock from between his customary red suspenders. He prefers linens suits and soft caps when strolling about town. His hair is red and thinning, and a pair of spectacles sits atop his nose, while another pair of reading glasses protrudes from his shirt pocket. Alistair is prone to headaches and must sometimes conduct research or interviews in a dark room with cold compresses held in place by a scarf wrapped around his head.

Anyone seeking information about Wildwyck’s history will eventually be directed to Phillips as the resident expert on the county’s past. Contact can be initiated by visiting the Ashton Historical Society in person (hours of operation: Mondays and Wednesdays through Saturdays, 10 AM to 4 PM; other hours by special appointment), telephone (Philips’ home number is listed), or by mail (either at his home or through the Historical Society). Characters with backgrounds in history, folklore, education, or other related fields who relocate to Wildwyck County will undoubtedly be instructed to make the acquaintance of Philips by others in their specialty; he is quite well known and respected by experts in these disciplines.

Investigators meeting or corresponding with the archivist and author discover he is an affable soul who enjoys discussing the history of his home county to great extent. He willingly puts off other pressing business to indulge in his penchant for pointing out landmarks, recounting legends, and dispensing what would be considered juicy gossip if the subjects of those rumors hadn’t been dead for over a century. Anyone who responds to his impromptu lectures with sincere interest will earn an invitation to dine with Philips at his home on a regular basis. Those who do so gain +1d6% to their Wildwyck Lore scores (see below) after 1d4 months of dining with Philips and examining the old diaries, artifacts, and maps he loves to share with visitors after meals (provided they wash their hands after eating).

While not a devout believer in supernatural phenomenon, Philips has acquired a small bit of occult knowledge and does not discount the odd tale or eyewitness account that he encounters in his research. He won’t volunteer the stories he knows, but if others express interest in hearing such tales, he gladly fulfills their desires. The following are but a sample of the legends and weird stories that Philips can share with investigators pursing such knowledge. Each will be expended on in later articles, and the game master is free to use them as starting points for campaigns set in the ‘Wyck or substitute his own.

  • A surprising number of people have vanished in Wildwyck County, more than simple happenstance can account for. These vanishings extend back to the colonial period, but few realize how long this has been happening. Philips has discovered that the disappearances occur in cycles, rising in frequency every seventeen years—a cycle that corresponds with the emergence of the local cicada brood.
  • An interesting number of “Indian stones” can be found throughout the county. These megaliths are commonly believed to have been erected by the ancestors of the Kettahwohnucks for religious purposes. There are also those who purport that the stones are not the product of the indigenous tribes, but were erected by an alien population that settled in the region at some point in the past. The Celts, Vikings, Egyptians, Phoenicians, and even Atlanteans have all been named the source of these Neolithic monuments at one point or another. Many have strange sigils and carvings on them that some believe give credibility to these more outré origins.
  • Those interested in ghost breaking might wish to contact Raymond Crowe, the owner of the decaying estate known as “Whispering Laurels.” As last surviving scion of that family, Crowe inherited the estate, a crumbling Gothic Revival mansion with a checkered history. Crowe is in deep debt due to his habit of visiting the track in Saratoga Springs and has been considering using the old estate to replenish his dwindling funds by either selling or leasing the place. Unfortunately, no one wishes to spend much time in the massive corpse of a home.
  • A student who volunteered for an experiment performed by the Department of Oneirology at Bishopsgate College has vanished. Although not an uncommon occurrence in these parts, the disappearance occurred while the student was inside a locked, windowless “dreaming lab” on the college grounds. A police investigation is underway and ransom is suspected as the motive, but there are those who think the culprits may hail from a place unreachable by physical means.
  • Odd lights have been spotted on occasion hovering above the leaning stone known as “Satan’s Lamppost” and local residents never venture near the granite oddity when this spectral illumination is sighted. Many discount the lights as the product of swamp gas, moonlight on low clouds, and even large congregations of fireflies, but those disbelievers suggest these explanations a comfortable distance away from the ancient stone.
  • There is a local boogieman known as “Old Jan” who supposedly haunts the hills and forests of Wildwyck. The legends say he was born hideously disfigured and his ashamed woodsman father kept the boy locked in the root cellar of the family shanty high up in the mountains. When the father died, the boy—now grown to an adult and possessing an animal-like cunning—escaped from his prison and currently dwells in the wild, catching small animals and eating them raw. He also has a taste for human flesh, an appetite acquired when he feasted on his father’s cold corpse after breaking free, and Old Jan lies in wait for campers, hunters, and lovers that stray too deep into the woods and mountains. This legend is existed in one form or another for more than two hundred years old and this is just the latest incarnation of it.