Monthly archives: September 2015

The Abyss Stares Back

 

Man looks into the abyss

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Object Hit Points

Does anyone here have ideas for object hit points?  The examples in the core rulebook 6th ed. are absurdly low for things like concrete and not sure if any other Chaosium publications offer suggestions.

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The Gift

Great Horned Owl

A deeply touching story from a new contributor about children who are … different. See more of Judy’s work at www.judysalz.com.

The shiny brochure from Camp Yes-You-Can, a new summer camp for disabled children, secluded deep in the Adirondack Mountains, promised a magical summer that would change lives. Carefully selected from applicants around the world, three sets of parents enrolled their offspring, hoping the experience would enhance the quality of their limited existences. The campers, each with different handicaps, lived together in one cabin.

At the end of the summer, Eddie, the tall handsome owner and sole counselor, told each child, “Nothing is impossible. Hold on to that thought, practice what I’ve taught you, and remember me the first time you succeed.” Only after their children returned home did their parents discover what each had learned.

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Tales of the Caribbean

Back it today!

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5 Great Movies That Would Be Even Better If Lovecraft Had Written Them

Let’s be fair, there have been a lot of movies whose fame can be traced back to the great Mr. Lovecraft: The Thing, Pacific Rim, Alien, Pans Labyrinth, and Event Horizon to name a few of the obvious ones.

But even the great works could be greater, and I think that adding Lovecraft is the answer for success!

The way I see it, there isn’t enough Lovecraftian prose weaved into our favorite stories. That’s when I asked myself which movies probably could have benefited from a touch by the scribe himself.

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Posted in Humor | 1 Comment

The Shappel

Jordan Hofer pulls no punches in this unsettling story. It’s horrible, viscerally repulsive, and all too real. Enjoy!

Poverty was to blame. For it was only a child, lonesome and the victim of parental and societal neglect. Its parents were permanently unemployed and suffered from maladies psychological, purely physical, and self-inflicted. Its mother drank wood alcohol and the father huffed petrol.

A meager inheritance from the deceased Harold Shappel, entrepreneur of witch trial tourism, fed and housed his debased son and sole heir. Harold Junior and his wife Martha née Corey, clothed the Shappel boy in rags and smothered the rags in a lumpy gray overcoat to keep it warm, even in spring and summer months. The child seemed to produce very little heat of its own metabolism. It smelled of black mold and horridly sour body odor.

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Walkers

A surgical strike at your amygdala, where fear is produced.

The Stygian Walkers approach.

First hear the rumblings, the chthonic quakes that shake shelves and spires alike. Heads rush out to the street, tilting backwards to squint up through the haze—to see pinpricks burning red, outshining the obscured sun. A single spindly limb plunges through the distant mountain, shattering sand and stone and soil. The crimson eyes sway, and grow.

Bang: the alarm’s thin reverberation. Final few feet scamper down stairs to join the valley church ex tempore. A wave of birds flee shrieking overhead. The ground shudders once more, another closer step. For a moment reigns oppressive silence, broken only by the wail of an inconsolable infant in its mother’s unsteady arms. The minister, raising trembling hands to the sky, shrieks:

Not upon us, oh King! Not upon us!

The cry echoes, unnoticed.

The foot raises.

 

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Have you seen The King In Yellow?

kiy

 

Because James Monahan has, and The King is horrible, mesmerizing, beautiful.

Check out more of his work at Monahan Photography!

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The Summoned

Shoggoth dot net fiction placeholder image

Carl Johnson sat in the yellow light of a dim desk lamp. A mostly ignored cigarette dangled between his trembling fingers like the weakest of security blankets. He took a nervous drag before crushing it out in the overflowing ashtray. Whiskey called to him from the half-empty bottle standing watch by the lamp. He felt a longing for the rot-gut liquor, for the numbness that it could bring. Johnson reached for it, but retracted his hand as if an angry rattlesnake were coiled around the bottle. Not even drunken stupor could save him from the things he had done. It would not dull the terror of the hideous thing that hunched in the darkness, barring his escape.

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Part V of The Curse of Azathoth’s Amulet: LOST.

Dr. Taylor drove as long and as fast as he reasonably could. His eyes felt like they were made of sandpaper. His yawns threatened to crack his jaw and no amount of head shaking and skin pinching could keep him alert. The second time he drifted off, he recognized it was time to pull over. If he didn’t, he’d die in the resulting crash and all really would be lost.

He passed an exit that announced the presence of several hotel chains. The street he eventually found himself on was littered with the refuse of humanity. He pulled into a two story-hotel whose neon “Vacancy” sign had a burned out “Y”. The potholes were more like craters and there were only five cars he could see.

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Posted in Stories, The Curse of Azathoth's Amulet | Leave a comment

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