Monthly archives: October 2019

By the time I got up close, I was sure this guy couldn’t be alive, which made no sense. He, it, was still crying. Maggots were crawling out of everywhere on its face.
The flesh was rotting, and the thing smelled like an old corpse. I put a few rounds in it, and it split open like a bad melon. The thing dropped to its knees and fell over, thousands and thousands of maggots exploded all over the street. I’ll never un-see that.
Civilians, still pressed up against the barrier, panicked and ran. That’s when the city really went to hell.

Sgt. Brian Carson, during debriefing by CDC officials and agents of a secret government agency.

It looked like Bill, but it was all gray and rubbery. It had this big ball in its hands, like a mushroom of some kind. Suddenly, the ball popped open and this cloud of gray powder flew everywhere. It got in my eyes, and it smelled like fungus. I, I don’t feel so good.

Paul Oates, patient at Mercy Hospital.

Wars make warriors. But wars also make warriors into beggars. From the first time humans employed organized violence to impose their will upon their fellow men, injuries received by combat were seen as badges of honor. The history of each warrior’s successes and defeats is written in their flesh. Each missing limb, each furrowed scar is a story. Some stories are triumphs, others tragedies. Warriors have always faced the prospect of being eroded, whittled away until they can ultimately no longer serve the purpose for which they were created. More warriors than not end their careers not only unable to fight, but unable to work. Those most unfortunate end up even unable to care for themselves. In earlier times such men had to rely on the alms of their family and neighbors, with nothing but their injuries to testify to their service. The discarded warrior is all too common. Even in our enlightened time, with our vigorous social security net, gravely injured warriors are discarded. Before the end of the Second World War, the loss of an eye or an arm or a leg did not force the departure of a soldier, particularly officers, from their service. Today, any physical imperfection means an almost instant departure into civilian life. Many of these warriors do not make this transition smoothly. Loss of purpose. Loss of comradeship. Loss of structure and discipline. Many veterans still crave these things long after their forced departure from their adopted tribe.

The discarded warriors seek only to escape their exile. Some through vice, some through exceeding the expectations of their peers, some go looking for a new tribe, for a new mission. Others search for meaning, looking for god’s plan written in their wounds. Most, fortunately, find no meaning, no plan, no god. I say ‘fortunately,’ because the only thing worse than screaming questions into the silent void, is the day that the void finally answers back.

Shepard looked bad, I could tell his spirit was failing, but I couldn’t find anything about this phenomenon in my library. I had to experiment.

Passing the dagger through the cloud harmed it, a little at a time. Two other methods, which I will not disclose, were much more effective, though all three methods were harmful to us as well.

Finally, on day four, the black smoke dispersed. Shepard barely survived, and healed, though we both were lessened by the experience.

Lawrence Garrity, Professor of Experimental Sciences, Miskatonic University.

Just about scared the hell out of me when I saw who it was walking up the road toward us. It was the merchant, even though he was dead. Bill ran right up to him, crying. Bought the merchant all new clothes, a good meal, and a night’s stay in a fine hotel.

Bill drove him to the bus station the next day. The merchant smiled and shook his hand. I’ll be damned if Bill’s luck didn’t start to get better in just a few days.

The moral of the story, don’t fuck with the merchant.

Andrew Miller, Soldier in the struggle against Darkness, and agent of The Manchester Foundation

Those who follow the Right Hand Path see themselves as the saviors of
humanity, albeit only as the “herd,” the slaves of the members of the Right Hand Path. Theirs is a belief that it is possible for humanity to find a way to exist in a universe of Great Old Ones, etc., but only through carefully choosing which Old Ones to serve.

The members have concluded that there is a distinction between Outer Gods and Elder Gods, with neither being friendly or concerned about the human race as such, but with the Elder Gods, the Right Hand Path believes they can be placated, and convinced that humans, especially the members of the Right Hand Path, are worth continued existence.

I was starting to feel, well, romantic toward her, and I thought she was toward me. We never had any official dates, or anything like that, but she kept turning up more and more frequently.
The night me and the group went out to break up that cult in the abandoned mill, we heard a woman scream and knew we were too late to stop the sacrifice. We charged the place, as fast as we could, hoping we could at least stop the damn toad thing from appearing.
We busted through the door, and there she was, naked and spreadeagled on an old table they’d made into an altar, candles and all. She was sliced wide open–from, from, well you know, all the way to her throat. Everything was spilling out.

I heard the Professor chanting, using magic. I just starting mowing the bastards down with my 12 gauge, Yvonne. Five shells later, I turned her around and started bashing heads with the stock. Seeing her like that hurt, bad. I’m glad we have you on retainer, Dr. M.

I thought I was over it, I thought I was okay, Then, this morning, I went to the café, just to see if I could. I’m sitting in the sun, at my favorite table, and a shadow falls over me. I look up, just as she’s settling into her seat across from me. “Hello,” she says, and smiles.

Anonymous member of an occult investigative organization.