All posts by CthulhuBob Lovely

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.

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

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.

I reached in. When I drew out my hand, I felt something round, and a bunch of wriggling scratching things. It freaked me out and I flung the stuff on the ground. Bunch of damn huge cockroaches, and a speed loader full of .38 rounds. What the hell.–Anonymous.

The Sack of Uncertainty appears as an ordinary bag: it may be decorated or plain; it may snap shut, cinch, or tie; it may be leather, vinyl, or even a plastic grocery bag. It is no more durable
than an ordinary item of its type.

The damn thing was huge, and a Class Three. It stood on giant hooves, had a mid-section kind of like a slimy tree, but covered with dozens of mouths spewing stinking green goo. Several thick tentacles writhed from the top. One of them grabbed up Charlie, another the Professor, then swelled up, squeezed, and our two guys popped like screaming grapes. Shot blood all over me. Hell, I didn’t even realize I was that close.

I drew the 1860. I knew it was draining my life, soul, or something. Still, Class Three. I put the last two rounds into the creature. Two beautiful blue streaks, then the crackling explosions. Must have been gallons of green-black filth blew out of the thing.

It started careening, stomping off into the woods, all those damn mouths screaming. Then it just slid in half. I felt my mind crumble just a little bit more. Am I de-briefed now? I need to get drunk.

Anderson Blake, U.S. Marshal (Ret.), now in the care of the Manchester Foundation.

This is a magically enchanted Colt Army Model 1860, a .44 caliber six shot weapon which weighs 2 lbs 11 ounces. It has neither ammunition nor moving parts. An Elder Sign is engraved on the top of the cylinder.

He was tall and slender, with pale yellow skin, all-black eyes rimmed in red, and a long, silver-grey pony tail. His ink-stained fingers were unusually long, and cold to the touch. His clothes were old fashioned, from decades ago, and formal–black tails and a top hat. They were slightly worn, but in good repair.
His voice was like gravel, yet deep, warm, and strangely soothing. His forehead was mostly occupied by a strange, yellow tattoo. Just seeing it made me cry, and I was terrified. Still, I knew I needed him. He would make it all better.

–Dr. William Larson, neurosurgeon, convicted axe murderer, and cannibal.