Archive for Creatures

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.

According to Tao Jiucheng in his Chuogenglu, in the lands of the Arabs there are men 70 or 80 years old who are willing to give their bodies to save others. Such a one takes no more food or drink, only bathing and eating a little honey, till after a month his excreta are nothing but honey; then death ensues. His compatriots place the body to macerate in a stone coffin full of honey, with an inscription giving the year and month of burial. After a hundred years the seals are removed and the confection so formed used for the treatment of wounds and fractures of the body and limbs—only a small amount taken internally is needed for cure. Although it is scarce in those parts the common people call it “mellified man” or, in their foreign speech, “mu-nai-i”. Thus Mr. [Tao], but I myself do not know whether the tale is true or not. In any case I append it for the consideration of the learned.

Tao Jiucheng, 1366

Oni are physical beings of varying origins. Some are Ogres, some are human beings so wicked, that they have transformed into a more horrific form. All are eaters of human flesh, but far from being mindless thugs one usually associates with ogres, they are clever in their evil. Some have been worshipped as kami by local peasants who make sacrifices of their population to them in exchange for the Oni’s protection. Oni appear as huge, brutish red or blue skinned humanoids, generally male, but females, called Kijo, exist as well.

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.