The following is an excerpt from a journal found in Miskatonic, MA. It is an personal diary of a survivor in the Great Collapse. The narrator is Howard Robert Phillips, a college student from Midway, PA. The journal details his personal experiences with the Great Collapse as well as his journey from Midway to Miskatonic. The details reveled are startling but have been confirmed by other survivor accounts. We hope that this will shed enough light on the Great Collapse to help us reclaim and rebuild the world.
Oct
26
Posted by : | On : October 26, 2009
There’s a new poll up. It pertains to nothing in particular but a general interest. What my reader’s favorite silver-screen movie monster is. Vote below or on the side-bar.
Oct
26
Posted by : | On : October 26, 2009
Let me just be completely honest with you. I jumped into this project without much thought. I had an idea and a rough outline, I figured the details would come to me. I assumed I’d be able to glean more meat from the voting and comments… so far… it hasn’t worked. A month into this experiment and I have slowly watched the vote count dwindle. Comments, have become non-existent. I depended to heavily on outside interest in this project to carry me forward. Maybe it’s because I went with a different setup, six characters introduced before you’d see how your vote’s effect the story… Yeah, might not have been the best idea.
Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and slide 38-919-121 into the scrapped projects pile and work on something new. Maybe do some actual promotion this time. Little build up. Less… out-of-the-blue. I forget that while I might think of something for months, unless I tell people about it they don’t know. Anyway, 38-919-121 is over. Its been fun. I have four stories I’m proud of and maybe someday I’ll pick it up again. Until then, you’ll just have to wait for The Miskatonic Chronicles.
Oct
23
Posted by : | On : October 23, 2009
My recent comments on Paranormal Activity has garnered a bit of response. I figured to help people understand why I didn’t like it I would explain my perspective on horror movies. I said a lot of things in reaction to another person’s review and didn’t bother to state the precedence of my horror experiences. What follows is just my thoughts on horror movies spilled out into the internet.
Oct
22
Posted by : | On : October 22, 2009
Cross-Posted from a comment I left over at Ideology of Madness.
Paul reviewed the movie Paranormal Activity. I disagreed. I commented. I now cross-post.
Oct
20
Posted by : | On : October 20, 2009
There are five basic senses, Sight, Smell, Touch, Hear, and Taste. Every memory is made up of these five parts. Some memories are stronger in some Senses and weaker in others. The Rating of the Memory will determine how many points you can spend across the five senses. The five sense all determine different ways in which that Memory can affect things.You might call Senses your ghostly powers.
Sight memories help you whenever you are looking for something.
Smell memories help you whenever you need to react to something.
Touch memories help you whenever you are trying to physically affect something.
Hear memories help you whenever you need to understand something.
Taste memories help you whenever you are trying to gain Æther from something.
Oct
19
Posted by : | On : October 19, 2009
“When are you going to get off your lazy ass and get a job?” Loretta asks as she throws an empty beer can at Paul’s head.
“Shut up woman.” Paul’s retort is that of a man who’s already lost.
“You’re such a looser, Paul. I’m getting a divorce.”
“Suspected as much. I’ve lost everything else, why not my wife and kids too?”
“Fuck you Paul.”
That conversation was three years ago but it plays over and over in Paul’s head. He hasn’t been able to hold down a steady job since he was bounced from the force five years ago. Even his own private investigation practice went under in a few months. Luckily the bottle was there and when his wife ran out the whiskey didn’t. Loretta must still love him though, she pays the rent on their old apartment and it’s really the only thing that’s kept him alive. He couldn’t survive below Tier 12. He can’t afford a mask or anything to protect against the sand. All of these thoughts flooded out of his mind as quickly as they came in when the door rings.
Paul pulls himself out his chair and stumbles half drunk to the door. He doesn’t even bother to check anymore, he just buzzes them up. It’s never for him anyway, just some idiot with the wrong number. Then he makes his way to the fridge, grabs another beer, and returns to his beat up recliner. Not five seconds after he sits down there is a knock on his door. Curses erupt from Paul’s mouth and he slings his full beer at the wall. He pulls himself up again and makes his way to the door.
“Wrong apartment asshole.” Paul screams at the door.
“I do not think so. Is this Mister Paul Steven Wiht?” A digitized voice responds.
“Oh fuck no. Go away. I don’t want to talk.”
“I apologize for the intrusion Mister Wiht but I’ve been instructed to speak with you. I will destroy this door if you do not let me in willingly.”
“For fuck sake…” Paul says as he presses the open button on his door.
A two foot tall metal box rolls into Paul’s apartment. There is a projector mounted on the top of it that is transmitting a generic human face as a crude hologram. When the box rolls in and Paul steps out of its way. He knows the sensors on these things are shit and last thing he needs is a bruised shin. The box makes a circuit of the room, clearly scanning its environment, before coming to a stop facing Paul. Paul still hasn’t moved from the doorway.
“What do you want machine?” Paul asks gruffly.
“I would like to offer you a career Mister Wiht.” The computer continues to respond without inflection.
“Stop calling me that you stupid robot. My name is Paul.” Paul says robot like ru-butt.
“As you wish Mister Paul. My employers are willing to pay you twice what you made when you worked with the C12PD plus the same hourly expense rate as what you charged when you were freelance.”
“Who the hell would want to pay me that much?” Paul’s voice is sobering up as the realization of getting back to work sinks in.
“That information is privileged. I can not tell you who you would be working for until you sign the contracts.”
“Of-fucking-course. What can you tell me, bolt bag?”
“We need help tracking down people. Five people total. We do not have an estimated deadline for this assignment, just as soon as possible.”
“Alright, I won’t ask any more questions. I need the cash. Give me the papers.”
The top of the rolling box slides open and there are a pile of papers laying inside with a fountain pen. Paul picks up the bundle and pages through everything. The guy who wrote all this up knows a thing or two about contracts. Everything is filled out, he simply needs to sign on the last page and he’ll see himself pulling in an income thirty times higher then he’s had since being bounced from the police. Paul signs, then thinks of Loretta. Maybe after this job he can get his family back. Maybe this robot delivered more than just a job to him. Sobriety. A family. Happiness. He lets himself hope.
Paul signs the papers and before he can ask any more questions the robot rolls out of his apartment. Paul lets out a deep sigh and goes into the bathroom for his first shower in weeks. He shaves his face clean and runs the electric razor through his straggling hair. He leaves a quarter inch, he can’t stand the bald feeling. Paul brushes his teeth and puts on deodorant. All cleaned up he moves into his bedroom and pulls out and old suit he hasn’t worn since his days as a PI. The fit is tight now, but it feels good. Paul finally feels like he’s getting his life back together. Finally feels like he has something to work… to fight for. Then his phone rings.
“Agent Wiht. Time to get to work…”
Oct
16
Posted by : | On : October 16, 2009
After the break there is a letter I sent to the creator of a little game called Pie Shop. I met him at Gen Con and he was a super nice guy. After reading Pie ShopI just had to let him know what I thought. He wrote back and thanked me for my words. Even said I made him laugh. Now that he has had a chance to see it, I figured I’d share it with you. This is purely a reaction to the game, not a review. Anyway, Pie Shop is a fantastic game. Everything else about it aside, its worth reading over at least once. It really got me thinking about the place of murder in a RPG and how its typically handled.
Oct
12
Posted by : | On : October 12, 2009
Are you sick and tired of your Game Master handing out clues that only drag you by their leash to the end of their mystery? Are you tired of creating intricate mysteries for your Players only to have them yawn every time you give them a new hint? Detective Points remove the leash from the mystery while still leaving the details in the Game Master’s seat. Every player at the table gets a chance to help create the mystery, even the Game Master.
Oct
12
Posted by : | On : October 12, 2009
The demon’s arm sweeps out high while its writing tentacled underbelly shoots forward towards Malcolm. With a deft slash of his knife Malcolm parries the beast’s hand to the side but his legs get caught in the tentacles wrapping around his feet. Slamming down hard onto his back his wide-brimmed hat flies off and his knife slides into the darkness behind him. The creature opens its maw, filled with teeth churning like a powered saw, and the tentacles start to draw Malcolm forward. Saliva drips down into his legs and a rumbling from the demon’s gullet shakes the floor beneath him. Against all logic, Malcolm produces a pistol from his waistband and shots the monster in the mouth a dozen times before the gun starts to dry fire. The tentacles release and the creature roars in agony and anger.
Malcolm scrambles to his feet and drops his gun, it doesn’t have the stopping power he needs to kill the beast. His legs hurt but he puts it out of his mind as he reaches over his shoulder to draw his sword. As the blade slides free of his scabbard Malcolm presses his thumb into the hilt just below the blade. Jets of liquid fire pour out of small vents on either side of the blade and roll down the groove carved in the center of the blade. Malcolm charges the monster and in the illumination of his sword he sees the unimaginable horror of the demon. Hesitation was the first thing he learned to kill and a swift mental jab at his brain prevents him from faltering in his course. He launches into the air, sword held tight in both hands, and falls onto the beast. The pummel of his blade digs into his gut as he uses his own weight to drive the flaming sword into what he assumes to be the creature’s face.
“Back to hell with thee.” Malcolm whispers as the monster screams.
Malcolm falls into the creature as it dies, its body turning into sticky green ichor. He chokes back vomit and presses the button on his blade again. The flames die off and he lets himself descent through the corpse of the beast until his face touches the cold steel floor once more. He lets a moment pass before he pulls himself to his feet. The he makes his way over and retrieves his lost hat, gun, and knife. While reloading his pistol he assess the situation out loud to himself.
“Five gutters down. Sohog Queen came close to the surface, odd. Fire and light worked. Dangerous for her. This is not good.”
Malcolm trails off in his thoughts as he glances down at his burning legs. Whatever slime those tentacles produced it wasn’t for lubrication. His pants are almost completely dissolved just below the knee and his legs look badly burned. He watches for a moment as the slime continues to eat away at his pants before pulling his knife back out and cutting the fabric. If he wasn’t such a dower man Malcolm would look comical standing in his newly cut-off shorts and big black steel boots. He makes his way over to where he dropped his satchel early in the fight and pulls a flask from inside. He begins to unscrew the cap and the pungent odor assaults his senses. He gags as he pours the fluid over his burned legs, from one sick smell to another. White foam starts building up wherever this new substance comes into contact with the monster’s slime and soon his legs stop burning. The pain remains.
“Bless Saint Roberto Francesco Romolo Bellarmino” Malcolm whispers to himself as he cleans his wounds.
As Malcolm begins his long walk back to his parish a man steps out of the shadows and addresses him by proper name. This newcomer smiles a devil’s grin that sets Malcolm on edge. His attire doesn’t help either. The suit the man wears is high-waisted, wide-legged, tight-cuffed, with pegged trousers, and a long coat with wide lapels and wide padded shoulders. It’s a fashion not seen on Earth since before the end. His coat and trousers are black but the shirt underneath is crimson red, the forbidden color. Malcolm assesses him quickly and determines he’s unarmed, he doesn’t stand like a man with a hidden gun. This all goes to make Malcolm extremely uncomfortable.
“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. Pardon my intrusion. I surveyed your battle from the shadows and was most impressed. Your skill and prowess are unparalleled. The stories I’ve heard about you are not of mere legend. Allow me to introduce myself, you may call me Mister Coat.” The man is practically speaking through his grin.
“Silence devil. Thou speaks of lies and trickery. I shalt not hear it!” Malcolm bellows and places his hand on his knife.
“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are mistaken, I am not an agent of the Morning Star but a simple and humble agent of the gutters. Now please, dispense with your archaic tongue. It makes you hard to understand.” Mister Coat says, wolfish grin still in place.
“No proper man could live this far from the light.” Malcolm, slightly confused by this creature, holds fast over his blade.
“Padre Malcolm Travers Francis MacGregor. You are correct, I am not a proper man. As I said, I am an agent of the gutters.” Mister Coat shimmers as he says the final words.
“I don’t understand you. What are you, Mister Coat?” Malcolm says quietly.