In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 57):

Mike sighed in exasperation. "Alright, let's move him to a bed. We should take a look in his car outside for anything that might be useful. I say we bed down in shifts, then see about getting my truck out of the ditch before heading out. Staying here for two long might be dangerous. "

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 58):

"Here, help me get him onto one of the cots in the other room," says the father as he crouches down to grab the mans shoulders. When Mike doesn't move the father looks at him with a slight frown. "Well I can't lift him myself. Surely can't be for..." The clergyman's question is cut short as looks down at the wounded man. "He's stopped breathing! Quick we need to..." looking down at the blood soaked floor he seems at a loss for words.

Everyone stands still for a few moments. Father Henesey silently crosses himself.

The dead man on the floor opens his eyes.

"You can't keep me contained forever. Once I'm free I shall feast on your minds."
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:27, Wed 06 Dec 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 59)

Seeing the horrific transformation of Peg Leg, yet to exhausted and numbed from the past 24 hours to be surprised, Mike pulled his revolver out and fired at the possessed corpse.

23:18, Today: Jrodimus rolled 95 using 1d100.  firearm(revolver).

His shot went wide.

Fucking hell.

"Padre, get the hell away from him!"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 60):

Mike's exhausted mind seems to have trouble focusing on any one thing with even the most innocuous details seeming to fill his vision. The smoke drifting from the barrel of the revolver. The cycling of the cylinder as it chambers the next round. "Padre, get the hell away from him" is nothing more than a distant shout to Mike through his haze of exhaustion. Father Henesey remains still as a stone. "I said get back Padre," Mike shouts aiming for the possessed man again. As the father stumbles back, Mike realizes that something is wrong. In horror, he realizes that the clergyman is clutching at his stomach, blood gushing from between his fingers...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # )

Clarke instinctively drew his revolver at the sound of the gunshot. He noticed his friend's shaky nerves and the recoil of the gun draw the shot wide and straight into the priest.

"Hope you weren't hanging out for confession," Zoe said.

He wanted to snap at her, but the gunpowder in his nose and slight grunt of the priest stopped him. He took aim at the now moving corpse and tried again. "Why am I always killing people twice?" He asked no one in particular before squeezing off a shot.

(Firearm roll of 44, damage: 3)

It was an uncouth shot, one that reflected Clarke and Zoe's night, but it hit. And for how shitty everything had been, Clarke claimed it as a win before lining up once more.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 62):

The bound man barely flinches as the bullet thuds into his chest. Partially coagulated blood oozes from the wound, reminding Clarke of a battlefield corpse. The man, eyes alight with a strange green glow, looks blankly at him.

"I have seen your mind, cobbled together like a shattered vase. You know nothing of eternity."

Clarke feels his stomach lurch as if the floor had dropped from beneath him.

"Clarke... I think something is wrong..." He turns to find Zoe reaching out towards him, her flesh desiccated and mottled. "Something doesn't feel right," she says, he speech slurred as her tongue protrudes from the empty hollow of her cheek. Her dress has rotted through in places and her hair falls onto her shoulders in lank and matted clumps.

Backing away from the ghoulish apparition, horror causing his pulse to race, Clarke can feel his mind reeling. Looking down at the revolver in his hand, he raises it towards Zoe as if to ward her off.

"What's going on Clarke? You're kinda freaking me out." Zoe stands before Clarke, seemingly restored, clad in a pristine white dress, a look of concern drawn across her face.

"I can bring her back. All you need is to complete me."
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:49, Thu 07 Dec 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 63):

Still dazed, Mike saw the priest clutching his stomach as his life's fluids drained from the gunshot wound.

What have I done?

"I can bring her back..." he heard the possessed Peg Leg state in his gravelly inhuman voice.

It took him a moment to realize Peg Leg was addressing Clarke.

Who?

He raised his revolver and took aim at Peg Leg and squeezed the trigger again.

16:21, Today: Jrodimus rolled 68 using 1d100.  Firearm(revolver).

The shot went wide again, shattering a vase that was filled with dead flyer stems.

"Byron, a little help?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 64):

A look of surprise on his face, Father Henesey stumbles away from Mike. "You... you... shot me!" he says in disbelief. As he backs away he catches the edge of the large table, flipping over its surface and upending it, sending the lantern resting on its surface to the floor with a crash.
This message was last edited by the GM at 10:00, Thu 07 Dec 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 65):

As lantern smashed on the ground and the oil lit up, Clarke was ready to call it a night. He was too old to be fighting men who couldn't die, shadows that dug up painful memories and a God who had nothing better to do than taunt folk.

He called out to to Byron, "You know this area better than us, grab as many of these documents as you can."

He went over to the priest and put his shoulder under him. "Let's get out of here," he said.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 66):

Father Henesey groans as Clarke lifts him from the ground, throwing the clergyman's arm over his shoulder. Supporting most of the father's weight, Clarke heads for the door of the cabin as flames begin to lick at the ground where the lantern broke.

"Wait...wait..." says the Father Henesey weakly. "We cannot leave the stone behind." He groans again as he sags against Clarke. "The fire will only destroy the box, freeing the stone." He grabs at Clarke's collar forcing him to stop and turn to look at him. Despite the deathlike pallor of his face, Clarke can see a grim determination. "WE. CANNOT. LEAVE IT"!"

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 67):

Mike looked to the possessed men, his eyes burning with supernatural intensity. He didn't like the idea of leaving him like that, but hearing the oil go up in flames, he knew Clarke was right.

"I'll get the stone, you guys get the Padre out of here. I'll be right behind you."


15:59, Today: Jrodimus rolled 81 using 1d100.  Strength check.

Mike gripped the box and lifted it. It felt like lifting a ton of bricks, he gritted his teeth and took an uneasy step towards the door which seemed further away considering the weight of the crate and its contents.
This message was last edited by the player at 07:15, Sat 09 Dec 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 67):

“Ach mein Gott” Byron exclaims as chaos breaks out in front of him yet again.

As Clarke and the priest headed for the door and the fire spread across the floor, Byron ran to the table of documents and collected as many as he could

*dex 60, rolled 27*

Despite being deeply tired from the ordeal so far, his exhaustion momentarily subsided as the heat and excitement of the moment give him purpose.

After quickly grabbing all the documents he could stuff into his jacket he followed Mike out the door as he was lugging the stone.

Byron wondered to himself if it wouldn’t be better to let it burn with this place.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 69):

"You can run to the ends of the world but you will never be safe," roars the possessed man as flames begin to fill the cabin, crawling across the wooden floor and up the heavy drapes. "I will be released and I will be completed. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!"

Harsh acrid smoke follows the party out of the cabin, Clarke supporting the wounded father, Mike hoisting the heavy wooden box, and Byron the last bits of Jack's investigation.

Before long the cabin is engulfed in flames, its searing light dwarfing the growing dawn. The ravings of the mad man are soon cut short and the party can feel an almost palpable release of tension. You watch as the cabin, one of the bright spots of your childhood, slowly collapses in on itself as it is consumed by the fire.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 70):

Mike watched the flames grow higher, lashing out in flickering and violent oranges and reds towards the morning sky. Smoke billowing from the windows and door. Nostalgia and sadness floated in his mind, so many memories now up in flames. He knew that after the fire had burned everything to smoldering coals, it would just be more mud. More sacrifices to the dark and dank soil.

Mud.

Too numb to be moved to tears, the pit still in his stomach burned pale embers, Mike turned his back to the cabin and opened the new deceased Peg Leg's car to inspect it after setting down the crate on the hood. He took a look around to see if he could spot anything that might be useful in the near future.

"Alright guys," He said as he looked through the back seat, "Where we headed. I'd like to get my truck out of the ditch before we leave if possible. Maybe we can drag it out with this one."

He lit a Lucky Strike, "And we need a hospital," he gestured to the bleeding priest. "Sorry about that Padre. I've seen a lot of things, but never the dead rise."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 70):

Byron rushes to the priest.

“Lay him out. Let me see the wound.”

(Perform first aide: 83 out of 60 (fail))

“I can’t find the wound. Was it only a graze?”

Byron’s vision begins to blur has his exhaustion overwhelms him.

“We should hurry to a hospital”

In reply to novissimo (msg # 72):

Clarke put his hands against his lower back and stretched. His tallish frame bent in the opposite direction of the sky. The smoke was just starting to obscure where stars should've been.

As a teenager, he hadn't put a lot of stock in Jesus coming back from the dead. He knew of pastors who would let spittle fly from their mouths whenever they said, "Jesus" and banged plywood pulpits put together in haste. And he had always known the right words to say to make them convinced he wasn't a believer in the old ways.

Yet ... a man had awoken from eternal rest. Different, more demon-spawn than conscious entity. And it was that part which now bothered him about Jesus rising from the grave. Not if it was possible, but rather what he had become. What if he'd returned to Earth not as some pacified deity but a monster? A Revelation-esque evil that destroyed Rome only so it could munch on their dead?

This was not a Jesus he wanted to believe in. It was not a Jesus he wished to have even dreamed up.

He rolled his shoulders and took a long look at the truck. This part of his night, this moment, was familiar. Helping Mike with his truck, helping Mike out of some fresh batch of crap he had gotten himself into, this was their childhood all over again.

"What kind of help do you need Mike?" he asked as his friend rummaged in the dead man's car.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:45, Fri 15 Dec 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 73):

Byron
Attempting to staunch the flow of blood from his wound, the father waves off Byron's ineffective ministrations. Despite the lack of any real medical tools and environment, Byron can tell that the injury isn't life threatening. "While I appreciate the nonchalance, I indeed happen to be shot," says the priest. Propping himself up on the hood of the car, his hand leaves a long bloody smear. "I don't know how to explain what we saw today but it surely won't be the end."

Mike
Rummaging through the car, Mike doesn't find much of anything to reveal the identity of its recently deceased owner. In the glove compartment he finds a roll of bills ($20) and an out of state registration for a 'Roland Chang'. However, attempts to start the car are fruitless. While the alternator turns over, the dashboard gauge shows that hours of idling have drained the gas tank.

Taking a long drag from his cigarette, Mike can feel his pulse uptick as the nicotine hits his system. He can't help but feel, as the cabin lies in smoldering ruins, that this is all some sort of cosmic joke that he isn't in on. Never one to shy from skirting the law, tonight has been a massive departure from bootlegging.

Clarke
Three days... Apparently Jesus couldn't hold a candle to the power of whatever they were facing. You've really stepped in it this time Clarke.... A supernatural rock, a wounded priest... and still a single image dominated his mind: an eye with a burning pupil enclosed by a star. Clarke knew that he had seen it somewhere before but his tired mind couldn't place it. The numbness that had enveloped him was personified by Zoe, who stood silently over the smoldering ruins of the cabin.

"Clarke..." she whispered quietly, "this stone... It could be the end of us all..." The sounds of Mike rummaging through the car and Byron tending to the father barely penetrated Clarke's consciousness. "It's not too late to go home..."

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 74):

Mike pocketed the $20 and grabbed the identification card as well. "Well the tank is empty. Got some cash though, will be good for a hotel or gasoline."

He started off towards his Chevy, "I'm gonna get the truck out. Why don't you guys see to the Father and figure out where the closest clinic or hospital is. And where the hell is Jack?"

Mike approached his truck in the ditch and got in the drivers side. He started the engine then with the brake on got out and grabbed a few slabs of wood. He put them behind the front tires to help gain better traction in the mud. Then he tried to back out of the ditch.

13:50, Today: Jrodimus rolled 55 using 1d100.  Drive check. Pass.
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:53, Fri 15 Dec 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 75):

The mundane and simple task of getting the Chevy unstuck does much to settle Mike's nerves. Something about working with his hands always seemed to calm him. Wedging the slabs of wood underneath the front tires, he gets into the drivers seat and slowly begins to rock the truck forward and back, the wheels slipping as the tires search for traction.

"C'mon baby, daddy just needs you to play nice for just a little bit...."

The truck begins to ease it's way out of the ditch when suddenly the wheels catch on the boards and the vehicle shoots out of the ditch....

SSSSCCCCRRRRREEEEEEEEECCCCCCHHHHHHH!!!!! (Fri 10 Nov: Jrodimus rolled 98 using 1d100.  Drive check. Critical Fail)

Leaving behind the front bumper....

Driving back to the cabin, Mike notices that the truck pulls heavily to the right. I won't be getting into any high speed chases he thinks to himself.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 76):

Clarke took a look at the dinged and now damaged truck and shook his head. A decade on and Mike still couldn't drive.

"Come on Father," he shouted the man clutching his stomach. "Let us save one soul today."

He jumped in the backseat and extinguished his lantern. The cabin's fire could be felt through the window pane. "I think I'm going to sleep for a while tomorrow," he said to Mike. "And maybe the next day too."00

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 76):

As Clarke and the father got into the truck, Mike looked at Byron. "Come on, man! Lets go find an inn and get some rest."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:01, Mon 18 Dec 2017.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 78):

 Byron closes his eyes and inhaled deeply, the aroma of burning wood filling his nostrils.

He takes out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes the blood off his hands.

He’s only partially successful, as the dried blood formed a crusty layer over his skin and seeped into the edges of his fingernails

“This nightmare isn’t over. It is just beginning.”

Byron turns towards the car.  Despite his mental exhaustion his body feels refreshed and light. A byproduct of the stones rejuvenation, he assumes

He gets in the back seat.

As he settles in, he felt a sudden zeal as he briefly recounted the evenings events, as terrible as they were.

He was a parapsychologist, and while his main task was to help his friend, his secondary mission was to research the paranormal aspects of these incidents.

Not since his encounters with German christian mystic POWs had he had such compelling supernatural experiences.

he takes out his blank journal from his coat pocket and begins to record the night’s events he’s just experienced.

“Jun 15th, 1924...”

In reply to novissimo (msg # 79):

Zoe sat on Clarke's lap in the truck. He knew she wasn't there, a vague apparition he conjured to counsel him through dark times. And things were bleak. He had killed a man, twice. And wounded a shadow creature. Wounded, not killed. If his luck didn't improve, he knew the end would eventually come for him like it came for all of the living. Death played no favourites and kept all souls. Even those who sneaked back to Earth could be sent down by fire.

Zoe moved, and if someone had stuck a bible under his hand at that moment, he would've sworn he had felt her warmth for the first time in years. A bolt of electricity shot up his thigh and into his brain.

Byron's scratchy writing, the type that sounds effective but not elegant, gave the car a soundtrack.

"We can dance," Zoe said. "Like we used to. All you've got to do is touch that stone a little more." She paused and then lent forward so her curves were nestled against his stomach and pressing into him. "The one in the box, not in your pants. Although, you and I can touch that later too, if you'd like."

Clarke tried to think of how this wasn't Zoe. Of all the things she'd told him about how fetishization destroys women's lives, but he was too tired to fight it. Too exhausted to be the man the real Zoe had wanted him to be, had died for him to become.

Sitting up, and moving Zoe forward, he put aside his fantasies for the moment. "We going to drop this thing in the ocean?" he asked Mike. "We can take this way out to sea, drop it to the bottom of the abyss and then go looking for Jack."
This message was last edited by the player at 06:02, Tue 19 Dec 2017.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 80):

Father Henesey slid heavily into the passenger seat of the Chevy with a pained groan. "I'm sorry about the interior my son," he says with a kind of dark humor. He grimaces as he pulls his hand away from his wound and inspects it. "I seem to have sprouted a new hole." He pours some of the whiskey from his flask over it, hissing at the pain and then taking a long pull. "I'm definitely going to need much more of this." He lapses into silence, observing Clarke's distracted introspection and Byron's writings.

Mike
Mike didn't know how to respond to the father's attempted humor. After all, he HAD shot the man. But he could only think one thing... Shelly is gonna be pissed. The brakes whined as he took his foot of the petal and pressed lightly on the accelerator. As the truck slowly moved down the gravel road he could feel a slight shutter in his steering wheel. At this rate he was going to become Hank's best customer. Torn by a desire to return to Arkham and just forget everything he had seen, he knew this wasn't something he could just hide away in the past....

Mud

A grim sense of resolve settled over Mike. He wasn't a helpless bystander. He had lost Jack to the darkness before. He wasn't going to abandon his brother in arms....

Nothing but mud

Clarke
Clarke was the first to break the terse silence. "We going to drop this thing in the ocean Mike? We can take this way out to sea, drop it to the bottom of the abyss and then go looking for Jack."

"Well that's not very nice Clarke," says Zoe sullenly, her pout stiring old memories in Clarke's mind.

Leaning back the seat, the father lets out a tired sigh. "I promised to safeguard the stone. But.... Perhaps it is best to just be rid of it."

Zoe's hands gently cupped the sides of Clarke's face. He honestly couldn't tell if it was her who turned his head or not. "Think of what you could do with the stone. Justice, real justice. We can find redemption. We can fix the world... Together..." Zoe seemed so real in that moment that Clarke almost reached out and embraced her. The dull ache of loss and regret that he had lived with for so long filled every inch of his being. The rough grip of his revolver shocked Clarke back to reality. "You know they will try to stop you..." Zoe nuzzled against the side of his neck. "I miss you so much Clarke..."

Byron
The scratching of the nib of his pen on the paper barely registered in Byron's mind. Over the years it had become a sort of white noise. As the words flew across the page, detailing the event in the cabin, his mind retreated into an old memory from his time as an undergraduate student...

"The typical course of a psychotic episodes can be thought of as having three phases: Prodrome Phase, Acute Phase, and Recovery Phase" said Professor Fallon as he juggled a model of the human brain from hand to hand. "Psychotic episodes rarely occur out of the blue. Almost always, a psychotic episode is preceded by gradual non-specific changes in the person's thoughts, perceptions, behaviors, and functioning. The first phase is referred to as the prodrome phase. During this period the person starts to experience changes in themselves, but have not yet started experiencing clear-cut psychotic symptoms...."

Blood once had made Byron squeamish and now he literally had it on his hands. Despite everything that had happened Byron felt a macabre fascination with the stone. He knew he should be horrified but for the first time he could say that he had held something truly supernatural in his hands. He'd have to figure out a way to study it, without touching it of course.

His attention returned to the page as he neared it's end. The scratches from his pen suddenly disappeared as his hand froze. Scrawled across the page dozens of times in jagged and mismatched characters was written OPEN THE BOX...
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:48, Tue 19 Dec 2017.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 81):

Mike navigated down the dark road and gripped the steering wheel. He was exhausted and sore. The dried blood on his shirt rubbed against the scratches on his back every time they hit a bump in the road. Each bump caused him to grimace.

It felt good to be leaving the hellish night behind them, going up in the flames of their childhood. He watched as the trees passed by them. They stood along the side of the road like soldiers at parade in solemn reverie.

He looked in the rear view mirror. Byron scribbled in his pad. He was always the bookish one, but it seemed that his endeavors took a more scholarly route after the war. He never knew why, but it wasn't like they had spoken much since returning.

Clarke looked distracted, more so than usual. Over the past few days Mike noticed that Clarke often looked like he was replaying an old conversation in his head. Sometimes he would gesture or ball his hands into fists without saying anything at all.

What happened to you? Who was she?

He looked back to the road.

At least the rain stopped.

Mike cleared his throat and looked at the father out of the corner of his eyes. "Eh Padre," he started, embarrassed, "Sorry about the mishap with the firearm back there. It won't happen again." He did his best to smile.

He thought about what to do next. He knew that Bolton had a clinic, and that at this rate they all needed a bit of patching up. Hopefully they wouldn't ask too many questions.

"Though I agree with the notion of throwing this fucking thing into the ocean, we need medical attention. Especially the Father. We should head to Bolton, get patched up and get some sleep. We haven't slept in well over 24 hours now."