Jack leaned casually against a signpost, which read Lich Street and Peabody Avenue, a newspaper held open in front of him. He had been watching the place for days. It had few, if any customers. They only people he saw with any regularity were those weird raven-haired twins, seemingly randomly coming and going with packages of various sizes. But they weren’t who he was looking for.

Jack straightened as a large fleshy man exited the shop, grunting with each step down the small wooden stairs that groaned under his weight. Pretending to read the paper, he followed the man with his eyes. After leaving the stone with Father Hennessey, Jack had set out looking for answers and this was the only lead he had. While the Order of the Ancient Stone was a clandestine group, that didn’t mean they didn’t have outside contacts. While he didn’t know his name, he knew that the man trafficked in occult relics. Keeping a gap between the two of them, Jack began to follow, matching the man’s stride. Even at this distance he could smell the pungent cigar the man had pulled from his breast pocket and lit. Pulling his revolver from his pocket, Jack closed the distance between the two of them and pressed the barrel into the small of the man’s back

“Be quiet and take the next left,” Jack whispered to the large man and he felt him stiffen in surprise. Grabbing the man by the arm he attempted to maneuver him into a nearby alley although the man’s girth made the task quite difficult.

“If you’re looking for money, simply take my billfold and leave me my dignity. I’d rather not be caught skulking about a dark alley. I have an image to maintain,” said the large man.

“I’m not here for you money, I’m here for answers!” Grabbing the man by the shoulder, Jack spun him around. It was in that moment that Jack caught a whiff of something that made his skin crawl, something that had been hidden by the cloying smell of the cigar.

“Ah! It’s you. The one who stole the stone. They said you might be in the area…” The loud resounding bang of Jack’s revolver echoed off the walls, interrupting the man.

Smoke drifted from the hole in the large man’s chest.

“Well it seems someone has forgotten their manners,” said the man, seemingly unfazed by the gunshot. With preternatural speed he seized Jack’s revolver. The last thing Jack saw was a large pallid fist coming towards his nose.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 1):

Despite the damage, the old chevy rolls into Arkham in the early hours of the afternoon. Aside from a few erratic lurches and swerves, the truck had held up well despite the beating she had taken.

Byron
Writing had always had a sort of... recuperative affect on Byron. It was almost as if, through pen on paper, he was able to transfer his woes to the pages he wrote on. As the truck entered the familiar environment of Arkham, he begin to gather up the scattered pages of your ramblings. With the ease of familiarity he slid the notebook back into your coat pocket, surprised by the dull thunk that accompanies it. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a vial of morphine. While obviously from Dr West's supplies, Byron don't remember taking it.

Clarke
Clarke spent the trip back to Arkham lost in a whirl of thoughts. The nicotine high of his first cigarette in years had quickly warn off, leaving the lingering scent of burned tobacco on the tips of his fingers. Pulling her best impersonation of a Cheshire Cat, Zoe had been conspicuously absent although Clarke could feel her lurking in the back of his mind. Clarke felt as if he was standing on a precipice. Now that they were back in Arkham he could just... leave. He hadn't signed on for this. Sure Jack had been a friend but he didn't owe him this much. Surely not being chased by monster shadows. But something told him that this was just the tip of the iceberg, and the investigator in him wasn't sure he could walk away.

Mike
Mike deserved a reward from getting the chevy all the way back to Arkham in one piece. Only constant vigilance kept the truck from veering erratically at odd moments. He knew he was gonna have to get it looked at before heading out of town again. And that was sure to bring a few questions from Shelly. For the life of him Mike didn't know what to say. The truth was unbelievable.  But he'd always promised to be honest with her, that was the foundation of their relationship. You couldn't be in the bootlegging business without having someone you can trust. A sinking feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. Mike was in for a long conversation.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 2):

During the drive back, Mike wrestled with the steering as it continued to pull to the right, threatening to take them off the road into a wild ride into a ditch along the way. After awhile, his compensation at the wheel became habit and his mind started to drift.

Jack, are you really alive old friend?

Or what was left of his old friend. During the war Jack had seemingly gone off the deep end, so Mike wasn't entirely surprised when he chose to stay in Europe after their tour. Being an occupying force has it's perks when one's more animalistic inclinations come out into the light. Though Jack was by no means a full fledged psychopath, the trenches had changed him. He was harder, meaner, and more stubborn in his pursuits of whatever caught his fancy.

As they pulled into Arkham, Mike groaned inwardly. He wasn't looking forward to explaining why the truck was in need of repairs. He desperately wanted to go home and have a bottle or two of moonshine and sleep. But at the same time he felt a sense of urgency. He wanted to finish this job, or at least find out what the damn stone was and how they could be rid of it and it's seemingly supernatural qualities.

As they pulled up to a stop sign, he turned to his beleagured friends, "Well, we're home. The way I see it, we can either head home for some rest or head to the university and get to the bottom of this...whatever the hell this is." He caught the Padre's eyes in the rear view mirror, "Hey Father, I reckon you'd need a lay down. Got anywhere to go? Otherwise I can offer you a bed to rest on at the very least."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 3):

While the effects of the chemical tonic that the doctor had administered seem to have worn off, a sickly pallor still clings to the father. Lost among his own thoughts, Mike has to speak up again before he catches the father’s attention. “Yes, yes. I’d be grateful for a place to rest, though I don’t want to be a burden.”

Seated slightly hunched to protect the sutures on his wound he coughs gingerly. “What shall we do with the stone?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 08:50, Wed 25 Apr 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 4):

Clarke tapped his finger on the seat. "We should bury it. Take it out to some dark place, put it nine feet under and then go on with our lives."

His cards were sitting on his lap, they had been for half the trip. He flicked a card through his fingers. And then he flicked it back again.

"We need to be honest, we don't know who these occultists are. Or where their base of operations happens to be. Trusting anyone could be a mistake. Whether or not this stone is supernatural or dangerous is only half the issue, they believe it is and they're willing to kill for it. We either bury it, hide it somewhere no one will notice, or destroy it. I still think we should have gone to the ocean."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 5):

Leaning his head back against the seat the father let out a sigh. "You're right. Burying the stone won't stop the Order until they get their hands on it. We need to find a way to destroy it..." He trails off into silence. "This reminds me of a story they once told me at seminary school....

"Alexander the Great marched his army into the Phrygian capital of Gordium. Upon arriving in the city, he encountered an ancient wagon, its yoke tied with several knots all so tightly entangled that it was impossible to see how they were fastened. Local tradition held that the wagon had once belonged to Gordius, the father of the celebrated King Midas. An oracle had declared that any man who could unravel its elaborate knots was destined to become ruler of all of Asia. Ever an impetuous soul, Alexander was instantly seized with an ardent desire to untie the Gordian knot. After wrestling with it for a time and finding no success, he stepped back from the mass of gnarled ropes and proclaimed, 'It makes no difference how they are loosed.' He then drew his sword and sliced the knot in half with a single stroke."

Lifting his head from the seat he looks at each of you. "We similarly have a seemingly unsolvable problem. Alexander had a knot, we have a stone, although I fear our stakes are much higher than ruling Asia. We can bury the stone in the deepest darkest hole we can find but the Order won't stop until they find it and unleash it.The question we must answer now is: where is our sword?"

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 6):

Mike ashed his cigarette out the window and then put his foot on the accelerator when the coast was clear. He pulled into the intersection and turned left towards the city center.

"Padre, I think you're right. We have to figure out how to destroy the cursed thing." He lifted his eyes to make eye contact with Clarke and Byron, "I wish it was so simple as burying it. But if the cult doesn't find it, it's possible it will be unearthed by some innocent worker in the future. Do you think the University library will have anything on it?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 7):

Mike
Discarding the cigarette butt, Mike absently notes to buy another pack. Pulling into the intersection and towards city center, he can't help but feel like the party is step behind events, playing poker without knowing what cards they were dealt. Each detail they uncovered only seemed to make the picture muddier. Jack clearly meant for them to have the stone but he left them no clue as to what to do with it.

"Padre, I think you're right," he said, feeling the tension in his arms as trunk struggled against its crooked alignment. "We have to figure out how to destroy the cursed thing." He lifted his eyes to make eye contact with Clarke and Byron, "I wish it was so simple as burying it. But if the cult doesn't find it, it's possible it will be unearthed by some innocent worker in the future. Do you think the University library will have anything on it?"

Turning his eyes back to the road he sees the cloaked figure standing in the path of the old Chevy. Time seems to slow. In a moment of clarity Mike recognizes him, his nose picking up the distinct smell of sea salt. Face hidden by a hat, upturned collar, grotesque tentacles. Its the man that had accosted Mike at the roadhouse with that dire and ominous warning.

Welcome back Mike

Despite the damage to the truck's alignment, Mike cranks on the steering wheel, managing to just clip the figure sending it spinning away.

"Lord in Heaven! Did we hit someone?" exclaims Father Hennessy, instantly wincing and clutching his wound.

Looking in the rearview mirror, the road is empty expect for a pair of long skid marks and the smell of burnt rubber.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:03, Sat 28 Apr 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 8):

Zoe's smile reflected off the windscreen. All fourteen of her teeth danced as the truck took an abrupt turn. She gnashed her teeth. Still no face appeared.

He heard the priest mumble something in the back. Clarke continued to stare at the road sweeping beneath them.

"You tired?" he slurred to Mike, his mouth not properly pronouncing the words. "The visions usually get worse when that happens. First it's the gunshot, then the fires and always ends in screams. You still okay to drive when the devil has marked us with his brand?"

He patted the box on the floor. Some of the cards from his pack had spilled onto the box's lid due to the truck swerving. He picked up the first one.

"Look," he said mostly to himself, "the Jack of Spades. Like old Jack, with his box of mysteries and heart full of death." He held up the card as Zoe's face morphed with the character on the card. She winked at him and then disappeared, until all that was left was lipstick on the Jack's mouth. "We're doomed not matter book we find in that old library.."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 9):

Mike let out a shaken breath as he continued down the road, his eyes still searching for the stranger. The salty scent still in his nostrils.

"Did you guys see that man standing in the road? I clipped that bastard...."

With all the events that had occured over the past two Days he had forgotten the messenger at the Roadhouse. The slime on the floor, tentacled grotesquerie.

What's happening to me?

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 10):

Mike
"If you've hit someone we have to go back and see if they are hurt," exclaims the father. He attempts to turn to look out the back window, stopping with a painful grimace.

Clarke
As the vision of Zoe fades, Clarke shuffles the Jack back into the deck of playing cards with one hand, showing the deft manual dexterity of long practice. Something tugs at the back of his mind. The rest of the cards of course. He shakes his head to clear the fog that seems to have taken a permanent home there lately. Clarke reaches down to pick up the rest of the cards, noting that only four other cards had fallen out, two aces and two eights.

A sudden spark of fear burns through the fog as Clarke realizes something he had failed to notice before: he hadn't picked up the card off the lid of the box. He had picked it up off the side...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 11):

Clarke shook his head, knowing it wouldn't cure him but hoping it might. The smell of ash that had trapped itself in Mike's truck hadn't disappeared and the box looked slightly ajar.

"Shit," he said. "I think when you swerved the stone got loose. Let me see if I can find it under the seats. Byron you might want to look too."

He leaned over and scanned under the seat. He was sure he could see something there. Something that glittered, even though it wasn't a stone with reflective properties. Before reaching, he wrapped his hand with twice as much material as last time and dug deep, hoping to make contact with something.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 12):

Clarke
Reaching under the seat proves to be a difficult feat to accomplish in the cramped back seat of the truck. Shifting slightly in the seat Clarke thrusts his hand under the driver's seat in an attempt to grab the stone. As his cloth-wrapped hand gets close, he can almost swear that the stone shies away from his grasp.

Cursing under his breath Clarke shifts in his seat again reaches back under the seat. Again, the stone shies away, just out of reach.

Rather than be frustrated Clarke feels an almost unnatural rage. How dare that Sheriff extort him? How dare Jack saddle them with this burden? HOW DARE THE WORLD NOT BOW BEFORE HIM!

A sudden bump in the road bring Clarke back to reality and a semblance of calm. He feels the familiar presence of the stone ebb away...

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 13):

With one more lunge, Clarke grabbed the stone and brought it out from under the seat. He turned the box over and tried to drop it in. For a fraction of a second though, he thought he could feel little hands, dozens of them, trying to climb his skin and escape the pull of gravity. Then they were gone, and the black rock thudded into its container once more.

He snapped the box shut, raised his head, and stared straight into Zoe's knickers. Silk, black ones. The ones he'd never seen her wear but fantasised about constantly after discovering them when she was in the shower one day.

"Miss me?" she asked. The weight of her legs were heavy on his back. "Cause I missed that mouth of yours. Could use a little of it right now."

Clarke tried to remind himself this was not real. He was in a truck being driven by Mike. Zoe was dead. Long dead. She was skin and bones now.

He could feel her roll her eyes. "Always that brain of yours getting us in trouble." She closed her legs, they passed right through him. "If you'd just be more receptive to the possibilities of the old gods, we could have a lot more fun. A lot more."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:21, Wed 02 May 2018.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 14):

Mike
The truck comes to a shuttering halt as Mike pulls into the driveway. “Home sweet home padre,” he says opening the door and then helping the father gingerly out of the cab. A little worse for wear, he seems grateful for the help. Opening the front door, the eerie quiet lets Mike know that the house is empty. Shelly must be at the shop. Settling the father on a couch in the sitting room, Mike heads into the kitchen suddenly famished. On the counter he finds a note:

Dear Mike,
I know I shouldn’t worry but something doesn’t feel right. I thought about staying home but the boys are helpless without someone to get them off their backsides. There have been some men skulking about the shop as well but I think we scared them off. And an invitation came for you in the mail… I hope you come home soon Mike…

XOXO,
Shelly

Underneath the note is a thick envelope of aged vellum.  Abner Wick, Antiquarian is scrawled on the front. Inside is an invitation to a formal dinner at the Crawford Restaurant, the best and most expensive restaurant in Arkham. Outside of poker night, Mike didn’t know much about Abner. While his shop was located in Arkham, Mike didn’t know of anyone in the area that the antiquarian did business with. Most people assumed he came from old money, and as long was it was green most people accepted it without question.

Splashing a generous helping of whiskey in a glass despite the early hour Mike returns to the sitting room to find the father gently snoring on the couch.

No rest for the wicked

Sitting in his favorite armchair Mike lets out a sigh as he sips the whiskey. A long line of muddy footprints trail from the door.

Everything dies in the mud


Byron
An empty apartment, something usual but also something that he is strangely aware of, greets Byron. Despite what has happened, he feels invigorated. Even with all the danger, the academic in Byron couldn’t help but fixate on the astounding paranormal experience he just had.

He had spent a lifetime studying the paranormal and honestly, it wasn’t very fruitful nor did it pay well. Charlatans and snake oil salesmen abounded. But this was his first irrefutable evidence of… Byron didn’t know what. He has seen the mind of something inhuman, something otherworldly. It was almost intoxicating. Looking through his notebook, he ignored the pages of intelligible and worrying scrawls. He was on the cusp of something, Byron just didn’t know what…


Clarke
Clarke watched as Mike’s truck disappeared down the hill. “So much for the deadweight,” says Zoe as she waves at the fading vehicle.  Opening the front door of the cottage Clarke walked inside. The dust that has accumulated lets him know that Ida hasn’t been in. But Clarke was too tired to even care.

“Also deadweight,” chimes in Zoe. While Clarke was fully aware that she was a mental aberration, something had been off about Zoe recently. Ever since they encountered the stone she had become darker. “And that Mike guy. He needs to learn his place, a criminal trying to act all high and mighty.” Her fingers curl into a mock gun, pulling the trigger. “Just what the doctor ordered. Same for that brainy type.”

Zoe’s railing fades into the background as Clarke looks around the cottage for something, anything to distract himself. But the dearth of personal affects just serve to remind Clarke of the isolation he had crafted around himself. Hoping to find a drink, he opens to refrigerator, finding it empty. Ida defiantly hasn’t been in.

Clarke sank into spindly wooden chair as Zoe continued her rant. He felt like there was itch inside his head, an itch he couldn’t scratch. One that could drive him crazy….

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 15):

Mike felt his body settle heavily into the armchair as he took a swig from the glass of whiskey. He let the warmth rush down his throat as it settled into the pit of his stomach. He realized that he was famished.

He stood and set about making himself a sandwich in the kitchen. He ate it with relish and before he had known it he had made and consumed a second one. He downed his glass of whiskey to wash it all down with a satisfying sigh. The sound of the glass hitting the kitchen table gave way to the quietness of their home. He could hear the priest quietly snoring from the other room, but everything seemed eerily quiet. He suddenly felt very alone.

He put the invitation into his pocket and left the house and headed to their shop that was attached. He saw John Boy in the store room as he entered through the back door. "Hey John Boy, Shelly in?"

John Boy, a strong youth in his early 20s stopped to put down the crate he was moving from a storage shelf. "She's out front," he grunted. "By the way, there were some men skulking about here yesterday. We scared 'em off though."

Mike, happy to be in familiar company again, slapped him on the shoulder. "I bet you did." He pulled the youth close, "You mind staying at the shop tonight just to make sure there isn't any trouble here or at the house?" He pulled out a dollar bill, "I'll make it both you and Aaron's while."

An inquisitive looked passed over the youth's face, "Well sure, Mike. You know we're always happy to help. But Aaron has a date with his sweetheart tonight."

"Well, if you can get him to stay it'd be much appreciated. I'll explain everything when I can. Just make sure there's no trouble here. I might be out late again tonight." Mike smiled and squeezed the young man's shoulder in appreciation.

Mike turned and headed to the door leading to the front room, before entering the store front he turned and said, "And stay out of the moonshine tonight. I'll give you guys a bonus in a few days."

Shelly stood at the front register counting the coins from the days sales. "It's about time you came home." She said without turning to look at him.

"How'd you know it was me?" Mike asked in surprise.

"Because you're louder than you think. I heard you in the back talking to John Boy. Can we afford to pay them overtime?" She turned and looked at him disapprovingly.

Mike grinned, it had only been a few days but felt like years since he had last saw her. "Let me worry about that." He said and gave her a hug and kiss on her forehead, swimming in her scent.

"I take it you're going back out then?" She asked worryingly.

"Yeah, I got to meet Clarke and Byron soon. There's a priest sleeping on our couch. He had a run in with a firearm and he's on the mend. Can you make sure that he's taken care of and he and the boys get some supper?"

"Did you shoot him Mikey?" Shelly asked, trying to make a joke of her surprise.

Mike scratched the back of his head, "You know....I'll tell you all about it later. In the mean time, how about you lock up the shop early today and get into the house. Take care of the boys and don't let anyone in."

Shelly's expression turned deadly serious, "Mike, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?" She crossed her arms and pushed away from him, leaning against the counter. Her glare expecting an immediate responses.

Mike put his hands up in front of him in defense, "Hey hey, I'm not entirely sure yet. But I'll take care of it. Just want to make sure you're all safe." He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before turning to head out to his truck. He turned back, "Don't forget what I said. I'm serious now, Shel."

"Yeah, yeah." She said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand in irritation. "Just be careful."

Just before he closed the door to the shop, he heard her say, "You dumb bastard."

Mike grinned and stifled a chuckle and got into the truck.

By the time he pulled out into the road, his chuckle had turned into full throated laughter.

You dumb bastard.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:53, Mon 07 May 2018.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 16):

Elliot watched as the rickety truck pulled away from the house. Was his name Elliot? Maybe it was Emerson. Or maybe… Whatever his name was, it didn’t matter. He was so hungry. SO…. Hungry…. But he had been ordered to watch the house. Being careful to stay hidden in the low bushes he scooped up a handful of dirt and twigs and shoved it into his mouth. He could feel his teeth chip on the small stones and the fractured twigs scratch his throat as he swallowed. I want to go home a small part of his mind thought, a part that couldn’t even remember where home was.

As night began to fall the three figures retreated to the back of the building, soft candlelight illuminating the windows. Elliot, he decided that was his name, felt his stomach twist in pain. It was as if his stomach was gnawing on his backbone. He reached out for another handful of dirt when the backdoor of the house swung open. Elliot froze.

“I’m going to take a look around before it gets too dark,” said a young man as he stepped out onto the porch. Holding up a small lantern, the man seemed to meander aimlessly into the yard, whistling softly. Elliot watched as the man slowly came closer and closer to the bushes where he was hiding. SO… HUNGRY….

Elliot flattened himself against the ground as the man approached and placed the lantern on the ground. The sound of urine falling against the ground filled the night. Elliot tried to slightly shift away from the man, a twig snapping underfoot.

“HOLY JESUS!” exclaimed the man, scrambling to grab his lantern. Elliot cringed under the light as the man raised the lantern high. “You nearly made me piss myself kid. What are you doing out here?” The man approached cautiously, crouching slightly to bring him closer to Elliot’s level. “Are you out here by yourself?” the man asked, looking around warily. Elliot’s stomach growled audibly. “What happened to you kid? You’re bleeding!”

Elliot reached up to wipe away the blood on his chin. “Come on, let’s get you inside and find where your parents are.” The man placed a hand on Elliot’s should, gently but firmly guiding him towards the house

The man continued to talk but the words were lost to Elliot. He gaze fixated on the hand on his shoulder. “Maybe we have some stew left. I’ll see what Shelly can…”

SO….HUNGRY

A scream rent the night air. The backdoor to the house slammed open as Shelly stormed out, a shotgun in hand. “Aaron... Aaron!!!” she shouted into the night.

“The fucking kid bit me!!!”

Elliot barely heard the man as his dashed into the darkness, jaw churning furiously on a number of dismembered fingers.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 17):

Clarke could smell the fear on himself. It was more than the sweat which had crept into every pore. It had gotten inside of him, under his skin and burrowed all the way down.

His throat was dry. Parched.

He wanted to pray, but didn't know how anymore. He couldn't believe that God, Allah, were kind and generous when they left such painful possibilities open to their own creations. He really needed a drink.

Taking off his glasses, he put them on the small table next to the chair. He pinched his nose.

"Boo!" Zoe said as he opened his eyes.

He ignored her and stood up, slowly stripping off each piece of clothing as he headed to the shower. First came his shoes and socks, then his shirt, his pants and finally everything else. He turned the faucet and the water hit him: warm and fast and hard.

Zoe swayed in front of him. She had her hands on her head as she danced to "Oh Lady, Be Good." The water splashed off her hips and slicked her hair back. As she moved from left to right, her hair swung in time to the beat.

"I could blossom out, I know," she whispered, her voice rolled deep like Ella Fitzgerald's.

Clarke closed his eyes and focused on the sound of the artificial rain, but he could still hear the notes of the song above the water gurgling down the plughole. He stretched out his hand and pressed it against the cold tiles of the wall. Warm fingers wiggled up in-between his.

"With somebody just like you," Zoe continued. "Oh sweet and lovely baby, be good to me. Oh baby, be good to me."

He could feel it, the pulsating need to grab her hips and thrust everything he had into her. To show her that he was still virile. To make her scream and groan until the neighbours begged them to stop. He needed to prove that he was a man. Not a husk, not a shadow that had faded once she'd gone.

He reached for her ... and stopped. Not because she was an illusion. Not because she was a figment, but because his life was over. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor of the shower. The water spun round and round.

Zoe followed him, her face and body ageing as she came closer. There were wrinkles, faint ones, in her smooth skin. Her tight stomach became rounded, her legs thickened. She put her head on his lap and curled up next to him.

"So you found me?" she asked. She sounded tired, exhausted almost.

"I can't do this." Clarke swallowed hard and wiped away a tear that had started to form. "I want to come home."

"Oh baby," she reached up and touched his face. "I'm so sorry you ended up here. You were supposed to start again after the war. Live your life."

"Half a life."

"Sometimes that's all we get. They won't allow us to waste a single moment."

"Tell me to come home. Tell me it's not worth it. Tell me this is futile and I'm bleeding out on the battlefield."

Zoe stroked his cheek. He could feel her hand run over his day-and-a-bit stubble. The water splashed on her forehead as the dim light snuck in the dirty window at the top of the bathroom. Her eyes were half covered in shade, half covered in luminosity.

"Darwin, I want to... Baby I want to."

Clarke rocked his head back and stared at the ceiling. "But Mike..."

"In a different world, we would've been allowed to live our lives."

He leaned down and kissed her, gently, on the lips. Her eyes were duller than they had been. Less sparkly. Her face was spotted, but he loved her just the same.

"Next time I see you, you'll be..."

"Stupider." She paused, and smirked. "Sexier."

Clarke sat on the floor as the water circled around the drain. Zoe too. They sat there until the droplets turned cold.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:51, Tue 08 May 2018.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 18):

It’s bad when a wound smells, right? Burt thought to himself. He had been in this underground cell for days. The shirt that had wrapped around his broken arm had turned a foul yellow color. The last thing he remembered was walking to the roadhouse for the weekly poker game. At his age, it was one of the few things he had left to enjoy in life. He knew that Lucy and the others humored him, but it was nice to get out of the house. He loved Ida of course, but a man needed to have his vices and gambling was his.

Ida is probably worried sick. He might have slept a few off at Hibb’s, but he’d never been gone this long. With a soft grunt, he lifted himself off the floor and approached the grate the kept him sealed in the makeshift cell. He had long given up trying to pry it open. There didn’t seem to be a lock and with one good arm he doubted he had the strength to pry it open, even if he could find some sort of lever

A loud clunk and the squeal of rusty hinges were the first sounds Burt had heard since he had awoken in the cell, causing his heart to nearly jump out of his chest. “HELLO!? HELLO?!” Burt shouted. “Let me out of here!”

His shouts were met by a soft chuckle. “You left him down here sister? How delightfully cruel of you.” The sudden illumination that filled the chamber caused Burt to shield his eyes in pain. Once his watering eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the two figures that stood before him. Spitting images of each other, only barely distinguished by gender, were a pair of raven-haired twins.

“I had completely forgotten about him Hector, inconsequential gnat he is,” said the women.

“Please, whoever you are, let me out of here,” Burt pleaded reaching his good arm through the bars of the cell as if he could grasp freedom.

“Pathetic,” said the woman disdainfully, spitting in disgust.

“Don’t be so heartless sister. Surely there is some sort of arrangement we can come to.” The man placed a finger against his chin. “How long have you been in there?”

“I… I don’t know….” stammered Burt. “I was walking to the roadhouse and next thing I knew I was…” The man raised a hand and Burt felt his mouth run dry.

“Sister?” said the man.

“I don’t know, 2 or 3 days, I forget,” the woman said with a huff. “We’re supposed to be getting the book not chatting with this insect.”

“Come now Carla, give the man a chance.” The man started pacing in front of Burt’s cell, his footfalls kicking up small clouds of dust. “Now I’m nothing if not generous. So…. Let ‘s say two days.” Stopping abruptly the man pulled a knife from his belt with a flourish, holding it out hilt first. “The price of freedom, two fingers.”

Burt looked at the knife wordlessly, his outthrust hand falling limp. “Two… fingers?” he whispers softly.

“Yes, yes. And preferably soon,” the man says lifting the knife towards Burt again.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, Burt grasped the cold hilt of the knife. 2 fingers…. And I can go home…

He unwound the shirt from around his injured arm, revealing the odorous wound. Almonds his mind remarked, trying to escape the situation.

He placed the edge of the knife against the third knuckle of his pinkie. 2 fingers….. I love you Ida… He pressed down on the knife.

Burt awoke to the rough grit of stone against is cheek.

“Such a shame you only got to one.” Groggily Burt lifted himself into a seated position. On the floor before him was his severed finger. Looking up he saw the man wipe the now bloody knife on a white rag. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll be up to task. Come Carla, we can’t keep Abner waiting.”

The twins retreated into the darkness around them, leaving Burt alone, clutching at his hand.

“Oh, and by the way, the price of freedom has just gone up.”

Burt wasn’t sure what was the cause of the tears that welled up in his eyes, the ache in his hand or the empty feeling in his heart.

I love you Ida…
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:06, Wed 09 May 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 19):

Standing in the empty, threadbare apartment of an impoverished student, Byron could feel a suffocation at the edges, a sense of darkness tightening. His right eyelid spasmed involuntarily.

He shook off his depressive mood. His work was too critical now to ponder about the state of his life.

He shuffled straight to his meagre bookshelf. He had a small collection of contemporary parapsychology literature that the university library and psychology department shunned as “mere quackery”.

Tobin's Spirit Guide, a late 19th century catalogue published by a rather amateur group of seance enthusiasts, came back into vogue with the recent surge in the popularity in super natural matters among the public in the 20's.

Peppered with colloquial New England folk lore, old wives tales and crank detective stories alleging the occasional local murder had demonic or spectral culprits, the Spirit Guide catalogued sightings of apparitions that were often corroborated by witnesses across the region.

Each edition carried a full indexed listing of all the New England sightings of creatures and beings the Guide had published about in the years since it first began. The most numerous sightings were during the early 1870's right into the mid 80's.

The sightings thinned out suspiciously as the Guide's popularity waned, but became more frequent again right before the start of the Great War.

Byron flips to the Guide's index pages and checks in earnest if there was an entry for anything related to stone carved objects

 (novissimo rolled 30 using 1d100.  Check Tobin's Spirit Guide catalogue. Library use: 60)
This message was last edited by the player at 03:05, Fri 18 May 2018.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 20):

Thumbing through the the index, Byron finds little he didn't already expect. Alters, statues, orbs, the usual knickknacks of witchcraft. As he nears the last few pages, he finds an underlined entry: Stone, Devil's Tongue Flipping to the correct page Byron begins to read....


An 80-year old successful but uneducated farmer in 17th century Salem, Giles Corey and his wife Martha lived a pretty uneventful life. However, that all changed as the town became engulfed in the fervor of the local witch hunts. Giles wife soon became a target after questioning the unsubstantiated and widespread accusations of witchcraft that been levied by a number of local young girls.

The girls responded to this by accusing Mrs. Corey of herself being a witch. In court the girls alleged Martha of having a yellow bird familiar, and claimed Martha was biting them and scratching them during the trial. Martha Corey was subsequently sent to jail. Giles however, wouldn't stand for it. Despite the risks he went before the magistrate to defend his wife’s innocence against the false charges.

But it was for nought. The town had taken the girls despicable lies to heart and Giles found himself accused of being a wizard. Ultimately a dozen witnesses came forward to accuse Giles of being a high wizard, who presided over black masses.The very same girls that accused his wife came forward and claimed that GIles had forced them to write in the Devil's Book.

Giles refused to stand trial. He knew that if he was convicted, his son-in-law would not be able to inherit his farm as it would be taken by the state. The penalty in 1692 Salem for refusing to stand trial: death by pressing under heavy stones. On Monday September 9th, the sentence was carried out.

As Byron goes to turn the page he finds it missing and in it's place wedged a small handwritten note....

Giles Corey was a wizard strong, a stubborn wretch was he;
And fit was he to hang on high upon the locust tree.
So, when before the Magistrates for trial he did come,
He would no true confession make, but was completely dumb.
"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate, "What hast thou here to plead
To those who now accuse thy soul of crime and horrid deed?"
Giles Corey he said not a word, no single word spoke he.
"Giles Corey," said the Magistrate, "We'll press it out of thee."
They got them then a heavy beam, then laid it on his breast;
They loaded it with heavy stones, and hard upon him pressed.
"More weight," now said this wretched man.  "More weight!" again he cried;
And he did no confession make, but wickedly he died.

At the very bottom in an almost illegible hand is written: ONLY CAN STONE REVEAL A LIE
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:55, Mon 21 May 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 21):

Clarke sat in the armchair. He was cleanly shaven, his hair washed and spectacles polished. Next to him sat his briefcase packed full of odds and ends that he might need. He had a lock pick kit in there, sketch pad, his ancient books of incantations, a passport and anything else that might save him from the looming shadows.

His revolver sat in his lap. He had meant to put it away, to be ready when Mike came to pick him up for the university, but it sat in his hands. It was 10 years old now but showed little signs of wear. He had cleaned and oiled it every weekend. Now he did it every night.

He wanted to put it away, he needed to put it away but as the sun reflected into the room, he found he couldn't. It was too much a part of him now. A reminder of the price he'd had to pay for all of his sins.

He sat, waiting, for the knock on the door.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 22):

Mike navigated the familiar streets of Arkham with ease despite the pull on the truck's alignment. He felt reinvigorated. Perhaps due to being in familiar territory after a long few days in no man's land, and perhaps due to seeing Shelly again. In any case, he was a man on a mission, and having an urgent sense of purpose made him nostalgic for the days in the war. When despite the hours of boredom mixed with terror, there was a sense of purpose to any given mission.

As he turned a corner to head towards Clarke's home, his mind drifted to the events of the past few days. First, there was the strange letter from Jack which was sent to the three of them. Then followed by the fact that his father had received word that he had died in Europe. But there was no body. After considering what they had found out from the priest, it made sense to conclude that Jack had faked his own death to escape the continent. That, however, didn't seem to work as this weird occult group was still after the stone.

So where was Jack? It was possible that he was indeed dead. That the cult had gotten to him and was merely seeking out the stone now. The father had said that he left the stone with Henessy and was perhaps trying to throw his pursuers off its trail.

Would be something to see that old bastard again. Though I'm not sure I want to.

But there were still more questions to be answered. If Jack was alive, where was he? And why did he choose to contact them and get them in this mess. Furthermore, who was the hooded figure who warned him at the Roadhouse and he hit at the intersection earlier that day? And the biggest question of them all, what the hell was the stone and what horrors and powers was it ultimately capable of?

Though Mike didn't get any peace of mind, thinking through the events did help make sense of them in some way. There was something else...there had to be. Too many threads and possibilities.

He was still mulling over the possibilities and oddities when he pulled over in front of Clarke's residence. He stepped out of the truck and as the sun was setting at his back knocked on the door.

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 23):

Clarke slid the gun into his holster and stood up. He brushed down one of his few remaining tattered suits and walked to the door. He could sense Mike's weight behind it. The tiredness of a man that simply wanted to work hard and live ordinarily.

"But these are not ordinary times," Lara said. She had the younger Zoe in a head grip. His ex-lover was trying to squirm her way out, her breathing raspy and inconsistent.

Clarke opened the door and pushed it far enough that he couldn't see them in the alcove.

"Mike," he said. "Prompt as usual. Shall I get my things? Or would you like to come in for tea?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 24):

Mike checked his watch and noting the time said, "I suppose we have some time for a cup of tea."

He noticed Clarke's red eyed weary looked seemed no different than before. His eyes still flickered towards something unseen, as if his attention was getting dragged away from the present. He stepped in to the doorway and said, "We haven't had time to catch up since everything started with," he gestured to nothing in particular, "Well this whole mess. You keeping up well since you got back?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 25):

Clarke opened the door wide. "Please come in," he said. "Take a seat in the living room." He pointed to the space on the left. Two worn chairs and a low table filled the tiny space. The lacy curtains showed their age, their whiteness long gone and a faint brown had interwoven with the fabric. A small cupboard, with some cracked pottery sat just beneath the long window pointing out to the front yard.

Lara and Zoe still struggled, he could hear them bang against the door even though they were phantoms. Zoe screamed, as if her hair was being plucked from her head thread by thread.

"I'll," Clarke winced as he realised he had been standing in front of an open door too long, "get the tea. What kind do you like?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 26):

Although, Mike seemed a little reluctant to enter the cottage, Clarke carried on. He turned and walked to the kitchen. It was straight down the hall on the right. Lara and Zoe flickered in front of him as if they were teleporting. Lara kept her hold on Zoe even though her muscles seemed to buldge under the strain.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 27):

Light shone through the three-holed lace curtains. They were things Clarke promised he'd replace it next time he got paid. Then next time he had money. And now sometime before he died.

Which felt a lot sooner than he wanted.

He ran his hand over the the tiled kitchen, the cracks clearly showing its age of something before the start of the century. The metal sink, they only thing he had been forced to refurbish, looked out of place. It was shiny to start, and smooth. It irked him. He hadn't paid for a modern house.

Opening up the second cupboard, he pulled out his kettle. Again stainless. A sign of the times. He turned on the taps and filled it to the brim, far more than two cups but he didn't know how many he should make. Mike's body had felt heavy, the air around him weighed down. This conversation could get really long.

He put the kettle on the stove. It clicked with a screech. He wasn't sure if Mike had come in yet, but he hoped he had. The weather was unusually warm for the season. At least inside had shade.

The drawer with the matches didn't open the first time he pulled it. It stayed firm so he yanked it again and it came. The inside was a mess, full of odds and sods that belonged in a kitchen but didn't. Like the five screws he had collected and nine bottle tops. The packet of red matches was under them, a little worn but still intact.

He took them out and set them on the side of the bench. With a knob turn, he heard the gas start to flow. After a couple of seconds, he lit the match and put it next to the element. It lit up, the flame flickering and heating the metal.


The flickering brought back memories.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 28):

EGYPT: Sometime 1919

Frank W. Enderson was slumped against the truck. He had a self-rolled cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Ash had spilled from it and was making more stains on his blue overalls. Even though it was night, he wore a cap that a newsboy might wear. It was slumped low over his eyes. Although he was awake, from Clarke's position it was difficult to tell because the man's left eye was barely a slit now. Shrapnel out of Gallipoli was how he'd explained it.

"Not a fan of these raids mate," Frank said. "We go tits up out here, might as well have died in the war."

Clarke unfolded the telegram he had received from his commander. "Meet contact. Kafr El Hubi. Q7. Second house, N. Knock 4. Bring Gold."

"There are no tits out here," Clarke reminded Frank.

"Bloody shame that. Could do with a good pair."

The kettle strung over the fire whistled, indicating it had boiled. Frank picked it up and poured the water into his metal cup. He want back to his position, resting against the truck. His face now was mostly hidden in shadow. "Wouldn't have some milk over there yank?"

"No," Clarke said, putting the telegram away.

"Who'd have known? Thought you were all a bunch of softies. Couldn't go a night without some of those classic comforts. Haven't you got some sort of electric washer now? Your women can't turn a handle for a bit cause they're too busy dancing to jazz and some shit?"

Clarke curled his hand into a fist. The man's face was impassive. The only thing changing was the glow around his cigarette butt as it wore further down.

"I'm sure the Gatsby's have many things I don't," Clarke said.

"Guess they would." Frank extinguished his cigarette on the sand. He cradled his cup. "Not much difference between here and home. Know we're not supposed to talk about that and all, but the twang probably gives away where I'm from. Can't be helped mate, born and raised out in these dunes. Don't get to sound sophisticated."

Frank tapped the side of the cup, a metal ring on his third finger made a clinking noise in the stillness of the dunes. "What I'm saying is if there's some type of sacrifice to be made for that book you keep pawing through, I'll do it. Dying here be like getting smacked by a big red at home. Slightly different sky, but clear all the same."

"There's no ritual sacrifice," Clarke said, as calmly as he could. Why Occidentals believed everyone else's culture rested on ritual sacrifice and death to gods he didn't understand. Especially as Abraham had almost murdered his first born for a voice in his head.

"Nah, mate, you got it wrong." Frank leaned in. His worn face, one in its late thirties with scars a plenty, hovered above the flames. "Ritual or not, there's always a sacrifice if the thing's precious. And this thing here, it's plenty precious. Got the brass run around calling in favours. They plucked me out of hell itself for this jaunt so you better know, I'm ready for my part. 50/50 is how I see it. Maybe I get to die under the ole Southern, maybe out here under these odd constellations. But sand is in my skin. You got it?"

"I'm here to make sure it doesn't get to that," Clarke said, dropping sand on the fire. The stars shone at him. He was a long way from the new life he'd promised Zoe under that other night sky.

Frank slurped his tea in the dark. "Goddamn yanks," Clarke heard him half mumble, "so damn confident."

The next time they sat around a fire, a house was burning.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:34, Sun 05 Aug 2018.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 29):

Clarke heard the whistle of the kettle. He ran his left arm up his right. The burn marks had long faded but sometimes at night he could still feel a stinging sensation. The military doctor had told him it was so psycho-something over and then had asked a lot of questions about his father. He had refused to answer any of them.

He took the kettle off the heat and put it on one of the other elements to cool. Turning the knob for the gas, he heard a click. His stove didn't click.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 30):

Mike followed Clarke into the house and took a seat in the living room where Clarke had directed him to. He sat on the couch, eyed an ash tray on the table among newspapers and Arabic language sheets of paper that appeared to be torn out of a book or something. Probably the Quran or some other holy text, though Clarke didn't seem as religious as he used to be. Mike fished a smoke out of his pocket, "You mind if I smoke?" When Clarke didn't respond from the kitchen where Mike could hear him shuffling about and cleaning up. When Clarke didn't reply Mike went ahead and lit it anyways as he dragged the ash tray closer to him.

Gotta' be there for a reason.

Mike took a long drag off the Lucky Strike, unsure of where to start. It'd been a long time. Maybe too long. The good old days before the war a distant memory.

"How you been holding up these past few days? When you were in Africa did you ever hear of or see anything like this?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 31):

Zoe was holding a worn revolver. Something fancy, perhaps from the 1800s. One of those show pistols an aficionado pretends they shot once.

Her face was bruised, her lip nicked and her left arm had a cut all the way down it. Her apparition was bleeding on Clarke's floor. "You can't throw me away. I AM ZOE!"

She held the gun at Clarke's head, the barrel feeling cold when they touched. Despite the sensation, Clarke ignored her. He pulled out two cups and a bag of ground tea. Opening one of the top drawers, he rattled around until he found two strainers and propped them on the lids of the cups. After adding some of the tea into them, he carefully poured the water.

Mike's question, "When you were in Africa did you ever hear or see anything like this?" echoed into the kitchen. It startled Zoe, for a second, her gun moving away from Clarke's face. In an instant, a bloodied Lara crash tackled her into the kitchen's wall. Clarke heard the sound of them breaking the tiles, but saw no damage.

He kept pouring the boiled water.

"Not really my line of work Mike," he shouted back. "The brass liked me to smooth over their thefts of national treasures, not fight mystical demons."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:58, Tue 07 Aug 2018.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 32):

"Aye, I suppose not." Mike chuckled as he exhaled acrid smoke through his nostrils. "In any case, you didn't really answer my question. How are you holding up? I mean...it's been years. And I think these past few days have been harder then any of us would care to admit. Hell, I haven't seen you since France."

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 33):

Clarke let the tea sit for a little as he thought over his answer. How was he? Suicidal? Tired? Normal for 40 year old veteran?

How much did Mike know and how much did he want to tell him? How much could he tell them before it all became too much?

"The war wasn't what they promised us," he said. "I didn't get my parade after all that blood. You get yours?"

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 34):

Mike took a drag off his cigarette, "No, man. It was  wholesale slaughter and murder for what? For mud and rock. They promised glory and we got a lifetime of sleepless nights." He was surprised at how long how had kept these thoughts inside and how easily they fell out now in the presence of an estranged old friend and comrade. "I don't know if you heard or noticed when you saw him in France, but the war changed Jack - hell it changed all of us. But something happened to him there and something dark and mad crawled up into him. I don't know if he's the same man, if he's even alive. The war changed us. It changed him. It changed me. And it changed you, didn't it?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 35):

Clarke put the two cups on a tray along with a bottle of milk from the fridge. He walked into the lounge. Mike was sitting in the same chair Clarke had almost finished what the war had started.

"Blood and mud should be a book title," he said. He laid the tray on the small side table. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes. Tapping one twice on the pack, he flicked a lighter out of his sleeve - an old sleight of hand trick - and drew back.

"Spent a lot of time getting away from the front when I got stateside, things no man has any right to know. No person, at least. But could never go far enough."

He sat in the chair next to Mike, slumped more like it. "You remember that old hymnal, 'Ain't no mountain?', my life's akin to that."

He turned and smiled, in a sad way, "But you made it, didn't you Mike? Got settled with Shelly, have a house and a business. Who would have thought you would have become the most respectful out of all of us?"
This message was last edited by the player at 05:39, Thu 09 Aug 2018.

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 36):

Mike
"Who would have thought you would have become the most respectful out of all of us?" A strained silence fills the air between the two old friends, if they could be called that anymore. Clarke's small twitches and fidgets shouldn't have bothered Mike but they did. John Boy fidgeted like a puppet getting its strings yanked if someone so much as even mentioned the police. Mike couldn't put his finger on it but it was almost like Clarke was seeing things that weren't there....

To buy time, he took a long drag from his cigarette. The dim cherry raced towards his fingers, leaving a long piece of ash in its place. He reached over to tap his cigarette into the ashtray but paused as a cockroach skittered across the surface of the side table. It was so black it was almost obsidian. A visceral urge to smash it rose within Mike but in moments the roach disappeared over the edge of the table. The urge passed only to be replaced with gooseflesh.

Clarke
Mike didn't seem to have a reply ready but that didn't matter. That's why Clarke had asked the question. He couldn't see Zoe or Lara, but he could hear them shouting obscenities at each other in another room. Fine with letting the silence stretch, Clarke reached over for the bottle of milk to pour himself a cup. As he lifted the bottle, a cockroach raced out from underneath. It was as black as night...

"I don't like bugs...." says a small voice behind Clarke.
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:21, Thu 09 Aug 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 37):

Mike shivered as the cockroach raced under the table. Disgusting creatures.

Clarke's reply had caught him off guard. He wasn't expecting such curt resentment from someone he once called a friend. He scratched his beard as he recovered from the riposte.

"Well, I'm not sure if bootlegging is a respectable career choice but it pays the bills. Though it's true, without Shel I probably wouldn't even be here. She is my rock, if you will. An anchor." He took a drag off his cigarette and leaned forward to stub out the lucky strike. He locked eyes with Clarke and asked with genuine concern, "I seem to remember you talked about a woman in France. What happened to her?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 38):

Clarke scratched his chin, and continued to fidget. He didn't look back, his eyes stayed straight on as if nothing had happened. After all, he didn't like bugs either. Especially dark ones with hypnotizing colours.

"Are you seeing this roach too?" he asked Mike. "I have issues with reality sometimes. Can't quite get a hold on it these days."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 39):

Mike noticed the deflection, he knew he hit a sensitive spot and Clarke was avoiding the topic. Something happened to her and possibly to him.

"Yeah, I saw it." He remembered the repulsion and urge to smash the wretched creature on the table. Mike slapped his legs in good humour, "You don't exactly keep the cleanest house. Let's go meet Byron and head to the rendezvous. What do you say?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 40):

Clarke extinguished his cigarette and took a long sip of his tea. He stared at the scuttling roach, it's blackness all consuming but also oddly shiny. Once they walked out that door, everything started again.

"I once went looking for an Egyptian sundial, a lieutenant wanted it for his ... research. It was a simple thing, black like the night sky which glittered in the darkest rooms. Ancient technology is what they had called it. We all went looking. Lara, the driver, Ahmed, Carlos, Michael, Jessica, Peter, Khaled. And we kept looking until there was only two of us left."

He made a move to squish the cockroach but it scuttled away. "Jack's gone Mike. Whatever this stone is or isn't, it's another sundial. Everyone is going to die, and if we're very fortunate and very smart then it will be quick. That's what happens when you step out that door."

In reply to trahernwithglasses (msg # 41):

Mike empathized with Clarke's fear. Hell, he wanted to go home and get into bed for a few days and emerge to the smell of Shelly cooking some bacon and brewing a big pot of coffee. But he knew in his gut that it was impossible now. Something had been set in motion that had spiraled far beyond any of their control.

Mike stood and motioned to the box containing the stone, "That may be true. Hell its a damn fact. But I know that this cult will stop at nothing to get that stone. Whatever it is, I get the feeling their not interested in making stone soup with it. And they will come for it. They will come for us. I'd rather do something than sitting around waiting for them to decide. I say we decide and we fight."

Mike took a step towards the door, "if the war taught us anything, it's that we're good at fighting. Probably the only thing we're good at."

He turned and looked at his old friend, "You coming, Clarke?"

In reply to Jrodimus (msg # 42):

Clarke flicked a card through his fingers. It didn't make it halfway before he couldn't sustain the concentration to keep it going. The card floated down to the ground. It was the Jack of Spades.

He stood up and dusted off his jacket. "This isn't fighting Mike," he said. "This is assisted suicide." He picked up his bag and headed to the door. "So let us go and meet the dark void that calls itself hell."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:19, Sat 11 Aug 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 21):

Byron finishes reading the catalogue entry and the creepy hand scrawled poem.

Wide eyed, he turns the page, then turns it back. The next entry is an unrelated article about Jersey devil sightings.

He procured his issues of Tobin spirit guide second hand, often from flea markets, and then previous owners did God knows what to them.

Given the recent occurrences this poem is probably more than just serendipitous

"Salem witch trials, eh?" Byron murmurs.

He gets up from his tiny worn study desk and heads to the bedroom. At the end of the bed is an old army foot locker. He takes a key from underneath the footlocker and proceeds to open it. It creaks as he does.

Inside is where he stores volumes of Hurlbert's Magic and Alchemy Almanac, dated to the mid 18th century and a bit more rare and valuable than 20 year old copies of Tobin's Spirit guide.

Dated from a time when the colonies were getting to be a bit more anarchic, the Almanac gives such supernatural advice as to when best to plant crops based on astrological conditions, the best uses for mandrake root juice and how to reverse Bermudan voodoo curses.

Byron skims through the indexes of his limited set of Almanac copies to see if there is an entry on the Salem witch trials.

In reply to novissimo (msg # 44):

Skimming though the index, Byron finds but one listing for the Salem Witch Trials, which leads him to the following entry:



While the rest goes on to explain the post-trial investigations, one section catches Byron’s eye. It was an accounting of the conditions inside the jail where the witches were held by one of the jailors. He describes it as follows:

“I told Justice Stoughton I didn’t want to work another night shift but he said that god made demands of the strong…. Feels like the lord has been demanding a lot lately. I hate being around these witches. They plead and cry as if they weren’t foul on the inside. Dirty filthy hands reaching for me as I walk by. I wish I could just plug up my ears and ignore them. One in particular makes my skin crawl, the negress that belongs to the Parris family. She’s the only one who admitted guilt so we have her in a separate cell. But she doesn’t eat or drink. She just sits in the middle of her cell clutching a stone and muttering under her breath. I couldn’t hear what she was saying at first but when I finally got the courage to get as close as I dared I could just make out the words. She just repeated the same thing over and over:

I, Tituba, an Indian and a slave, am stronger than the captain with his sword, am richer than the merchant with his money, am wiser than the scholar with his boos, is mightier than ministers and magistrates, with all the fear and reverence that attend them. For I can fill their bones with aches and pains, can make them cough with asthma, shake with palsy, can make their daughters see and talk with ghosts, or fall into delirium and convulsions. I have the Evil Eye, and Evil Hand. A touch from me and they are weak with pain, a look from me and they consume and die. The death of cattle and the blight of corn, the shipwreck, the tornado, and the fire, these are my doings, and they know it not. Thus I work vengeance on mine enemies. Who, while they call me a slave, are slaves to me…
This message was last edited by the GM at 09:46, Tue 14 Aug 2018.

In reply to The Keeper of Secrets (msg # 45):

Clarke got in Mike's truck and waited. His heart had slowed to a steady rhythm but his knuckles and hands were still white. It took all he had to keep them steady.