Shutting the door seemed to work well; he can understand why Sully felt compelled to fire that shotgun, but now he felt incredibly exposed. He silently agreed with Jake's conclusions that they were now given away.

"I'm afraid not. Nothing that can be of great help, I'm afraid. With our element of surprise gone, I'm not sure what the next course of action should be. If we leave, I'm afraid that coming back won't be as easy. If we stay, discovery is likely. Do we dig in against that possibility?"

"I say we rush Bishop," Sully says, still a bit too loudly. Having engaged one of the enemy, his blood is up and the journalist is eager for action. At gestures from the others he tries to moderate his volume. "Thats what we were talking about. Now is not the time for faint hearts and waiting for him to marshall his forces. Let’s get him!”

He put a finger over his mouth as he looked over at Sully.

"I...did they enjoy having you around back during the war, Sully?"

Arthur shook his head and put up a hand.

"I'm sorry. I don't like our chances if we rush him, but...what things we read, Jake, Sully, we absolutely can't let them continue doing this."

Arthur took a step toward Jake.

"I'd sooner die."

Arthur looked over to Professor Wells, knowing he would understand, that he had read that book.

As the investigators speak, the sound of heavy footfalls is heard nearby. Through the archway into the dining room, the group sees a tall man approaching the kitchen at a quick step. He is dressed in a heavy black overcoat, a woolen muffler around his neck. On his head he wears a tall top hat. He is powerfully built, his appearance repulsive; his features are sickly and cadaverous, his skin sunken and diseased. As he draws close, the men can smell that he reeks of formalin. His pale, milky eyes have a glassy, unblinking stare.

As he steps into the kitchen, it is clear that he can see the investigators’ firearms, but seems unperturbed by them. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, he withdraws a straight razor, which he opens with a flick of his wrist.

OOC: Jake possess a higher DEX than the undead murderer, so he can act first. The rest of the investigators will be able to take their actions after the killer has taken his.

"Stay back, foul creature!" he said, hoping to buy some time. He made a strange gesture with his hands, one that he hoped he was doing correctly according to what he read, though he couldn't be certain if such things would work.

OOC:

Don't know if this is rightly applicable but neither does Wells!

Going to try to make the Voorish Sign.

This is it! The top hat killer, just as predicted. This is the creature that has been murdering all those young people for years, and now he's here -- in Jake's sites. His Roscoe is ready.

BLAM! BLAM!

OOC: I believe the close range gives him an extra die for each shot and the double tap takes it away.

16:28, Today: Jake Morris rolled 95 using 1d100.  Jake shot 2.

16:28, Today: Jake Morris rolled 7 using 1d100.  Jake shot 1.

A good 'un and  bad 'un

Jake’s pistol cracks twice. One of the shots blows a meat cleaver off of the rack over the cutting board, while the other finds the center of cadaverous figure’s chest. The tall man gives a slight grunt at the impact, but the injury does not slow his pace at all.

Drawing close to the detective, he swings his straight razor at Morris, the blade missing the detective’s face by centimeters.

13:59, Today: Simon Trask rolled 93 using 1d100.  Attack - Razor.

In the midst of the combat, Professor Wells shakily traces an intricate symbol in the air before him, ordering the killer to stop in the strongest voice he can muster. Quite suddenly, a strange chill overtakes the room, rendering it briefly colder than even the interior of the walk-in freezer. Briefly, each of the investigators can see their breath steam, as if they are walking outside in the deep of winter.

The tall man pauses, his dead gaze blank and detached, his arms falling to his sides. To the investigators, it almost appears as if he has entered some kind of stupor.

OOC: Professor, casting the Voorish Sign will cost you 1 magic point and 1 sanity point.

About to pull his trigger, Sully hesitates. Now what, Professor?

"It won't last long! Put an end to him now...or we run!" he said encouraging his fellows to act quickly.

Sully takes a step forward and jams the muzzle of his shotgun against the thing's knee. He pulls one trigger but the muzzle jumps away from its aiming point, the load flying into the floor. He immediately steadies himself and tries again, this time squeezing the trigger gently. The damage is bloody indeed.

Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 71,5 (51) for  Shotgun, bonus die.
Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 78,10 (18) for Shotgun, bonus die again.
Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 5 using 2d6+2 for damage.

Arthur, as frightful as he had yet been, looked upon the visage of this strange man, the same one he had seen and described to the others.

And he froze.

At least, he froze until the Professor used that strange sign they had found in the book. Then, he pulled the trigger on the shotgun he was toting.

OOC: "02:37, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 6 using 2d6+2.  shotgun damage?!

02:36, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 74,7 using 1d100,1d10.  shotgun, bonus die x2.

02:36, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 22,10 using 1d100,1d10.  shotgun, bonus die."

10 counts for 0, making it an 02 on the first roll, which I'm certain has some sort of effect  on the damage, although I can't recall it.

Sully and Arthur each pull the triggers of their weapons, the blasts from the shotguns echoing through the halls of the antiquated residence.

Sully’s shot destroys one of the tall man’s knees, reducing it to a twisted mass of torn tissue and splintered bone. The injury sends the hulking stranger to the floor. As he topples, Arthur fires, the blast tearing a gaping hole in the murderer’s chest, a handful of his ribs visible at the borders of the massive wound. The walking corpse’s straight razor goes skittering across the floor, sliding into the adjacent dining room.

Despite the terrible wounds, no blood is visible anywhere; only chips of bone and scorched bits of mummified flesh litter the floor. The suffocating reek of formalin causes the investigators’ eyes to water.

As he crashes onto his side, the tall figure seems to regain some semblance of awareness. Grotesquely, he makes trembling attempts to rise, his horrific injuries apparently having robbed him of his strength, but not of whatever terrible force animates him. His efforts are spasmodic, resulting in nothing but weak, flailing movements that propel him only a few inches across the floor.

OOC: The killer is not yet dead, but he cannot cause harm to the investigators in his condition. Combat is effectively over.

For God's sake, Jake, end him. says Sully, hoarsely.

Arthur wobbled back, going to the wall, but he also spoke, saying, "No, we should try speaking to him. He must...know things."

Arthur, shaking in his hands, lit a cigarette--an inappropriate time to smoke if there ever was one.

Morris trains his pistol on the undead creature, looking back at his fellow investigators questioningly, waiting for feedback on what course of action he should take.

Without further feedback, Jake leans on his own instincts, which are in agreement with Sully’s. He fires twice, the reports loud in the quiet that has overtaken the house. The dead man jerks at each shot, but continues his struggles to stand, his fingertips scraping the tiled floor.

Jake fires two more shots, the last causing tall figure to slump to the floor, all of his movements ceasing. The investigators watch the dead man for a few tense moments, but he remains entirely still.

Arthur crept forward, looking down at the body. After a long time staring, he shivered and, turning back to his compatriots, he asked the obvious question...

"...what now, then?"

Sully prods the still figure with the muzzle of his reloaded shotgun.

"Now we find Bishop and have some...words with him."

Sully hefts his gun and heads for the door that leads to the rest of the house.

Arthur nodded grimly to Sully's suggestion. He stepped aside, to wherever the Professor had found himself.

"We're nearly there."

He was ready to move on.

"We have to keep going," Wells said, not quite knowing what propelled him. Whatever Bishop was behind, whatever the man was up to, Wells simply had to know. He had to understand what was at play. And so he followed Quinn as he went ahead. Recent history had shown that firearms were not his strong point, but he nonetheless felt somehow, irrationally, more secure with his in hand.

Jake scowls at the corpse of the possibly re-dead dead man, but leaves it be as the others rush for the door, shoving in amongst them to grab Sully's shoulder and hiss at him: "Hey, we all keep our voices down 'til we've got eyes on this guy, yeah? Far as he knows, we emptied our guns into his goon and got sliced to bits: let's keep him thinking the other bastard's chowing down on us as long as possible."

He lets the reporter go and motions the others to head past him with his gun, still not trusting the big bastard apparently immobilised behind them. Despite trusting hot lead more than cold iron or holy water, Jake keeps an eye out as they go for anything that looks like it might be as useful as Professor Wells' magic trick.

"Sure, Jake, you're the boss." Sully edges past the private dick and pushes open the door leading to the rest of the house. He looks into the dimly-lit space beyond.

With a light burning in the room behind them, Jake drops his flashlight into his pocket, hefts his crowbar under his arm and starts feverishly reloading, careful not to drop anything on the floor. Sully might be alarmingly inclined to shoot in close quarters, but he certainly wasn't hesitant. Taking out the big guy's knees had been real smart, too.

Sully leads the investigators into the dining room, the centerpiece of which is a polished mahogany table, with sufficient seating for eight. Between two tall, curtained windows on the southern wall stands a glass fronted cabinet which holds a matching set of fine porcelain dishes.

Eastward, the dining room connects to a foyer. An imposing ebony hall tree with a tall mirror stands to the left of the Bishop House’s front door. On the hall tree’s bench is placed a single piece of paper, what appears to be a hand written note. A dark wood staircase in the foyer leads up to the home’s second floor.

On the foyer’s eastern wall, a wide archway leads into a living room. The room is richly furnished, though the furnishings are somewhat outdated, several appearing as though they were crafted around the middle of the previous century. A pair of carved wooden doors in the eastern wall of the living room stand open, leading into a library with several floor to ceiling shelves which are laden with books.

The investigators do not see anyone within the rooms. For the moment, the Bishop residence is still.

Arthur stepped forward uncertainly and sat by the note on the bench. Very carefully, he placed the sawn-off shotgun, which he had not reloaded, on the bench. After a moment he reached down to the note, picking it up and reading it silently and intently.