The alleyway which is home to the forgotten entrance to the vacant sewer tunnel is almost palpably still when the investigators return to it, well after dark. Although the area surrounding the Stanton Street Cemetery is not well traveled at night, it seems especially quiet now, as though an unnatural hush has fallen across the deserted neighborhood like a shroud.

Victoria Surrette was able to communicate to Jake Morris that the wall at the far western end of the abandoned sewer tunnel sits adjacent to an active line. Were it to be breached, the vacant tunnel would almost certainly be flooded in short order.

The iron cover, flaked with rust, covers the entrance to the underground, just as it was after the investigators replaced it following their last foray below. North of the access, the gathered men can see that one of a trio of trash cans has been overturned, its side deeply dented, some pieces of stained clothing tossed atop it.

Sully, unloaded shotgun in the crook of his arm, calls Jake's attention to the stained cloth. A steel sandhog helmet with an attached (but as yet unlit) carbide lamp makes the reporter loon a bit incongruous in his suit.

Jake nods at Sully's shotgun, catches Arthur and the Professor's eyes and nods at the general area, then strides up nearer the can and heap of suspicious stains, getting out his crowbar. Whether to give some poor city rat the shock of its squeaky life or to crack some fiend skull before levering up the manhole cover, now seems the time for it.

The clothing does not conceal any unwelcome presence, such as hungry rat, or worse. Shifting through the garments with his crowbar, Jake can see that the small pile is comprised of a man’s light blue buttoned up shirt, a striped necktie, a tweed jacket, and a straw fedora. All four pieces of attire are badly damaged, the shirt and tie virtually reduced to tatters. Blood is streaked on all of the clothes. By Jake’s estimation, the stains are fresh, no more than two or three hours old.

Finding no more clothing, body parts or ghouls underneath those visible, Jake looks back at the others. When he speaks, his voice has an audibly dangerous edge of fury. "Bastards stole a man, and his pants."

The detective makes all haste at getting the manhole open, grunting to Sully: "-that something about the heart ritual, bare chests? Can't imagine they're big into decency."

"Killing people and taking their hearts out so that you can reanimate them using a dark ritual is indeed indecent - to say the least," he said, agreeing with Jake. He had followed Sully's suggestion for equpiment, wearing the helmet with the lamp similarly affixed. It made sense not to have to hold too many things. He had an empty backpack with him, as well as the weapon he had previously acquired, in case he should need to use it again, which he hoped not too; he hadn't proven terribly effective with it.

Grim-faced, Arthur took his photographs of the clothes, and then gathered them into a sack to bring out as evidence.

He turned to the Professor and voiced his curiosity on a particular point.

"Suppose they did that...that ritual...the essential salts and compounds. Do you figure they would you have to use them to bring back the same person?"

Although it requires most of the physical effort that the detective can muster, he is able to lift the iron cover, sliding it over to one side, the metal scraping across the paved surface of the alley.

Descending the metal rungs to the passage below, the investigators find it as still as the alley overhead. Venturing northward into the east-west tunnel, the group can see, almost directly across from their position, the narrow branch that ultimately connects to the basement of the Bishop House.

Further west, the investigators can see the breaks in the tunnel walls that they had observed previously, one leading into a natural passageway that travels north, the other providing access to a narrow cavern which winds southward.

In front of the north leading break in the tunnel wall sits a wheeled steel dolly with three wooden crates stacked on it, seemingly abandoned.

OOC: As a reminder, the map for Group 1 provides a layout of the east-west tunnel. The abandoned dolly is resting close to location 5 on the map.

"Hope you brought your flash, Arthur," Jake murmurs as his torch is first to pick out the abandoned crates. He pauses long enough once everyone's down to listen for active scurrying before approaching them, crowbar twitching in the other hand.

The tunnel remains quiet. Jake hears no movement nearby as he approaches the dolly.

The topmost crate in the stack of three has its lid loose, probably the result of being previously opened to inspect its contents. Jake is able to lift the lid to find that it contains several unopened bottles of Canadian whiskey, neatly packed with straw. None appear to be missing.

On the floor near the dolly, the detective spies a few droplets of blood on the grimy floor. Near the entrance to the southward traveling natural passageway, the stone on the right side of the opening is streaked as if having been recently damaged by a firearm, likely a shotgun.

Sully removes his helmet. Following the instructions of the fellow who sold it to him, he ignites the carbide and settles the helmet on his head again, secured by the chinstrap. Next, the reporter extracts two shells from his pocket and loads his shotgun.

"That looks like the good stuff," he comments as he and Jake inspect the contents of the crate. "Of course, these days, there's so much fraud," he adds sorrowfully.

"Voices down - they probably hear better than we can," Jake says, and gestures the others at the bottles. "Whoever's got a hand free, nab some booze and keep a match handy - alcohol may not burn hot, but it'll make a fuzzy bastard regret his life choices. Shot may not work." He nods at the indications of a brief firefight and presses on before anyone can cut the sewer stink by opening something it'd be a real shame not to drink.

"They wouldn't have abandoned a load of this value without a fight, and it looks like there was one. But not between bootleggers or mafiosos, I'd wager - else someone would have taken it. Likely with someone who had no use for ardent spirits," he said quietly, taking a couple of bottles in his knapsack. It wasn't the most precious cargo he could transport, but it could have some value to them and he could always abandon it at need.

He moved to follow Jake in whatever direction he was leading, his weapon ready but pointed down. He wouldn't fire the thing unless absolutely necessary.

Jake leads the small group into the north leading cavern, the narrow width of the passage forcing the investigators to proceed in single file. The yellow beams of their light sources dance unsteadily across the walls as they press forward, the eroded, damp stone giving the impression of a cave that existed long before even the Lenape first set foot on the island.

After perhaps a hundred feet, the cavern widens, branching into two tunnels, one curving to the northwest, the other northeast. On the uneven floor, just a few paces from where the narrow tunnel grows more spacious, the investigators can see a long smear of blood.

They can hear nothing, save for dripping moisture. From the northeastern branch of the cave, there is a terrible odor of decay and corruption, a scent that prompts each man’s stomach to tighten.

Ignoring the implications of a heap of the already dead, Jake follows the direction of the smeared blood. His gun leads in the cramped space on the principle that one plugged devil will become enough obstacle to the others to switch weapon at need, torch held low with the crowbar.

Swallowing the sour rush of bile into his mouth, Sully stops a few steps behind Jake,  leaving space for another to pass him and follow the detective. He swings the muzzle of his shotgun to cover the other tunnel.

The stain grows lighter the further it stretches away from the greatest concentration of gore, the gradually thinning streaks curving slightly to the northeast, toward the staggering reek of decomposition.

Venturing cautiously in that direction, the deep shadows seemingly unwilling to yield to the investigators’ pale illumination, the men can see that after almost seventy feet, the tunnel widens into a high ceilinged chamber, the unmarked stone walls glistening with moisture. Nothing stirs within the large room, its only feature a vaguely circular pit, perhaps twelve feet in diameter, which occupies its center.

The nauseating smell is exceedingly strong here.

Jake pauses to swallow and listen for any hint of motion, then looks for a way around the larder. There doesn't seem to be anything to say right now so he doesn't try, simply staying alert.

Sully momentarily sets down his gun to pull a handkerchief out of his pocket and tie it, highwayman-like, over his mouth and nose. Retrieving his weapon, he puts his back to the wall and slowly scans the circumference of the chamber with his light, alert for any other openings.

The professor followed tenuously. He had been in underground spaces before in search of the suspected as well as the unknown, but never before had he been aware that there were revenants present who might spell his death. And yet, he placed foot after foot instead of running, as he should have done. He could not speak to what motivated him, but it was that very search for truth and knowledge which had motivated his entire career. There would be no findings for this. No publication or paper that wouldn't have him immediately sacked and ruined, but for him, perhaps, there might be some more truth uncovered.

A brief examination of the circular chamber reveals two potential exits to the investigators; a narrow tunnel that travels northward and another cramped passageway that slants away to the northeast.

But it is the pit itself that draws the men’s attention most strongly. The aperture’s depth is unguessable, though each of the investigators has the dark impression that it descends for countless yards into the depths of the earth.

And it is filled; glutted with thousands upon thousands of rat gnawed human bones, the endless stack of them reaching up to within ten feet of the pit’s upper edge, the mingled scent of fresh and ancient decay rising inexorably from the mass of collected dead. A lone recent addition, a dark haired, swarthy man in a black suit, one side of his head crushed, lies atop the collected remains.

OOC: I need everyone to give me a sanity roll. No loss on a success. 1d3 points lost on a failure.

Please also provide me with a Listen roll.

Looking for any hint of live people being taken through either passage, Jake's flashlight happens to catch the shadows and further shadows in the pit of bones. He stops sharply, an expression between fury and horrified fascination on his face.

"Jesus, that goes down...d-down to..." Jake trails off, the skittering mass of imagined demons in his head massing up the inside of his skull again. His inner detective hammers on his consciousness yelling something about finding out why this corpse was left here whole atop a pile of discards, but it's hard to heed him: hard to be aware of anything but the depth of that horrible hole.


[[17:05, Today: Jake Morris rolled 61 using 1d100.  SAN check. Fail!
17:05, Today: Jake Morris rolled 1 using 1d3.  minus sanity.

17:13, Today: Jake Morris rolled 94 using 1d100.  Listen. Jake does not hear the elephant in the room, either.

Additionally, I'm not 100% sure Jake's stopped being Temporarily Insane from his last critical failure yet, if you want to give him a stronger reaction.]]

Sully comes step by step to the edge of the pit and gazes down. His light follows the movement of his head as he glances from place to place, seeing nothing but horror. Finally, he can only stare at the most recent addition.

His gorge rises against his clamped teeth as the waves of necrotic miasma rise up to engulf his nostrils. His ears roar and he fights to keep from fainting.

Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 100 for Sanity 42. UH-OH
Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 3 for SAN loss. yep
Sullivan (Sully) Quinn rolled 73 for Listen 25.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:29, Sun 19 Mar 2023.

The professor stared at the sight before them shell-shocked. He wanted to say something, out of habit, but words wouldn't form in his mouth.

To steady his mind, he tried to set himself to thinking about similar rituals, customs, or traditions - anything he could recall to avoid having to contemplate the horror of the obvious.

OOC:

Lost 2 more Sanity, and can't or won't hear much of interest here.

Anthropology 51/71. Does this recall any other practices of note?

14:43, Today: Anthony Wells rolled 91 using 1d100.  Listen 65.
14:43, Today: Anthony Wells rolled 2 using 1d3.
14:43, Today: Anthony Wells rolled 59 using 1d100.  Sanity.
14:47, Today: Anthony Wells rolled 51 using 1d100.  Anthropology 71.


This message was last edited by the player at 19:48, Mon 20 Mar 2023.

Arthur had kept pace, taking photo snapshots of all they had seen without much commentary. Now, he silently took the latest photograph. After a second, with his mouth suddenly quite dry, he asked the obvious question: "How many people?"

OOC:

"04:16, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 12 using 1d100.  listen (50).

04:14, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 2 using 1d3.  SAN loss.

04:14, Today: Arthur G. Flatt rolled 97 using 1d100.  SAN."

The numbers of the discarded dead are easily hundreds, based on the depth of the collected bones which the investigators can see, though the possible depth of the pit suggests that the number may reach into the thousands. The silent question of how many of those who had disappeared on Manhattan Island in decades past could be accounted for among these remains hovers at the edge of each man’s thoughts.

Despite the overwhelming nature of the charnel scene that confronts them, the investigators remain aware of their threatening surroundings. But for the moment, none see any movement within any of shadowed corridors which lead away from the chamber they occupy.

The hairs stood up on his neck and arm and he turned to the others, waiting to see if anyone else had heard what he thought he had just now. His feet were, for the moment, rooted to the ground in fear.

But whether or not he thought anyone else could hear it, he knew he had to go there--so, he moved, perhaps a bit too quickly, to the northern passageway, uncertain what he would see there.

Jake certainly hasn't heard whatever's attracted Arthur's attention, casually trying to crowbar the fresh corpse nearer to work out why it's been rejected. Garlic, wolfsbane, Mohammedan inclinations, a cross...

Whilst vaguely aware of Sully trying not to throw up, he doesn't notice Arthur scuttling past until the photographer is nearly out of the room. "Hey!" he hisses, belatedly remembering to keep his voice down. "Stick together. Where're you going?"

Professor Wells paused at the site, then gently sang in almost a whisper "...with a knick-knack paddywhack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home..." which trailed off into humming. Even in his presently addled state, he was together enough that he continued to follow Jake's lead.

"They'll come back...when they need a snack," he said, looking at the still fleshful body. In his mind, it had simply not been consumed yet.

Sully totters on the brink another moment until Jake's hiss recalls him to himself. He takes a quick step back, then swivels his head in time to see Art about to leave.

Hearing the Prof's little ditty, he smiles and begins humming along while he waits for Jake's lead.

Arthur barely registered what Jake had said, and in fact looking back offered only a look of supreme concern. He didn't know how to say that he had heard a voice, but he wasn't completely certain it was real, and either way he had to go there on the off chance it was real.

So after looking back at Jake, his expression insistent, Arthur turned away again and started moving even more quickly to the northern passage.

Not being part mime himself, Jake can neither hear voices that are not voices nor intuit their presence from variations on worried looks. Being some proportion terrier, however, even something as robust as a photographer scuttling down a tunnel spurs him to pursuit. "Arthur!"

As Jake moves, urging Arthur to respond to him, he suddenly hears what the photographer has already perceived: the sound of weeping, an inconsolable voice drifting down softly from the somewhere within the darkness of the northern passageway.

Jake growls quietly to himself and tries to come alongside Arthur without actively running. His light probes for the as-yet sourceless crying or its cause as he moves, a kind of wound-spring tension building in his chest and a haze in his head like the smoke curling off a fuse.

When Jake moves to follow Art, Sully falls in behind him. He stops smiling and humming.

"what's up, guys?" he whispers.

As Sully steps closer to Jake, he too hears weeping, the sounds of grief made even lonelier by the oppressive darkness the investigators are surrounded by.

As Arthur continues to press forward, his companions not far behind him, all see a wavering light ahead, perhaps sixty feet further down the northern passage, a flickering orange glow like that of a candle flame, made brighter by the subterranean gloom.

Blindly following the others, something seemed to rouse him when he heard the sounds of the weeping.

"We've come this far...we must press on, no turning back now," he said, almost as if giving himself a quiet pep talk.

Jake glances back long enough to be sure the Professor isn't being completely left behind and looks forward, flashlight beam searching the way ahead and around the visible point of light. He licks his lips with instinctive unease before replying to Sully: "Not sure. Figure the other mobster'd be doing more screaming than crying right now, but keep a sharp look out."

All trace of nervous merriment wiped away by the sound, Sully nods, whether agreeing with Jake or The Prof or both is hard to say. He grips his shotfun tighter and follows in the detective’s path.
This message was last edited by the player at 23:52, Thu 06 Apr 2023.

The more certain Arthur became of what he heard, the more urgently he moved in. There was nothing else but to keep going.

As the investigators continue north, the wavering illumination ahead flickers once, twice, and then goes dark. The four men hear no further noises ahead, save for the continued sounds of weeping.

Shortly, the small group comes upon another chamber, this one considerably smaller than the room with the terrible pit. The air within is colder, so much so that within moments of entering it, each of the investigators see the steam of their own breath, the icy air gnawing though their light clothing and spreading a chill through their bones.

There are two exits from the room: a narrow tunnel leading east and a set of rusted iron rungs set into the northern wall that lead upward into deep shadow.

Dust covers the floor. Near the eastern side of the room, a yellowed skeleton is curled into the fetal position, a long cold candle clutched in its dead hand. The sound of crying is loud within the chamber, close enough to be coming from a person standing alongside one of the investigators, but save for remains at the men’s feet, the room is vacant.

Jake huffs a surprised breath at the sudden cold as he runs into it, then motions his nearest companion to cover him, sweeping the entirety of the room for the source of the sound, which is now very close. Seeing nothing to account for the continued crying above the access rungs or what his torch can show him of the next chamber, he carefully approaches the skeleton, not without the crowbar at the ready.

"Hey," he tries, since it makes as much sense as anything, descending into Hell, "-this you?"

Sully sweeps his lamp beam around the room, seeing nothing but the skeleton. "god almighty," issues from him as a plume of frosty breath.

He moves over to direct his light up the rusty rungs and follows them with it up to the limit of its reach. Seeing nothing, he moves to cover down the next stretch of tunnel with his gun. The sourceless weeping is beginning to get on his nerves.

As soon as Jake asks his question, the crying ceases, an abrupt silence overtaking the chamber which is deep enough to make each investigator’s breath seem impossibly loud.

Then, without any apparent source, a sharp breeze passes through the room, the cold movement of air briefly numbing the men’s exposed skin before rushing down the adjoining eastern corridor.

Not sure as to whether that was a 'yes' or a 'no', Jake flinches somewhat at the utter iciness of the sudden movement of air and gestures Arthur at the human remains. "Get 'em photographed, at least. Might just be a friend of Frosty and they're going to show us something else."

Sully bends to throw his bright carbide light over the skeleton for the benefit of Art’s photograph. As he does, he observes the spot more closely, looking for traces of clothing. Could the person have wandered these tunnels naked with just a candle?

"These are souvenirs of their deeds, so the book said. It spoke of canine humanoids that feasted equally on the living or the dead, and they kept these bones as trophies. Servants of a dark power called Nyogtha," he said quietly, to himself or whoever would hear. He didn't know that it was particularly helpful, but better to have some idea of what might be lurking here, now that myths and legends were showing themselves to have some relationship to fact.

Arthur, crestfallen to see the truth of it, took the photograph and tried to swallow, finding that his mouth was quite dry.

He turned to the professor and admonished him, "Don't use that name."

Sully’s careful examination of the area surrounding the skeleton does not turn up any evidence of clothing, not even a lingering thread or tatter. However, the reporter is able to see that both of the corpse’s wrists are broken, splintering injuries that appear to have been the result of a terrible struggle against restraint. Arthur is able to obtain clear shots of the entire skeleton, as well as the noted breaks.

Moving to the east, toward the direction of the icy air’s shift, Jake momentarily believes that he can hear some kind of muttering, a voice that sounds low and human, but faint. The noise lasts only a moment before succumbing to silence.

Jake pauses and makes a careful sweep with his torch in the area that seemed to be remarked upon. "What?" he hisses to the thin air, aware the others aren't quite caught up yet. He licks his lips and spares a glance that way, but is too on edge not to keep the majority of his attention ahead.

"Hey, ghost? If it's hard to talk, you're real frosty to us live guys...you want to try tapping my hand instead, one touch for yes, double-tap for no?" he whispers to the dark.

Sully straightens up as Art finishes his photographs. He badly wants a cigarette and a drink, but decides against either.

Hearing the conversational rhythm of Jake’s voice, though not the words, he hurries to catch up.

Arthur stepped away and followed along with Sully. Hearing that name had grated on his ears, but as far as he could tell, there was nothing more to see here, and Jake was headed onward.

For a moment, Jake’s question hangs in the seemingly empty air, the detective’s steaming breath misting in the darkness. The silence lingers long enough for him to wonder if he was heard at all, or if the disquieted spirit might have fled off into the gloom, to keep company alone with its sorrow once more.

Then, he feels a touch. The icy, but gentle, sensation of a hand briefly clasping his wrist and giving it a single squeeze.

As the other investigators move to join Morris, they begin to also discern the sound of muttering from somewhere further east. The faint voice is disquieting, the rhythm of its indecipherable words suggesting the stumbling, nonsensical talk of someone in the throes of terror, or madness.

"OK, OK..." Jake's saying as the others come up. He glances at them and starts into motion again, tense and searching ahead with his beam. "You taking us to some people we can help?"

He asks other questions as they go along, giving options in steady rhythm for that one strong pulse of 'yes': "Are you a Mister? A Missus? A Miss? Are you Christian? Jewish? Something else? Did they kill you, or you died of starvation, injury, exposure? _{Is that why you're cold?}"

The last question is mostly to himself, but the mine-like temperature of the place compared to the summer night outside makes him struggle to retain an awareness of time, and even that a surface world exists at all, down in this unlit place.

Sully wonders how far gone Jake is, muttering to himself, not enough unlike that other voice for comfort. But he turns up his collar against the cold and follows faithfully.

"Are you communing with the deceased, Morris?" he asked quietly as Jake seemed to mutter to himself.

Jake looks round a little too fast at the living voice, but calms and looks ahead, swallowing the temptation to sarcasm. It was the kind of place you might forget what gender or religion you were, forget even that you had been a man and not some strange kind of mole. His nostrils twitch, seeking more than the sewer scent and the drifting carrion reek from far behind, instinct raising the hairs on his neck and body to be communicating with something he can neither scent nor see.

"...yeah, our friend has enough will left to try 'n talk, just not the body and lungs and stuff. Playin' one-tap-two-tap with my hand." He manages not to add most exciting discovery you'll never publish, huh, since Wells doesn't need the misplaced spite, nor the temptation set before him to do something other than help this lost soul to where it ought to be, and rest.

Arthur listened to Jake's questioning, and when Professor Wells had guessed at Jake's intention, Arthur tried to hear exactly what Jake was responding to.

This was distressing, but it was best to...help someone, if that was what they were doing right now. So he was happy to follow Jake's lead and try to help in whatever way was possible.

He simply nodded slowly at the response, but did nothing further to interrupt, allowing the communication process to proceed. He took some mental notes of what was happening for his own personal records; this was the most exciting discovery that he would never publish.

With Jake and the others engrossed in impromptu Spiritualism, Sully redoubles his vigilance, sweeping the gloomy environs with his light, eyes, and gun barrels.

When Jake poses his question about the unseen presence taking the investigators to people in need of help, he receives another single cold grip of his wrist. It is followed by a brief tug, a pull in the direction of the east, as if urging him to follow further down the dark passageway.

His further inquiries inform him that the restless spirit is female and Christian, though his questions about how she died are met with an uncertain chill fluttering at his wrist, as if his guide is having difficulty communicating the circumstances of her untimely death.

Although Jake follows the ghost’s promptings, it is Sullivan Quinn who first sees the silhouette of a figure further down the corridor, in what appears to be another chamber. The figure is slumped on the ground, its arms raised over its head, as if they are fastened somehow to the wall behind it.

"I'm coming," Jake assures their ghost friend, hastening onward. He fills the others in as they go: "She knows where some hostages are. Needs to go in a...Protestant? cemetery if we get the chance to get her body out, and it's like she died of all the things I mentioned to her: attack, injuries, starvation, cold, so...I guess have the whiskey ready."

To their fifth companion, he starts working on the slimmest bit of identification: "All right, so are you a Miss A, B, C, D..." He does not slow in his step until Sully pauses momentarily to parse some shape ahead, trying to read what's up from the reporter's pose.

"Hold on, Jake. There's someone sitting in the passage there."

He moves his head and lamp to more fully illuminate the figure. As he does, he steps up beside the detective and trains his shotgun on whatever it may be.

Jake does hold on, and squints to make out whether the 'someone' is among the living or a potenially hostile corpse. "Easy there," he says, noting that threat or not, the figure before them seems in a state of collapse. He raises his voice to seem decisive, though it's only as far as the softest speaking volume. "Come on, let's go up - this one's tied."

Jake runs rapidly through the alphabet, receiving a confirming squeeze upon reaching the letter M. He feels another tug from the unseen hand, urging him toward the chamber ahead.

Coming within a few steps of the room, Sully can see that there are five individuals lined against the bare stone walls, each one’s hands held above their heads by iron manacles which have been hammered into the stone. All five persons, two men and three women, appear to be alive, though most seem to be barely conscious. The first of the captives that had been noticed is clearly the most recent addition, clad in a torn shirt and trousers. The clothing of the other prisoners is filthier, resembling rags in some cases.

”Going to die here,” one of the women mumbles, as if talking in her sleep. None acknowledge the investigators’ presence.

At the eastern end of the room is an opening in the floor, iron rungs set into the northern side of the pit, which descends into darkness. The scent of carrion rises from the aperture and from somewhere below, a vaguely canine snarling is briefly heard.

At the sound of the snarling, Wells bit back the oath he had been about to unleash. He cast about, using the light from the helmet to illuminate portions of the room to give him a better look. He was hoping to see whether there were any tools about that he could use to free these people. Of course, Jake had brought his crowbar and that might be the best they had.

"Arthur, photos," Jake says, his tone almost dull from the way all casual thought has dropped away. Rage will doubtless fill that void in a few heartbeats more yet for the moment he's absoloutely calm. "Sully, cover the exits. Professor, get that liquor out."

He steps swiftly over to the nearest prisoner and tries to determine how he's restrained - whether it'll take messing about with individual locks, some work with the crowbar or the simple removal of a pin. He takes a moment to get the drain cleaner out of his satchel at his feet in case Sully having to shoot the one below bringing reinforcements. "Thanks, Miss M.," he murmurs. "D'you think the rungs...we met you at go up to street level?"

Arthur snapped the photograph almost carelessly, standing stiff like a board and feeling numb in his hands. The intensity of this moment was more than he could rationally handle, and he hardly registered the canine noise from nearby. Still, he had heard them, and he was fearful of what they meant.

He reached for the weapon he had brought, and he started to make sure that it was properly loaded.

Sully swings his gun barrel from point to point, trying to look in all directions at once. The growling makes him nervous, though it's not particularly near. He leaves the manacled figures to Jake as he edges nearer to the pit, positioning himself at the top of the iron rungs before peering over.

The first of the prisoners, a dark haired man with fresh injuries, Jake feels certain is one of the liquor runners who were attacked in the abandoned sewer tunnel. As he is considering this idea, the unseen Miss M gives a single squeeze in response to his question about the rungs in the room where they encountered her leading up to street level. However, after a brief pause, Jake feels a pair of additional chill squeezes on his wrist, as if the spirit is discouraging him from using the discussed route.

The investigators quickly determine that the manacles holding the captives have been bolted to the stone wall. The iron restraints are rusted and uniformly appear quite old. Utilizing Jake’s crowbar, or a similar implement, would be the fastest means of freeing the prisoners.

As Sully nears the pit, the sounds of snarling fade, though the reporter can hear another, fainter sound rising from below: several voices joined in a low chant, the words of which he cannot easily discern. Sully can see that the rungs descend for roughly forty feet before reaching a stone floor below. From somewhere in that deeper place is a dim source of illumination, white and cold.

Sully retreats back to where the others are gathered with the captives. Keeping his eyes and gun trained back toward the pit, he whispers about the light below and the chanting.

A flicker of a frown crosses Jake's features as he makes his assessment, nodding to Miss M's advice and Sully's reconnaissance as he sets the crowbar in what looks to be the weakest part of e restraint. "...all right. You know of any other hostages might be down here?"

"Sully, you reckon a few shotgun blasts could breach a city water pipe? Keep an eye for 'em coming up, but our priorities just changed." He nudges the semi-responsive captive as he gets the crowbar in place, not particularly gently. His voice stays low, though it's more of a gravelled growl now. "Hey, you. You're going to help carry the others out of Hell or I promise I'm going to become your biggest problem."

"Professor, try'n get a sip of liquor into the end ones, might wake them up a little and it's calories, might dull the pain some. Arthur, back Sully up: if more than one man-jackal or demon thing comes swarming up here, let them get into the dark shaft and give 'em the flash." The detective sets to trying to free the most able-bodied captive. "They take anyone else down there?" he asks as he works, remembering the traces of the theft of a half-naked man by the manhole above.

Arthur nodded at Jake's instructions and, seeing that the captives were being handled right now, moved toward the pit. Falling in at Sully's side, Arthur, despite himself, tried to hear what might be being chanted below.

Wells followed Morris's instructions blindly, withdrawing some liquor from his bag and beginning to give small sips of it to people to help them cope with the current circumstances.

Jake feels a cold grasp encircle his wrist twice in response to his question.

The monster awakens as Jake pries his manacles free from the wall. The man rubs his wrists, his gaze somewhat unfocused and wide. He nods slowly at the detective’s instructions. ”Yeah. Help. Sure. Nobody deserves to be down here. Nobody.” He shakes his head before a burst of hysterical laughter erupts from his throat, which is quickly halted by a fit of coughing.

Those who the professor gives sips of liquor to awaken as well, though it is difficult to discern just how aware they are of what is transpiring. One of the men begins humming an off key portion of Beethoven’s ninth symphony, while another man breaks down into uncontrollable sobs. The woman who spoke previously continues to insist that everyone is going to perish there in the underground, shaking her head listlessly from side to side.

Remaining near the opening in the floor, Sully hears the chanting continue without pause, the unnerving vocalizations growing in intensity and volume. Arthur cannot understand the words that are being spoken, the language unlike any he has heard previously, the tongue they are spoken in guttural and alien.

The other female captive seems to be the most mentally clear of the group. She nods toward the opening below, speaking with a hoarse, reedy voice. ”Time…it doesn’t have a lot…a lot of meaning here. Seems like I’ve been here…I don’t know…forever.”

“But not long ago…when they brought him…” She nods toward the gangster. ”The man that had been held there….gray haired…kind…they took him down .”

Jake grunts vaguely at the criminal, acknowledging his pledged aid. "Mph. Take the Draino in whichever hand's talking to you, keep that close with us. They kill your friend for shooting at 'em?"

He hastens down to the other end of the row of prisoners to librate the weakest, getting to the most helpful of the captves as soon as that's possible. "It's..." he takes a moment to recall the date and gives her an approximation of the time, and what day it is, human things without inherent meaning that he nonetheless speaks into being. "...do you know how many of them are down there?"

Once she's freed, Jake takes a moment to rearrange himself enough to give her his coat, since there's not much left on her and he can feel the hot blood in his own body perfectly well, anger vibrating under the skin. Something very distant in him is mortiifed at offering a lady a stinky coat, not that he has any better, or that she would mind.

Jake moves on in his task and hesitates over the slight and now sobbing young man they'd first mistaken for a woman, not sure what to do with that kind of vulnerability. Still, he gets to him as swiftly as he might. "Listen - hey, listen - you're going to get up and get out of here, all right? Ssh. You got a name, someone to call when we're out?"

Turning slowly to Sully, he whispered to him.

"They're performing some...ritual down there. We need to stop them from doing it."

The expression on his face was grim, skin pale and eyes deeply bloodshot. His voice lacked any sense of urgency, the words coming out in a clear, factual sort of tone.

Sully turns to the photog: "You got any idea how to do that?"

He wants to go back to the captives, to use his reporter's skills to help Jake question them and soothe them. But watching out for the enemy is his post for now and he means to do his duty.

”No. No,” the mobster says, stifling another out of place laugh, ”I’m the one did the shooting. Guy in the suit said that’s why they needed to keep me alive.”

The woman accepts the coat gratefully, pulling it about her shoulders, tremors causing her limbs to quake. ”There…there are several of those things…stooped over creatures that look…their faces look like dogs…sort of. There’s maybe half a dozen of them down there.”

“But people…there’s only three. The man in the dark suit. He…he gives all the orders. Sometimes…there’s someone else with him. A man in robes. Old, tattered robes, with cobwebs and mold on them. I…you can’t see his face. He has a hood on.”

She points to the opening in the floor with a trembling hand. ”They talk about a woman a lot. One who lives down there. She this, she that. Like they’re trying to do…do whatever she says. But I’ve never seen her.”

The sobbing young man calms slightly at Jake’s reassurances. Nodding, he says, ”I’m Ben. Ben Quigley. My ma…her name’s Linda…she lives in Brooklyn.”

Below, a sharp shriek, a sound of exultation rather than horror, rises up amidst the chanting. The vocalizations grow louder and more repetitive, their tone increasingly urgent.

"It help any?" Jake asks of the shooting, and addresses the Professor: "Prof, if everyone's done with that first bottle of booze, get a strip of rag off the floor and wipe it 'round the nearest gun barrel to make up a firebomb. I think it's best that most of us get out of here before anything drastic happens, so whoever's left to go down for the last guy - I volunteer myself - needs some wide-area distractions prepped."

He looks to the lady with the coat whilst freeing the musical man. "Are both upright ones down there now?" He nods to Ben, stepping back once the last prisoner is freed. "OK. We got a Ben with a Ma Quigley in Brooklyn, I'm Jake Morris, who else knows who they are?"

Jake holds up a hand for a moment's pause and speaks softer. "Miss M., can the guys down there see or hurt you at all? Miss M. is the cold patch, she's one of you that didn't make it out," he half-explains to the people.

He flinches at the shriek and rise of chanting and hastens over to those near the opening, speaking in a low and rapid tone. "Right, we're good to go. Who wants to go tango with some demons and who wants to protect the ladies n' shaky gentlemen?"
This message was last edited by the player at 18:23, Sat 20 May 2023.

"Oh! ohhh..." When he hears the shriek from below, Sully stifles an answering cry of his own. He’s never felt more frightened or more horrified. He uses his sleeve to blot sweat and tears from his face.

"Hold on, Jake. Let's be smart here. There’s at least six of them down there and only four of us. And we’d have to climb down there one at a time. It sounds like they’ll be coming be coming back up here probably.

“Let’s wait and ambush ‘em coming up. We can send those folks back topside—doesn’t seem like they’ll run into trouble. If we turn our lights off they won’t suspect anything. If Art sets off a flash and we hit the lights, it may blind them and we can blast them, catch ‘em on the rungs maybe.

“What do you think?”

"I think they're within a minute of killing the man taken down there to power some spell that makes things worse for us, maybe New York, and we don't know when or where scavenging parties will come back," Jake answers, having to speak forcefully over the chanting. "Look at the hostages, Sully - some are hardly standing up. Go keep 'em safe, I'll keep the unrulies off this level. Arthur? Two on six is three each and your photos need to get out either way."

The professor attempts to follow Jake's directions, but is completely out of his depth in terms of understanding how ad hoc explosives were created, but he did his best and offered the likely poor output to Jake for inspection and finishing up.

"The smartest suggestion is most likely that made by Sully here, but Jake I'm inclined to agree with you. Based on what we've witnessed, I'm not sure what good can come of whatever is happening down there. I'm not much of a good hand with a firearm, however, and I'm not sure how much use I'll be."

"Wandering the library stacks with pen and paper have been more my habit than wandering sewers and streets with firearms. I'll come with you, but I'm not sure what I bring other than resolve."

Arthur shook his head and said, "No, Sully's a journalist, he can find someone to develop these photographs. If not...well, take this to Harper's Advertisement. That's where I work, Bernadetta can help you develop these."

He tried to swallow with a dry mouth and continued, passing his camera to the mobster, who seemed able at this moment.

"I'll go, as well. I need to see that they don't finish that ritual. I need to, because of what Wells and I learned, because of what I'm...almost certain is true in those books. It just can't happen."

Sully looks from one of his companions...comrades... to another.

"I... You sure you wanta go down there, Prof? I could... I mean, I think it's gonna be... You sure?

"Well, here, Jake, take my shotgun if you want the extra firepower. I've got my revolver.

"You guys... Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean..."

Jake very gently pushes Sully and his long gun to the extent of his arm. "Keep it: I hope you won't need it, but if you need it, you'll need it. Now get 'em out of here." He grins, though whether out of terror or fey confidence even he can't tell, tucking the makeshift scorch bomb down his shirt and crowbar through his belt in preparation to climb. "See you up top somewhere."

"It's most definitely not what I'd call a good idea, but I don't think there are any of those as far as resolves what we have here. Now go on."

He looked to Jake. "You lead, I'll follow."

Sully nods solemnly.

"You all know how to get in touch with me. I'll see you later." He shakes hands with each man in turn: Arthur, Wells, Jake.

Turning to the gangster: "Let's get going. I'm Sully. Whatta they call you?""

Gently but insistently, he gets the captives on their feet. He takes a last look at the three men gathered at the pit.

Arthur looked Sully in the eye as he shook his hand. He knew that it was possible he wouldn't make it out. He didn't say anything

Then he turned to the pit. He wasn't quite sure who should go first--Jake, he supposed, then himself, and the Professor last? He looked to Jake, to see if he would go down first.

Jake had already been gripping the rungs when offered a handshake (returned firmly, if fast); by the time Arthur looks he's on the descent, a concentrated aura of rage about his movements.

”It’s Lorenzo,” the mobster tells Sully. He helps Ben Quigley steady himself on weak legs as the investigators exchange handshakes.

Moments later, the reporter is leading the faltering group of former prisoners back through the oppressive darkness of the tunnels, retracing his steps in a bid to lead them to safety.

Jake, Arthur, and the Professor begin their downward climb, the unearthly sounds of voices chanting in an alien tongue growing louder and louder as they descend into shadow.