The Case of the Unnatural Child
A short recounting of tonight's Call of Cthulhu game.
*****
I have just been witness to the most strange of occurrences, one that if it should be told you, it would be assumed that it had been purloined from one strange tales publication or another. But first, before I continue, I should provide a short introduction to myself.
My name is W. Edward Blackcroft, an artist and author of some small repute. Many of my paintings have been publicly acclaimed and some of my stories have received some small attention. I have lived in Kingsport for the majority of my adult life, having immigrated here in my early 20's from Sussex England. My career has been rather irregular, with a short stint in a local hospice interrupting a large part of my creativity. Further discussion of my past would no doubt prove useful, but for this account it is not necessary
Recently, I was invited to Boston by my good friend and benefactor, Sir Herbert, in an attempt to discover a new avenue to display my art. Whilst there, we were invited to dinner by Mr Conroy, an acquaintances of Herbert's. An invitation was also extended to a Mr Dillon, and another friend of mine, JD. Dinner was acceptable, and the unnerving events began as we sat down to brandy in the parlour.
Mr Dillon noticed odd movements in the house across the road. According to Mr Conroy, the house belonged to Mr Corbert, a self-made business man in the antiquities field. Mr Dillon insisted that he saw Mr Corbert taking several strange packages into his house, one of which resembled a child's hand and arm. My curiosity piqued, I suggested we investigate the matter in some small detail. JD accompanied myself and Mr Dillon to the said abode, were we discovered blood-like stains on the front door landing and in the boot of Mr Corbert's car. I was momentarily overcome with a sense of foreboding evil, and with the realization that I had painted this house years before, surrounded by festering spheres of yellow. Unfortunately our investigations attracted the notice of the occupant, and after a short discussion he provided us a small sample of his prize tomatoes.
Discussions at Mr Conroy's revealed that Mr Cobert was a widower, and there was some mention of a child. As the hour was late, we all retired in the hopes of the morning would shed new light on this rather perturbing mystery.
The following day, Sir Herbert and I decided to visit the Boston library to undertake a search for any obituaries regarding Mrs Corbert. We discovered that the poor woman died in childbirth, along with the baby. The midwife, a Nurse Dunlop apparently suffered a stroke during the birth, presumably contributing to the disastrous event. Mr Corbert was the unfortunate who discovered the tragedy. Further investigations on my part revealed that Nurse Dunlop had been institutionalised, and that she had passed away without regaining her senses. The doctor that I spoke to was rather reluctant to add any more details, informing me that my attorney would be the only person he would discuss the matter further with.
Sir Herbert, masquerading as my attorney had a touch more luck, eliciting an admonition that the nurse had indeed regained consciousness and with her dying breath had proclaimed that "it was horrible, it had no arms or legs, and almost no face. It should have died like the other one".
Of course, this only served to further excite our curiosity. JD, pursuing his own investigation followed Mr Corbert on his daily business, only to be led to the city Morgue. A short discussion was overheard regarding the use of body parts and a proclamation of reverence to the fallen angel Satan. This last I found a little hard to accept, but JD has some small experience with such matteres and assured us that such cults do indeed exist.
We decided that, as good God fearing citizens, it was our duty to investigate this situation further. Using what skills we had, we entered Mr Corbert's house and made our way into the basement. What we witnessed there is sure to remain in my dreams to haunt me to my dying day.
A monstrous bag of human flesh pulsated before us, it's surface sprouting the limbs of multiple children of every colour. It's sickening puckered mouth uttered the most unnerving of mewling that I have ever heard, a sound no doubt from the very pits of Hell itself. When not moaning, the abomination - for there is no other word for the unnatural beast - sucked at the floor, looking for what sustenance it could. From an orifice in it's back, the creature spewed foul waste into the air, causing us all to gag and clutch kerchiefs to our noses lest we divested our stomachs of their contents. But it was the eyes, completely human and child-like, that were the hardest to look upon. Such innocence and yet such evil I have never seen before.
At the sight of the abomination, Mr Donnell fled, and the creature pursued him at some haste. JD, maintaining some sense of wit about him, flung volatile chemicals at the beast, and once it had cleared the basement door, set it alight. We fled the house, and watched as it burnt to the ground, taking what foul travesties of nature contained within along with it.
I am not one to make hysterical decisions, at least not any longer, and I feel that we may have stumbled across something in Boston that had no right to exist. I have no explanations as to why it was us who this should have been revealed too, nor why the house should appear in one of my paintings. Am I destined to seek out such strange occurrences and deal with them as any sane man would? I cannot say. All I can say is that I feel that I must examine things more closely, that the world, despite what my doctors at the asylum have assured me, is not as benign or wholesome as it may at first seem.
W. E Blackcroft
Boston, 1920
*****
I have just been witness to the most strange of occurrences, one that if it should be told you, it would be assumed that it had been purloined from one strange tales publication or another. But first, before I continue, I should provide a short introduction to myself.
My name is W. Edward Blackcroft, an artist and author of some small repute. Many of my paintings have been publicly acclaimed and some of my stories have received some small attention. I have lived in Kingsport for the majority of my adult life, having immigrated here in my early 20's from Sussex England. My career has been rather irregular, with a short stint in a local hospice interrupting a large part of my creativity. Further discussion of my past would no doubt prove useful, but for this account it is not necessary
Recently, I was invited to Boston by my good friend and benefactor, Sir Herbert, in an attempt to discover a new avenue to display my art. Whilst there, we were invited to dinner by Mr Conroy, an acquaintances of Herbert's. An invitation was also extended to a Mr Dillon, and another friend of mine, JD. Dinner was acceptable, and the unnerving events began as we sat down to brandy in the parlour.
Mr Dillon noticed odd movements in the house across the road. According to Mr Conroy, the house belonged to Mr Corbert, a self-made business man in the antiquities field. Mr Dillon insisted that he saw Mr Corbert taking several strange packages into his house, one of which resembled a child's hand and arm. My curiosity piqued, I suggested we investigate the matter in some small detail. JD accompanied myself and Mr Dillon to the said abode, were we discovered blood-like stains on the front door landing and in the boot of Mr Corbert's car. I was momentarily overcome with a sense of foreboding evil, and with the realization that I had painted this house years before, surrounded by festering spheres of yellow. Unfortunately our investigations attracted the notice of the occupant, and after a short discussion he provided us a small sample of his prize tomatoes.
Discussions at Mr Conroy's revealed that Mr Cobert was a widower, and there was some mention of a child. As the hour was late, we all retired in the hopes of the morning would shed new light on this rather perturbing mystery.
The following day, Sir Herbert and I decided to visit the Boston library to undertake a search for any obituaries regarding Mrs Corbert. We discovered that the poor woman died in childbirth, along with the baby. The midwife, a Nurse Dunlop apparently suffered a stroke during the birth, presumably contributing to the disastrous event. Mr Corbert was the unfortunate who discovered the tragedy. Further investigations on my part revealed that Nurse Dunlop had been institutionalised, and that she had passed away without regaining her senses. The doctor that I spoke to was rather reluctant to add any more details, informing me that my attorney would be the only person he would discuss the matter further with.
Sir Herbert, masquerading as my attorney had a touch more luck, eliciting an admonition that the nurse had indeed regained consciousness and with her dying breath had proclaimed that "it was horrible, it had no arms or legs, and almost no face. It should have died like the other one".
Of course, this only served to further excite our curiosity. JD, pursuing his own investigation followed Mr Corbert on his daily business, only to be led to the city Morgue. A short discussion was overheard regarding the use of body parts and a proclamation of reverence to the fallen angel Satan. This last I found a little hard to accept, but JD has some small experience with such matteres and assured us that such cults do indeed exist.
We decided that, as good God fearing citizens, it was our duty to investigate this situation further. Using what skills we had, we entered Mr Corbert's house and made our way into the basement. What we witnessed there is sure to remain in my dreams to haunt me to my dying day.
A monstrous bag of human flesh pulsated before us, it's surface sprouting the limbs of multiple children of every colour. It's sickening puckered mouth uttered the most unnerving of mewling that I have ever heard, a sound no doubt from the very pits of Hell itself. When not moaning, the abomination - for there is no other word for the unnatural beast - sucked at the floor, looking for what sustenance it could. From an orifice in it's back, the creature spewed foul waste into the air, causing us all to gag and clutch kerchiefs to our noses lest we divested our stomachs of their contents. But it was the eyes, completely human and child-like, that were the hardest to look upon. Such innocence and yet such evil I have never seen before.
At the sight of the abomination, Mr Donnell fled, and the creature pursued him at some haste. JD, maintaining some sense of wit about him, flung volatile chemicals at the beast, and once it had cleared the basement door, set it alight. We fled the house, and watched as it burnt to the ground, taking what foul travesties of nature contained within along with it.
I am not one to make hysterical decisions, at least not any longer, and I feel that we may have stumbled across something in Boston that had no right to exist. I have no explanations as to why it was us who this should have been revealed too, nor why the house should appear in one of my paintings. Am I destined to seek out such strange occurrences and deal with them as any sane man would? I cannot say. All I can say is that I feel that I must examine things more closely, that the world, despite what my doctors at the asylum have assured me, is not as benign or wholesome as it may at first seem.
W. E Blackcroft
Boston, 1920