"You flush it out, you flush it out, he never gets respect..."
Like 30 Days of Night, but, you know, White Wolf. So I saw the awesome folks at Darker Days Radio (check them out if you like podcasts) have been posting this daily, and I want to hop in on it, but I don't have the focus to do once a day. Which means a new blog! And I swear I have a ton of writing done, just nothing finished yet. I'm going to include classic/old World of Darkness and current Chronicles of Darkness in my responses here where appropriate.
Day 1 - InQuest magazine. I was doing Magic, L5R, and BattleTech, and IQ had this quick start for WW's Aeon/Trinity. I got hooked. Didn't actually get into World of Darkness until a few years later, when someone asked if my AOL screen name was a nod to WtA's Get of Fenris (I'm wearing the t-shirt today, but no, not related to an in-game nod).
Day 2 - Kindred of the East for sure for WoD, Demon the Descent for Chronicles.
Day 3 - Silent Striders, Werewolf the Apocalypse WoD (yes, even though I'm wearing a Get shirt, Striders are my top group oWoD), and not sure if I have one in the Chronicles, but if so, probably Mekhet vampires or Blood Talon werewolves.
Day 4 - Oh, man, San Francisco by Night easily for oWoD. That made me want to run a New Promise Mandarinate story so hard. Seattle for Chronicles, time splinters and all, but only because Union City doesn't have a book ;-P
Day 5 - Not mine, but best roll I ever saw was to escape a space station in Aeon, and the group's "intelligence guy" rolled multiple 10s on a hacking attempt that basically shut all of the security stations down and minimized combat so hard that I, as ST, was left fumbling for some added complications
Day 6 - Dunno if I ever had one in oWoD, and Trey Fischer/Loki in Chronicles. Because Mekhet. Also, Chronicles doesn't have enough canon characters.
Day 7 - Revised Werewolf and Vampire is where I had the most experience in WoD, and 1st Edition (so far) on all the Chronicles games.
Day 8 - I generally ST more than anything, but as far as NPC, I've always had more fun doing cultists than anything.
Day 9 - The aforementioned "intelligence guy." The player who made him wasn't dumb by any means, but he definitely went out of his comfort zone there and just rocked it so hard, whilst making us all laugh as well.
Day 10 - Aren't all grouping strange by their very definition?
Day 11 - One shot Chronicles of Darkness blue book/mortals, which I'll post as a future blog, but just the player choices made me chuckle and I had to really think on my feet when they went back into the house. Who does that??
Day 12 - Theban Sorcery or Coils of the Dragon from VtR. I never really liked "mystical characters" but the background between these two is really well done.
Day 13 - Only the ones I don't immediately understand... So pretty much everything from Mage. I mean, I love Mage (Awakening) and all the Atlantis stuff and whatnot, I just have a hard time with some of the rules.
Day 14 - Going old school with 1st Edition Exalted, Crimson Undertow, an Abyssal Exalted/pirate with a crew of the dead. Good times. Chronicles, Witold "Vee" Chodkiewicz, who we haven't heard the last of.
Day 15 - oWoD, Zhyzhak, the utterly insane Black Spiral Dancer from Werewolf the Apocalypse. Especially in the opening fiction of Book of the Wyrm 2e. Pitting an entire Sept of werewolves against her was a quick way to ensure a high Garou body count. The God-Machine in Chronicles. Hard to get more antagonistic than that.
Day 16 - Malkavians or Nosferatu in any setting. Never enjoyed seeing others play them, would get no enjoyment myself.
Day 17 - Splats that defy the norm or are interesting in their own right, like Daeva Lancea Sanctum or basically any form of Unchained. I love Demons.
Day 18 - Sin-Eaters. I love the concept of Geist, super muchos, much as I loved Wraith, but I've never had the opportunity to do much with them, because they're a little on the complex side and I'm a simpleton.
Day 19 - A lot of them?
Day 20 - I'd love to LARP, but I think I'm too shy for it.
Day 21 - I've never seen any character die at all in the World/Chronicles/Trinityverse/Exalted lines. Never.
Day 22 - The first time I was an ST. Mind-numbing horror was induced that day. For me, mostly.
Day 23 - Me, obv.
Day 24 - Rachel did super great in the abduction, just the outside of the box thinking. Also, honorable mention to the OG crew of Trish, Craig, and James.
Day 25 - Hunter the Reckoning. So much potential there that never got fully explored.
Day 26 - 28 - I don't really have any great answers for these.
Day 29 - Wavecleaver Daiklaive, from Exalted 1e. Absolute favorite weapon item ever.
Day 30 - Right this moment? Solid crossover game set in Union City, of course. But mostly a mortal or Hunter: tV chronicle. Pretty much anything except Mummy, which I would love to run in another part of the world, just not UC.
Tuesday, May 15, 2018
Thursday, March 29, 2018
OON: Supernatural and the ChroD
I originally posted this on the 357th ID BattleTech blog, and it really belongs more over here now that UCC is a thing. But, I also posted it way back in 2015, and I realized there's so much more I could go back and do with it.
Biggest change (and not one I'm going to edit) is that New World of Darkness is now referred to as Chronicles of Darkness (Chrod or ChroD for short) as to distance itself from the game lines that came previously. It's a titular change and not one that impacts anything functionally.
Second biggest change is that whilst I have Mummy and Beast now, many of the game lines are on second editions, some of which have some significant changes in scope or tone, so bear in mind anything below is based upon 1e stuff.
So, onto the blog. I'll use breaks to separate the original from my additions below.
Supernatural - The WB/CW television series which follows a pair of brothers to Hell and back on their quest to rid the world of supernatural shit. Or, I assume. Do they actually have an end goal beyond just surviving from week to week? Stay tuned to find out!
The World of Darkness - A series of roleplaying games produced first by White Wolf and then by Onyx Path Publishing wherein players (generally) play characters as protagonists that would be antagonists in pretty much any other game. I'm solely referring to the "new" World of Darkness titles, released originally in the early 2000s, and not the "classic" titles from the 90s on.
So let's start on the comparisons - first the "big two" categories for Supernatural, then the "big three" for the WoD.
Now then, we've covered some of the more prevalent themes between the two universes here, but I want to take a moment to talk about Chicago.
Chicago has been featured multiple times on Supernatural, usually as background but also as a main city in two notable occasions. The first of these revolved around the first noted serial killer in the United States, H.H. Holmes & his infamous "murder castle" as the impetus for a spectral haunting. The second, and even more infamous than the murder castle, is the episode that was to serve as the pilot for a one-city based Supernatural spin off called Bloodlines, where the city is divided up amongst the vampires, the werewolves, the djinn, and shapeshifters. I think. I'm not entirely sure because it was the only episode in the entirety of Supernatural that I've never finished watching. In fact, to this day, I still have no idea how it ends. Any way, so the supernatural creatures are supposed to be pulling the strings of the city from behind the curtain so to speak and Sam & Dean featured for about five seconds to assist in some stuff or other. I dunno. It felt flat.
At any rate, this is notable because there is an entire book, World of Darkness: Chicago, that is of the "blue book" mortal line, but is actually a second signature city for Vampire, Werewolf, AND Mage. It covers how the three supernatural "splats" interact with each other, and to a lesser degree, with the mortals of the city. And it does so in a much better way than the Bloodlines episode even did. In addition to WoD: Chicago, there is a companion novel "Three Shades of Night" that take this sourcebook & give it some fictional context (and is a good story), three Vampire novels ("A Hunger Like Fire," "Blood In, Blood Out," "The Marriage of Virtue and Viciousness") and one phenomenal mortal (?) novel ("Strangeness in the Proportion") that all build the idea of this city at the center of the United States. Moreso than any of the signature cities, Chicago lends itself well to crossover games and stories involving numerous types of supernatural creatures.
Getting that out of the way, we're left with a ton of real estate to cover both from the show and from the World of Darkness, not all of which I can even touch on.
A2, Angels/Demons - Dude, now that I've spent a whole lot more time reading through Demon: the Descent books, let me just say that Dean's assertions about angels being dicks TOTALLY holds true in the Chronicles of Darkness. Don't misunderstand that statement - Unchained Demons in D:tD are NOT necessarily "the good guys" by any stretch of the imagination, but they're almost always the lesser of two evils. And D:tD has so many examples of splinter timelines and alternate realities that, do you remember the episode where Sam and Dean end up in the "real world" to escape Raphael as a diversion for Balthasar? Yeah, D:tD has shit like that. Not so much in the comic relief sense, since the God Machine and techgnostic espionage is spr srs bizness, and whatnot, but the concept of accessible realities for Unchained willing to rip between worlds is kind of cool. Also, I may or may not have statted Castiel up as a Messenger Incarnation Demon. Turns out, pulling a soul from Hell is way less hard than you might think. OH! And yeah, so the Heaven/Hell/Purgatory thing, I guess if you look at the Abyss and the Lower Depths from Mage and Geist and whatnot, Hell could metaphysically be an actual place.
C7, Merits/Flaws (ChroD) - Having reread Second Sight, Antagonists, and Reliquary a few times since posting this, I'm fairly convinced you could turn the last three or so episodes of Season Two SPN into a ChroD Battle Royale between mortals looking to become a Kindred's newest Childe or something similar.
C9, The Mother of All (SPN) - Eve was not, sadly, the "big bad" for Season Six, the way she was built up to be. In fact, it was a typical "massage without the happy ending" that SPN loves to pull, which was a damned shame. I liked the Khan worms and still, to this day, find ways to mention them. There are a couple of analogs in ChroD that one could look at like TMoA, such as the titular Crone that the Circle of the Crone Kindred Covenant refers to, but I like The Dark Mother from Beast more. See, one of the driving themes of Beast is that ALL monsters, whether Beasts or Uratha or Kindred etc are all family, all relatives tied together (at least spiritually) through being offspring of TDM. On the one hand, it's a way to do "Super Friends" crossover chronicles with a bunch of different monster splats, but on the other hand, because ChroD doesn't have a true metaplot or solid origin stories for any type of supernatural, it's as possible as Atlantis being the source of all Mages.
C10, Dragons (SPN) - Season six also introduced dragons into the SPN mythos. And that HP Lovecraft wasn't just a writer. That's unrelated though. Anyway, the dragons in SPN are only ever shown on-screen as humans, with Eastern European accents, that live in sewers, and abduct virgins, and like gold. I can really see myself a lot in these guys. ALSO, since I mentioned Beast with TMoA stuff, SPN dragons are almost exactly like Beasts. Right down to having a lair and being nightmare inducing stuff of myths. Beasts are more... Literally nightmare inducing, as that is how the Beast part of an individual feeds, and their lairs are less physical (usually), but they also have to deal with antagonists called, appropriately, Heroes, much like Sam and Dean.
C11, The Colt (SPN) - A "magic" kills-anything-it-shoots gun, built by Samuel Colt in the 1800s during an eclipse for a hunter, that hunted unstoppable monsters in the New World, before Colt himself went on to make a Devil's Trap to lock a gate to Hell (quite possibly an Avernian Gate in ChroD)? This is some pure Reliquary (see Cursed Objects above) or D:tD Gadget type shit right hurr.
C12, The Fairy Tale Coma Girl (SPN) - Changeling: the Lost. In an episode. Fairy tale aspects, and mother fuckers dying from poison apples.
C13, Mysterious Places/Asylum (ChroD) - How many episodes of SPN have dealt with abandoned asylums or up to date psychiatric institutes? At least a handful. I've touched upon Asylum in the write up to Grand Meadow, as well as glimpses in other writings (it's a continuing thread) and SPN followed a lot of the same tropes that I did/that the writers of Asylum did, in episodes featuring one.
Biggest change (and not one I'm going to edit) is that New World of Darkness is now referred to as Chronicles of Darkness (Chrod or ChroD for short) as to distance itself from the game lines that came previously. It's a titular change and not one that impacts anything functionally.
Second biggest change is that whilst I have Mummy and Beast now, many of the game lines are on second editions, some of which have some significant changes in scope or tone, so bear in mind anything below is based upon 1e stuff.
So, onto the blog. I'll use breaks to separate the original from my additions below.
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To clarify the title, I'm referring to the following two items of media interest;Supernatural - The WB/CW television series which follows a pair of brothers to Hell and back on their quest to rid the world of supernatural shit. Or, I assume. Do they actually have an end goal beyond just surviving from week to week? Stay tuned to find out!
The World of Darkness - A series of roleplaying games produced first by White Wolf and then by Onyx Path Publishing wherein players (generally) play characters as protagonists that would be antagonists in pretty much any other game. I'm solely referring to the "new" World of Darkness titles, released originally in the early 2000s, and not the "classic" titles from the 90s on.
- "Blue Book" or Core line, focusing on mortals
- Vampire: the Requiem
- Werewolf: the Forsaken
- Mage: the Awakened
- Changeling: the Lost
- Promethean: the Created
- Hunter: the Vigil
- Geist: the Sin-Eaters
- Demon: the Descent
- Mummy: the Curse
- Beast: the Primordial
SECTION A - BIG STUFF
So let's start on the comparisons - first the "big two" categories for Supernatural, then the "big three" for the WoD.
- Hunters/Mortals (SPN) - As I said above, Supernatural follows a pair
of (mostly) mortal brothers, the Winchesters, that hunt the things that
go bump in the night. They're the things that bump back. Er, wait,
that's Hellboy. I forgot. Uh, anyway, so in a World of Darkness sense,
Sam and Dean Winchester are mortal characters that could be constructed
purely with "blue book" rules in the first season of the show. By season
two, the introduction of more hunters than the Winchesters knew
existed, in the form of "the Roadhouse," brings us to ways that Hunter:
the Vigil's system of "hunter cells" could have been implemented. In
that, you have a small core (Sam & Dean, Jo, Ellen, and Ash from the
Roadhouse) that could be considered as your PC group. They make
contacts with other mortals throughout their run and occasionally work
together to solve an issue in the world at large. Basically, any human
character that is not of the various "splats" could be considered to
come in here. Sam and Dean, as the main characters of the show, have had
various merits and flaws with a supernatural bent to them, which could
be expressed from optional traits in various sourcebooks, but I'll get
to that in a minute.
---EXPANDED; in the ChroD sense, PCs are built as mortals, with a supernatural template added based upon the gameline you're playing. So, your Vampire starts as a mortal, then the additions that make it a Kindred (see below) occur. You can see a couple of examples of this in SPN, when Gordon (or Dean, for that matter) becomes a vampire, or when Garth goes werewolf (ChroD, you're born one, but that's neither here nor there), and Bobby coming back as a ghost is akin to a ChroD Mage taking a spectral familiar. That he is tied to his flask is very ChroD as well. Cells, as I mentioned above, are the smallest "structure" of a Hunter in ChroD, but groups of Hunters that coordinate across regions are referred to as "Compacts" and anything that is crossing national borders or worldwide is called a "Conspiracy." The Men of Letters in SPN was very much a Compact, until the Brits came along and then, plus the amount of knowledge they have, pushed it firmly into Conspiracy territory. In fact, if you like the idea of the MoL, you might want to look at the Aegis Kai Doru or Cheiron Group of Hunter (depending on how much corporate you want in there).
Supernatural takes place mostly in the midwest, with the hunters ranging all over the small towns and back highways, only occasionally going to really large cities (like Chicago, see way below). The WoD "blue book" makes no assumptions on where a game will be set, however, each game line as a signature city that is more fleshed out than most. For hunters, it is Philadelphia. - Angels/Demons + Heaven/Hell/Purgatory (SPN) - Do you live in the
Western world? Then chances are, you know a little bit about Christian
dogma and the believe in the idea of angels and demons, or that Heaven,
Hell, and/or Purgatory are all places your soul may end up in the
afterlife. Supernatural sticks with this theme and incorporates a
shitfuckton of the Christian mythos into its seasonal writing. Angels
are the winged avengers of Heaven and occasionally, when they aren't
smiting entire cities, the protectors of His creations in man. Demons,
created by Lucifer from humans that sell their souls, are the antithesis
of that. Heaven is a place. Hell is a place. Purgatory is the place
from whence the souls of all the monsters of the world come and go.
Things in the World of Darkness, however, are a little different. Whilst there is no "metaplot" (up until more recent releases), in the WoD there exists the idea of the "God-Machine," an all-powerful mechanical construct that makes the universe march along. Angels do exist - they are the GM's biomechanical servants that carry out Its will, being created for a task and then recycled when the task is completed. But when one of them questions its orders, or fails a mission, or acts contrary to its nature, it falls... And then we have demons! Or, "Unchained" as they like to refer to themselves. As a PC option via Demon: the Descent (a game of techgnostic espionage), demons aren't the solely evil creatures they are in SPN. Not that they are necessarily good per se, any more than the average human is, but they aren't struggling to free Lucifer either. Probably. In fact, the whole Christian idea behind angels and demons flies out the window in the WoD. Demons have to maintain a "Cover" to hide them from angels and the God-Machine, as they work to find their own slice of paradise (Hell) on Earth. This "Cover" is procured by buying souls or making pacts for a portion of a person's life. Like Crowley and his ilk then, the Unchained are willing to partake in Machiavellian schemes to get ahead in this endeavor but (uh oh) the SPN character most like D:tD demons... Is Castiel. Boo hiss rawr wtf r u on?? Yes yes, I know that sounds weird, but Cas rebels against Heaven for Sam and Dean. He literally fights against other angels on their behalf. And whilst he doesn't do soul pacts, he does inhabit the body of a human that already had a life (Jimmy? JIMMEH!) and when he was "borrowing" grace, he wasn't much better than a demon.
In their true forms, Zachariah (I think?) talks about how he has a bunch of lion faces and like, Voltron armor or some shit, but that even in Heaven, he takes the form of man so that Sam & Dean's soulfaces don't melt off. Castiel's true form is enough to burn a chick's eyes out. In that same idea, angels and demons of the WoD have true forms that are biomechanical wonders to behold. Terrifying and beautiful and maybe a little insane.
So then, Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory aren't places that physically exist, or spiritually exist, or whatever/however they exist in SPN for the World of Darkness in the same way, BUT the Underworld is a place - a pooling of souls that have departed, per Geist: the Sin-Eaters (discussed more in the ghost section). The dead exist in cities much as in life and it is gloomy. As. Fuck. As it should be. The signature city for Demons (and angels, by default), is Seattle.
---EXPANDED; I forgot about World of Darkness: Inferno, which actually does deal with Hell and the Supernatural concept of demons, which was released far before Demon: the Descent. So, as a storyteller, you could actually have the traditional concept of a crossroads demon and an enemy of the God-Machine at the same time. Enterprising!
- Vampires (WoD) - Having watched any of the vampire episodes from
Supernatural, you'll know that they live in "nests," are more or less
just tired and irritated as hell by the sun, drink the shit out of your
blood, and die by cutting their heads off. There is a scary-as-fuck
alpha vampire but otherwise, they aren't much of a challenge for
hunters. In the World of Darkness, vampires (called "Kindred") are THE
preeminent movers and shakers of most metropolitan areas. Formed up into
a series of Clans (based on your sire's Clan) and Covenants (based on
your political or religious ideology), vampires, via Vampire: the
Requiem are another type of PC. Much, much, much more powerful than the
vampires in SPN, and not only because they are (on average) faster than
mortals, stronger than mortals, able to shake off most wounds quicker
than mortals, and with abilities that border on the ridiculous but also
because they probably own the police in your city, can have your power
shut off, your house condemned, and you arrested on trumped up child
pornography charges rather than just make you disappear.
---EXPANDED; Vamp blood is super addicting in ChroD, and a human that uses it is called a "ghoul." But, like Sam drinking demon blood, it gives mortals a real boost to their performance, like a crimson Viagra. A steady diet of Kindred Vitae will keep an otherwise mortal person young and healthy, make them stronger and faster, and able to more quickly heal from wounds or display low levels of certain vampiric powers. So reimagine Ruby (pretty Ruby, not future Mrs Sam Ruby) as a Kindred (Daeva Clan, "renegade" Lancea Sanctum Covenant), keeping Sam on the hook by having him drain other Kindred, and yeah, similar outcome.
The signature city for Vampires is New Orleans. Obviously. Thanks, Obama. Er, Anne Rice. - Werewolves (WoD) - The World of Darkness werewolves aren't tied to
the moon. That needs to be said first because in most werewolf related
media, that is a big deal. No, let me rephrase. Their ability to
shapeshift isn't limited by being in the full moon. They are still tied
to the moon in the idea of "auspice," ie the phase of the moon dictates a
good bit of a werewolf's role in werewolf (called "Uratha") society.
PCs via Werewolf: the Forsaken, Uratha are kind of spiritual policemen -
when spirits cross over from a sister-realm to the real world (yeah,
that isn't confusing), it is Uratha responsibility to deal with them.
Oh, and to fight "the Pure," werewolves not "forsaken" because their
spiritual ancestor didn't have a hand in the primordial Father Wolf
spirit's murder, like the "forsaken" did. You know, out of all the WoD
game to SPN comparisons, this one is the hardest just because of the
cosmology and background history. Suffices to say, they are way
different.
There are only a couple of werewolf episodes for SPN so hard data is a lot sketchier. Werewolves here shift on nights of the full moon and eat hearts. Mmmm, nummy. One of the best episodes involved a pack of werewolves that worshipped the Fenris wolf of Teutonic mythology. W:tF also has the Fenris (Fenris-ur) as the founder of a werewolf tribe, the Blood Talons. The idea is the same, the mythology is more of less comparable. Except a couple of hunters would never take down this tribe vs taking down the pack in SPN. In comparison to everything WoD via SPN, mortals vs WoD "splats" are fairly weak, more so when talking werewolves than anything else. Werewolf: the Forsaken's sig "city" is the Colorado Rockies, centered on Denver more or less. - Mages (WoD) - "No, it could be anyone. Neighbor, coworker, man, woman. That's the problem Dean, they're human, they're like everyone else."
I pulled this quote off of the Supernatural wiki in regards to witches.
Mages in the World of Darkness are NOT witches in the sense of SPN. On
the one hand, they are both basically mortal "splats." On the other,
witches in SPN bargain away their souls (whether they realize it or not)
in exchange for their power, and rely upon spellbooks where as in the
WoD, mages are a supernal force in and of themselves, willworkers able
to literally reweave the foundation of reality once they become strong
enough. Of course, witches in Supernatural are some of the most powerful
threats exactly based upon the above quote. In both cases, you NEVER
know who could be a supernatural spell caster, as they don't have the
traditional weaknesses of vampires or werewolves nor the traditional red
flags. Of course, if you shoot them in the face (with a gun I mean),
they die pretty quick.
You see a lot of fate manipulation and extended ages with witches in Supernatural. Mages have the same base abilities with random chance and luck, but only certain maga (with a Life focus) extend their lives dramatically. Mage: the Awakened's signature city is Boston. Beautiful Boston.
Now then, we've covered some of the more prevalent themes between the two universes here, but I want to take a moment to talk about Chicago.
SECTION B - CITY STUFF
Chicago has been featured multiple times on Supernatural, usually as background but also as a main city in two notable occasions. The first of these revolved around the first noted serial killer in the United States, H.H. Holmes & his infamous "murder castle" as the impetus for a spectral haunting. The second, and even more infamous than the murder castle, is the episode that was to serve as the pilot for a one-city based Supernatural spin off called Bloodlines, where the city is divided up amongst the vampires, the werewolves, the djinn, and shapeshifters. I think. I'm not entirely sure because it was the only episode in the entirety of Supernatural that I've never finished watching. In fact, to this day, I still have no idea how it ends. Any way, so the supernatural creatures are supposed to be pulling the strings of the city from behind the curtain so to speak and Sam & Dean featured for about five seconds to assist in some stuff or other. I dunno. It felt flat.
At any rate, this is notable because there is an entire book, World of Darkness: Chicago, that is of the "blue book" mortal line, but is actually a second signature city for Vampire, Werewolf, AND Mage. It covers how the three supernatural "splats" interact with each other, and to a lesser degree, with the mortals of the city. And it does so in a much better way than the Bloodlines episode even did. In addition to WoD: Chicago, there is a companion novel "Three Shades of Night" that take this sourcebook & give it some fictional context (and is a good story), three Vampire novels ("A Hunger Like Fire," "Blood In, Blood Out," "The Marriage of Virtue and Viciousness") and one phenomenal mortal (?) novel ("Strangeness in the Proportion") that all build the idea of this city at the center of the United States. Moreso than any of the signature cities, Chicago lends itself well to crossover games and stories involving numerous types of supernatural creatures.
SECTION C - SMALL BUT PREVALENT STUFF
Getting that out of the way, we're left with a ton of real estate to cover both from the show and from the World of Darkness, not all of which I can even touch on.
- Urban Legends (WoD) - This one book is basically Supernatural season 1. It features stuff like Bloody Mary, the Woman in White, the Hook Hand, so on and so forth. It's not only entirely a required WoD book for mortal games in my opinion, but it also makes a great read whilst watching the series.
- Midnight Roads (WoD) - Do you -really- like the idea of driving across country to fight the "monster of the week?" You're in luck! Midnight Roads is "Supernatual: the Roleplaying Game" (not to be confused with the actual SPN RPG) in one neat package.
- Cursed Objects (SPN) - There were several episodes that involved cursed objects getting loose in the world, like the (un)lucky rabbit's foot or shit from some guy's lock up. Reliquary is a World of Darkness book that delves into the idea of these cursed (or blessed) objects for inclusion into your gaming world.
- Ghosts (SPN) - Whilst the above listed stuff is the big headlining acts, ghosts in Supernatural are the most commonly interacted with supernatural beings in the entire series. More episodes ("We're the Ghost... Ghostfacers!") are devoted to researching, laying to rest, or helping to move on of spirits than anything else. As I mentioned earlier, Geist: the Sin-Eaters deals with ghosts in the various forms pretty much, and details the Underworld where ghosts probably belong. I have the core rulebook but have honestly only skimmed it. WoD: Ghost Stories and Book of Spirits touches on a lot of the concepts of poltergeists and angry earth bound spirits as well. Though, again, not to the degree that Supernatural looks at the afterlife.
- Promethean: the Created (WoD) - Frrrrrrrrrankensteeeeeeein!!!!! Or his monster at least. Promethean is all about created beings, and deals with the mythological origins of things like Galatea and golems, in addition to the more modern idea of a mad man's attempt to play God. Supernatural had a really, really good episode involving Nazi necromancers and a golem that could provide a degree of inspiration here but the tops, in my book, go way back to season three wherein to keep Dean out of Hell, Sam was looking for a doctor their dad had hunted, who had found the key to immortality by replacing his body parts regularly. The science and alchemical ideas found in that episode are really pure Promethean in their execution. |
- Shapeshifters (SPN) - I... Don't think there is an equivalent to these guys in the World of Darkness, but Skinchangers come kind of close to the "turns from a dog to a man" type. As far as taking on the form with memories of another person, Unchained from Demon do this with a soul pact that they collect upon, though the original is gone forever. I think. I assume.
- Merits and Flaws (WoD) - This came up at the start, for the mortal characters. Sam and Dean both end up with supernatural abilities, like the demon blood or the Mark of Cain. World of Darkness has points in stuff like this, like "Unseen Sense: Ghost" or "Writer Fiat" (that isn't real) that beef up normal humans. Much of World of Darkness: Second Sight walks players through psychics or telekinetics, things of that sort.
- Cain (SPN) - Man, that was a good character. There is a Hunter Compact (a larger group than just a cell) that think vampires are descended from Cain (they were, in the "classic" World of Darkness Vampire: the Masquerade) and constantly paint or ask "who is Cain?" before killing a vampire. It's a small thread, I just really liked that actor on SPN.
++++
Now, to expand on a few things, since it's 2018 and I can. A2, Angels/Demons - Dude, now that I've spent a whole lot more time reading through Demon: the Descent books, let me just say that Dean's assertions about angels being dicks TOTALLY holds true in the Chronicles of Darkness. Don't misunderstand that statement - Unchained Demons in D:tD are NOT necessarily "the good guys" by any stretch of the imagination, but they're almost always the lesser of two evils. And D:tD has so many examples of splinter timelines and alternate realities that, do you remember the episode where Sam and Dean end up in the "real world" to escape Raphael as a diversion for Balthasar? Yeah, D:tD has shit like that. Not so much in the comic relief sense, since the God Machine and techgnostic espionage is spr srs bizness, and whatnot, but the concept of accessible realities for Unchained willing to rip between worlds is kind of cool. Also, I may or may not have statted Castiel up as a Messenger Incarnation Demon. Turns out, pulling a soul from Hell is way less hard than you might think. OH! And yeah, so the Heaven/Hell/Purgatory thing, I guess if you look at the Abyss and the Lower Depths from Mage and Geist and whatnot, Hell could metaphysically be an actual place.
C7, Merits/Flaws (ChroD) - Having reread Second Sight, Antagonists, and Reliquary a few times since posting this, I'm fairly convinced you could turn the last three or so episodes of Season Two SPN into a ChroD Battle Royale between mortals looking to become a Kindred's newest Childe or something similar.
C9, The Mother of All (SPN) - Eve was not, sadly, the "big bad" for Season Six, the way she was built up to be. In fact, it was a typical "massage without the happy ending" that SPN loves to pull, which was a damned shame. I liked the Khan worms and still, to this day, find ways to mention them. There are a couple of analogs in ChroD that one could look at like TMoA, such as the titular Crone that the Circle of the Crone Kindred Covenant refers to, but I like The Dark Mother from Beast more. See, one of the driving themes of Beast is that ALL monsters, whether Beasts or Uratha or Kindred etc are all family, all relatives tied together (at least spiritually) through being offspring of TDM. On the one hand, it's a way to do "Super Friends" crossover chronicles with a bunch of different monster splats, but on the other hand, because ChroD doesn't have a true metaplot or solid origin stories for any type of supernatural, it's as possible as Atlantis being the source of all Mages.
C10, Dragons (SPN) - Season six also introduced dragons into the SPN mythos. And that HP Lovecraft wasn't just a writer. That's unrelated though. Anyway, the dragons in SPN are only ever shown on-screen as humans, with Eastern European accents, that live in sewers, and abduct virgins, and like gold. I can really see myself a lot in these guys. ALSO, since I mentioned Beast with TMoA stuff, SPN dragons are almost exactly like Beasts. Right down to having a lair and being nightmare inducing stuff of myths. Beasts are more... Literally nightmare inducing, as that is how the Beast part of an individual feeds, and their lairs are less physical (usually), but they also have to deal with antagonists called, appropriately, Heroes, much like Sam and Dean.
C11, The Colt (SPN) - A "magic" kills-anything-it-shoots gun, built by Samuel Colt in the 1800s during an eclipse for a hunter, that hunted unstoppable monsters in the New World, before Colt himself went on to make a Devil's Trap to lock a gate to Hell (quite possibly an Avernian Gate in ChroD)? This is some pure Reliquary (see Cursed Objects above) or D:tD Gadget type shit right hurr.
C12, The Fairy Tale Coma Girl (SPN) - Changeling: the Lost. In an episode. Fairy tale aspects, and mother fuckers dying from poison apples.
C13, Mysterious Places/Asylum (ChroD) - How many episodes of SPN have dealt with abandoned asylums or up to date psychiatric institutes? At least a handful. I've touched upon Asylum in the write up to Grand Meadow, as well as glimpses in other writings (it's a continuing thread) and SPN followed a lot of the same tropes that I did/that the writers of Asylum did, in episodes featuring one.
Wednesday, March 14, 2018
Therapy
"Height, hell, time, haste, terror, tension. Life, death, want, waste, mass depression."
And thus, he told his dream to everyone;
"I was angry. Angrier than I've ever been. The kids were getting on my nerves and the cats were constantly under my feet. So I was yelling. And throwing things. I flipped the mattress over and there were cats under the bed, digging at my tool box. I just lost my shit and opened it super hard. It hit one of the cats and it yowled this terrible sound. That's when the demon came. I could feel its hand inside of me, squeezing my organs. It whispered in my ear that I needed to stop being such an asshole. I knew I was dreaming at that point, so I tried to wake up but I couldn't. I could feel my liver and kidneys turning into pulp and I tried to scream. I opened my mouth wide and hoped that my sleeping body was doing the same in the real world, tried to squeak out any kind of scream so someone would come and shake me awake but the demon wouldn't let any sound come out. It laughed at me. It told me it would come back over and over again as many times as it took, as it had done for years and years and I knew that it was telling the truth, I could remember the dreams of the demon and the torment going all the way back to childhood."
"And why do you think that is?" Dr Harris barely looked up from his notepad during the group sessions. This time was no exception.
"Why do I think that is?? Because the demon has been attacking me in my dreams since I was a kid? Making sleep randomly feel like Hell?" He became visibly agitated as an orderly came and put a hand on his shoulder.
Several of the patients in the circle inched away from his outburst, whilst others nodded along to the things that he said. Each one had their own story to tell, some not that dissimilar to his.
"We've talked about this before, Dustin. There is no demon, no supernatural force tormenting you. It's your sleeping mind creating a metaphor for the anger that destroyed your marriage. Until you start to take responsibility for your actions, the dreams will continue."
"'Taking responsibility' doesn't change shit!" He shouted. "I can be the goddamned Saint of taking responsibility and it still comes into my dreams!" The orderly pushed him back down into his chair, clamping tightly and preventing him from rising again.
"Stan, it's okay, Dustin is just a little tired. He'll remain quiet and behave. Won't you, Dustin?"
"Yes, Dr Harris, I'm sorry for my outburst." He looked down at the floor sullen.
"It's quite alright." The doctor closed his notepad and looked around. "Now, everyone, this is an important learning moment. We all have our demons. Figuratively. Everyone has something that tempts them or that they try to escape from. The key is to never let these demons control you. Ah, but that's group for the day, so we'll have to discuss this more next time."
"Hey, Dustin, you awake, man?"
Sitting in bed, back to the wall, Dustin was indeed awake. The nightmares and dealing with the stress of group almost always guaranteed a restless evening for him.
"You ever notice how therapist broken down is 'the rapist'? That's how my mind always feels after group. Like being non-consensual mind fucked."
A forced chuckle escaped his lips. Vaughn always knew what to say to drain the tension out of the room. "Never looked at it like that, but you ain't wrong. Least the doc could have done is wear a condom when he went that deep."
"People think we're crazy 'cause we have a few issues, but that quack is nuts. Anyone that emotionless has to have some really fucked up 'figurative demons' of his own." Vaughn laughed at himself before rolling over.
"Probably dresses like a gimp and pays for a dominatrix to fuck him like a pig."
Vaughn abruptly stopped laughing. "Shit, you think so? Huh. Maybe that's what we all need."
This time, Dustin's chuckle was genuine. Vaughn, like himself, was in Grand Meadow for anger problems. His manager at Burger Hut had been convinced that he was going to blow up their restaurant and his parents forced him to check in for observation, not unlike Dustin's ex-wife as a condition for him ever seeing his kids again.
"Sure, if you can't beat them, pork them. Good night, man." Laughing into his pillow, Vaughn gave a thumbs up.
Dustin stretched out across his bed, watching a slender shaft of moonlight appear and disappear on the floor at the whim of the clouds. It held a certain nighttime rhythm. The on and off nature of the light, the whistle of the breeze against the window, Vaughn's snoring. Everything combined to form a hypnotic pattern that Dustin could lose himself in, even if only for a small while.
Eyes glazed over in a thousand yard stare, he started to feel the familiar chest-tightening sensation. It never happens this often, he thought as his pulse quickened and the panic set in. The caress of claws pressing into his flesh was swiftly followed by the tickle of words against his ear.
"Such a terrible, vulgar, immasculated little man. This is why they left you. This is why they will always leave you." The demon purred as the skin on Dustin's back shredded as easily as paper, exposing vital organs and viscera. He could feel his blood spurting with each twist of its wrists, the pain mind-numbing when his organs popped like grapes in its hands. He tried everything he could to wake himself up, every trick he had spent years combing books and articles to find.
Fingers like cold fire gripped his arms and held him firm as the demon continued to violate his entrails. "Shhh, shhh, shhh, you're too weak to break free." He could feel every inch of his intestines as they were tugged from around his spine, his jaw aching from the silent scream he couldn't release.
The pillow hit him in the face from across the room. "Dude, I'm too tired, keep it down." Exhaling sharply, Dustin rolled onto the floor, running his hands across the smooth skin of his lower back as he stared at his bed. The terror was getting progressively worse and the medications Dr Harris had prescribed weren't helping at all. He knew without a doubt that he would truly go insane if it didn't stop.
It wasn't until the pain had passed, until he lay there gasping in great lungfuls of air, that he realized he had never fallen asleep.
Vaughn died three days later. It was unrelated to anything happening with Dustin, and by all accounts was his own fault. A fight with another patient became physical. He tripped after shoving the patient, falling into an overturned chair, the leg of which penetrated his ocular cavity all the way until it touched the inside of his skull. There was nothing anyone could do and he was pronounced dead on the scene.
That it had nothing to do with his nightmares was of no comfort to Dustin, however, who was filled more and more every day with a creeping sense of dread. Nor did it make anyone more chatty in group, as everyone became quieter and more reluctant to speak out. When someone finally did speak, it was to talk about seeing Vaughn's ghost, bloody eye gouge and all, and they were quickly silenced by the hospital staff.
"We're all sad about Vaughn's untimely passing, but he wouldn't want any of us to dwell on it. He'd want us all to move on and focus on getting better." Dr Harris lectured the assemblage.
"What if... The demon pushed him to torment me?" Dustin thought aloud, for the first time potentially blaming himself.
The doctor sighed. "Dustin. When I told you that you needed to take responsibility, it was for your actions, not the actions of someone else. Vaughn's own personal demons are to blame. Yours can only hurt someone else if you let them drive your actions."
"But what if you're wrong?? What if there was some way that I could have... I don't know. Done something. I could have saved him!"
"Stan, Dustin is clearly overwrought today. Could you take him back to his room, please? We'll continue this conversation privately."
"Yo, c'mon, man." The orderly reached a bear-sized hand down and helped Dustin to his feet, more jerking him out of the chair than actively aiding in the endeavor.
"Doc, I think you're right, I think I do have to take responsibility. For all of it."
"That's good, Dustin, but we'll talk more later." Dr Harris' eyes were devoid of any empathy as he watched Stan pull Dustin from the room.
"My time is a very finite resource, you see. It's precious to me and the patients that can be saved."
Dr Harris stood to one side of an old fashioned examination table. Dustin would have nodded or given a verbal response, but the rubber bit in his mouth and the straps across his body prevented him from doing either.
"I haven't given up on you, you know. Just because group therapy and private sessions aren't getting to the root of your delusions, there are more drastic options we can try."
Tears formed in the corners of Dustin's eyes as he vaguely remembered being injected with something to help him sleep before experiencing nightmares stronger and more vivid than he'd ever had in his life. The demon eviscerated him and used his body parts to make esoteric images, explaining in minute detail what each piece of him was meant to represent. None of it made sense to him, nor should a delusion, of course. He just wanted it to stop and was thankful that Dr Harris had a plan.
"Stan, make sure the connections are tight, please." He motioned for the orderly to double check that all of the electrodes were firmly in place.
"I'm on it, doc."
"Now, for many years, electroconvulsive therapy was utilized by medical professionals to 'shock' the brain into working correctly. It's nonsense and barbaric, you understand, the process they used. This, by contrast, is a work of art. You see, for the current to properly stimulate the brain, the connections must go deeper."
The needles in his temples made his head throb, as Dustin followed along with the explanation. Tiny droplets of blood escaped from the holes, only to be absorbed by sponges at the ends of a wired harness.
"Yes, it's theta waves that are the root of your nightmares. Once this device realigns how your brain transmits these, you will see a great improvement. In fact, they may stop altogether. Wouldn't you like that?"
Dustin blinked rapidly and mumbled around the bit that he would, the throbbing in his head building into a solid drum beat.
"Good! Stan, shall we begin?"
"Any time, doc!"
Dr Harris nodded and the orderly made several adjustments on a control console, directing how much of a current to send to start. Once the settings looked correct, the doctor nodded again, and the orderly engaged the machine.
A soft whine emanated from the equipment as the first jolts hit Dustin. Immediately, the world went white and unfocused, his body strained against the straps. He could hear Dr Harris as if from a long distance yelling for Stan to stop, that it was too much power too fast. The words were jumbled and eventually drowned out by the voice of the demon.
"Done? So soon? But we had so many more years of fun to look forward to." He could almost hear the pout in its seductive tones. "That's okay. Broken toys aren't worth playing with anyway."
Eyes rolling into the back of his skull, the electricity seizing his muscles in a vice-like grip, sparks danced before Dustin's blackening vision. Moments prior to losing what little remained of himself, he heard maniacal cackling driven by pure bliss, as the demon attached itself to Stan, intent on repeating the same process unto eternity.
And thus, he told his dream to everyone;
"I was angry. Angrier than I've ever been. The kids were getting on my nerves and the cats were constantly under my feet. So I was yelling. And throwing things. I flipped the mattress over and there were cats under the bed, digging at my tool box. I just lost my shit and opened it super hard. It hit one of the cats and it yowled this terrible sound. That's when the demon came. I could feel its hand inside of me, squeezing my organs. It whispered in my ear that I needed to stop being such an asshole. I knew I was dreaming at that point, so I tried to wake up but I couldn't. I could feel my liver and kidneys turning into pulp and I tried to scream. I opened my mouth wide and hoped that my sleeping body was doing the same in the real world, tried to squeak out any kind of scream so someone would come and shake me awake but the demon wouldn't let any sound come out. It laughed at me. It told me it would come back over and over again as many times as it took, as it had done for years and years and I knew that it was telling the truth, I could remember the dreams of the demon and the torment going all the way back to childhood."
"And why do you think that is?" Dr Harris barely looked up from his notepad during the group sessions. This time was no exception.
"Why do I think that is?? Because the demon has been attacking me in my dreams since I was a kid? Making sleep randomly feel like Hell?" He became visibly agitated as an orderly came and put a hand on his shoulder.
Several of the patients in the circle inched away from his outburst, whilst others nodded along to the things that he said. Each one had their own story to tell, some not that dissimilar to his.
"We've talked about this before, Dustin. There is no demon, no supernatural force tormenting you. It's your sleeping mind creating a metaphor for the anger that destroyed your marriage. Until you start to take responsibility for your actions, the dreams will continue."
"'Taking responsibility' doesn't change shit!" He shouted. "I can be the goddamned Saint of taking responsibility and it still comes into my dreams!" The orderly pushed him back down into his chair, clamping tightly and preventing him from rising again.
"Stan, it's okay, Dustin is just a little tired. He'll remain quiet and behave. Won't you, Dustin?"
"Yes, Dr Harris, I'm sorry for my outburst." He looked down at the floor sullen.
"It's quite alright." The doctor closed his notepad and looked around. "Now, everyone, this is an important learning moment. We all have our demons. Figuratively. Everyone has something that tempts them or that they try to escape from. The key is to never let these demons control you. Ah, but that's group for the day, so we'll have to discuss this more next time."
******
"Hey, Dustin, you awake, man?"
Sitting in bed, back to the wall, Dustin was indeed awake. The nightmares and dealing with the stress of group almost always guaranteed a restless evening for him.
"You ever notice how therapist broken down is 'the rapist'? That's how my mind always feels after group. Like being non-consensual mind fucked."
A forced chuckle escaped his lips. Vaughn always knew what to say to drain the tension out of the room. "Never looked at it like that, but you ain't wrong. Least the doc could have done is wear a condom when he went that deep."
"People think we're crazy 'cause we have a few issues, but that quack is nuts. Anyone that emotionless has to have some really fucked up 'figurative demons' of his own." Vaughn laughed at himself before rolling over.
"Probably dresses like a gimp and pays for a dominatrix to fuck him like a pig."
Vaughn abruptly stopped laughing. "Shit, you think so? Huh. Maybe that's what we all need."
This time, Dustin's chuckle was genuine. Vaughn, like himself, was in Grand Meadow for anger problems. His manager at Burger Hut had been convinced that he was going to blow up their restaurant and his parents forced him to check in for observation, not unlike Dustin's ex-wife as a condition for him ever seeing his kids again.
"Sure, if you can't beat them, pork them. Good night, man." Laughing into his pillow, Vaughn gave a thumbs up.
Dustin stretched out across his bed, watching a slender shaft of moonlight appear and disappear on the floor at the whim of the clouds. It held a certain nighttime rhythm. The on and off nature of the light, the whistle of the breeze against the window, Vaughn's snoring. Everything combined to form a hypnotic pattern that Dustin could lose himself in, even if only for a small while.
Eyes glazed over in a thousand yard stare, he started to feel the familiar chest-tightening sensation. It never happens this often, he thought as his pulse quickened and the panic set in. The caress of claws pressing into his flesh was swiftly followed by the tickle of words against his ear.
"Such a terrible, vulgar, immasculated little man. This is why they left you. This is why they will always leave you." The demon purred as the skin on Dustin's back shredded as easily as paper, exposing vital organs and viscera. He could feel his blood spurting with each twist of its wrists, the pain mind-numbing when his organs popped like grapes in its hands. He tried everything he could to wake himself up, every trick he had spent years combing books and articles to find.
Fingers like cold fire gripped his arms and held him firm as the demon continued to violate his entrails. "Shhh, shhh, shhh, you're too weak to break free." He could feel every inch of his intestines as they were tugged from around his spine, his jaw aching from the silent scream he couldn't release.
The pillow hit him in the face from across the room. "Dude, I'm too tired, keep it down." Exhaling sharply, Dustin rolled onto the floor, running his hands across the smooth skin of his lower back as he stared at his bed. The terror was getting progressively worse and the medications Dr Harris had prescribed weren't helping at all. He knew without a doubt that he would truly go insane if it didn't stop.
It wasn't until the pain had passed, until he lay there gasping in great lungfuls of air, that he realized he had never fallen asleep.
******
Vaughn died three days later. It was unrelated to anything happening with Dustin, and by all accounts was his own fault. A fight with another patient became physical. He tripped after shoving the patient, falling into an overturned chair, the leg of which penetrated his ocular cavity all the way until it touched the inside of his skull. There was nothing anyone could do and he was pronounced dead on the scene.
That it had nothing to do with his nightmares was of no comfort to Dustin, however, who was filled more and more every day with a creeping sense of dread. Nor did it make anyone more chatty in group, as everyone became quieter and more reluctant to speak out. When someone finally did speak, it was to talk about seeing Vaughn's ghost, bloody eye gouge and all, and they were quickly silenced by the hospital staff.
"We're all sad about Vaughn's untimely passing, but he wouldn't want any of us to dwell on it. He'd want us all to move on and focus on getting better." Dr Harris lectured the assemblage.
"What if... The demon pushed him to torment me?" Dustin thought aloud, for the first time potentially blaming himself.
The doctor sighed. "Dustin. When I told you that you needed to take responsibility, it was for your actions, not the actions of someone else. Vaughn's own personal demons are to blame. Yours can only hurt someone else if you let them drive your actions."
"But what if you're wrong?? What if there was some way that I could have... I don't know. Done something. I could have saved him!"
"Stan, Dustin is clearly overwrought today. Could you take him back to his room, please? We'll continue this conversation privately."
"Yo, c'mon, man." The orderly reached a bear-sized hand down and helped Dustin to his feet, more jerking him out of the chair than actively aiding in the endeavor.
"Doc, I think you're right, I think I do have to take responsibility. For all of it."
"That's good, Dustin, but we'll talk more later." Dr Harris' eyes were devoid of any empathy as he watched Stan pull Dustin from the room.
******
"My time is a very finite resource, you see. It's precious to me and the patients that can be saved."
Dr Harris stood to one side of an old fashioned examination table. Dustin would have nodded or given a verbal response, but the rubber bit in his mouth and the straps across his body prevented him from doing either.
"I haven't given up on you, you know. Just because group therapy and private sessions aren't getting to the root of your delusions, there are more drastic options we can try."
Tears formed in the corners of Dustin's eyes as he vaguely remembered being injected with something to help him sleep before experiencing nightmares stronger and more vivid than he'd ever had in his life. The demon eviscerated him and used his body parts to make esoteric images, explaining in minute detail what each piece of him was meant to represent. None of it made sense to him, nor should a delusion, of course. He just wanted it to stop and was thankful that Dr Harris had a plan.
"Stan, make sure the connections are tight, please." He motioned for the orderly to double check that all of the electrodes were firmly in place.
"I'm on it, doc."
"Now, for many years, electroconvulsive therapy was utilized by medical professionals to 'shock' the brain into working correctly. It's nonsense and barbaric, you understand, the process they used. This, by contrast, is a work of art. You see, for the current to properly stimulate the brain, the connections must go deeper."
The needles in his temples made his head throb, as Dustin followed along with the explanation. Tiny droplets of blood escaped from the holes, only to be absorbed by sponges at the ends of a wired harness.
"Yes, it's theta waves that are the root of your nightmares. Once this device realigns how your brain transmits these, you will see a great improvement. In fact, they may stop altogether. Wouldn't you like that?"
Dustin blinked rapidly and mumbled around the bit that he would, the throbbing in his head building into a solid drum beat.
"Good! Stan, shall we begin?"
"Any time, doc!"
Dr Harris nodded and the orderly made several adjustments on a control console, directing how much of a current to send to start. Once the settings looked correct, the doctor nodded again, and the orderly engaged the machine.
A soft whine emanated from the equipment as the first jolts hit Dustin. Immediately, the world went white and unfocused, his body strained against the straps. He could hear Dr Harris as if from a long distance yelling for Stan to stop, that it was too much power too fast. The words were jumbled and eventually drowned out by the voice of the demon.
"Done? So soon? But we had so many more years of fun to look forward to." He could almost hear the pout in its seductive tones. "That's okay. Broken toys aren't worth playing with anyway."
Eyes rolling into the back of his skull, the electricity seizing his muscles in a vice-like grip, sparks danced before Dustin's blackening vision. Moments prior to losing what little remained of himself, he heard maniacal cackling driven by pure bliss, as the demon attached itself to Stan, intent on repeating the same process unto eternity.
Tuesday, January 23, 2018
The Strange Case of Ronnie Frown
"Dead streets are red, red I'm afraid. There's no confetti, no parade."
He sits down in the high-backed leather chair opposite you, and isn't what you were expecting. You'd heard that he was spry for his age, despite pushing 70. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, with his scotch and his cigar and a level of confidence rarely found in men 30 years his junior, or maybe it's the underwear-clad, 20-something brunette draped over him. Regardless, he is far from the doddering old fool you thought you'd be meeting when his silent butler ushered you in. The glean in his eye competes with the shine of a massive emerald on his finger, though from malice or mirth, you can't begin to tell.
"I always said that there was something wrong, something very strange with Ronnie Long." He begins in that steady Midwestern tone, accented with a tinge of a Southern lilt long time country music fans pick up. "He never laughed, never smiled, talked alone..."
All the green things died when Ronnie moved to that place. Under any other circumstances, it would have set off alarm bells in the community, but it had already been an exceptionally hot and dry summer by July, and no one's yard looked healthy. Other than a caretaker checking on the property monthly, upkeep had been sporadic. Still, in hindsight, had anyone paid attention, the shriveling and browning of the plants was a slow but noticeable process.
Local news programs had steadily focused upon ongoing racially-charged rioting and most of the adults in the neighborhood were too glued to their television screens to see the recent arrival lugging several suitcases from a rusted out '50s model station wagon. Like all changes in the day to day tedium, the kids were the first to see him. John (never Johnny, not since he had become a teen) was in the vanguard of these children, playing football in his yard that day. Turning to see his new neighbor, he missed the ball as it sailed past him, onto the sidewalk. Ronnie set his bags down on the grass and picked the ball up, turning it in his hands like an alien artifact discovered on some long-abandoned world, uncomprehending of its purpose.
"Could you please throw the ball back, sir." Timmy, John's unfailingly polite younger brother, asked.
Ronnie raised his head from the football to stare at the boys. Rather than acquiesce to the request, he walked towards John with his arm outstretched. As he drew closer, John took in every detail of him, from his far below average height, to the disheveled nature of his clothing. Nothing compared to his ruined visage, however. Scars ran from the corner of his mouth the length of his jawline, setting a perpetual grimace across his features.
"Geez, mister, did you fight in the war?" John inquired as he took the offered football.
"Don't you dare ask why I'm cursed to wear this face," Ronnie snarled in reply, snatching his hand back. Despite being shorter than John by a couple of inches, he loomed large and imposing, before he quickly turned his back on the boys and returned to his suitcases. Stunned at the vehemence in his voice, neither boy felt much like playing anymore. Instead, they went back inside, to pull their parents away from the TV.
"I've lost my way!" John heard the screams through his open window a week later. Stumbling from his bed, he looked out to see lights blazing in every vsible window of the neighbor's house. "All things wash away!" They continued. He could see motion in the uppermost of them, shadows obscured by thick cloth hangings that could only be called curtains by the very generous.
It had been a rough week for the entire neighborhood. His parents, and most of the adults on the block, had been excited when they were informed that the empty house had been filled. The excitement soon soured into disappointment when Ronnie made infrequent appearances to answer the knocks of curious people coming to introduce themselves. The quiet unobtrusiveness of a shut-in was preferable to the screaming, which was causing dogs to howl, and as John looked, lights were turning on all over the street. Angry people in pajamas and bathrobes were marching out of their front doors when the screaming stopped, and all of the lights in Ronnie's house simultaneously flickered off. Confused, a murmuring crowd stood in the middle of the street, conversing among themselves for a few minutes before breaking away and returning home.
The next morning, John listened to his mother gossip on the phone about the neighbor, referring to him as "Mister Long," though the kids had taken to calling him the unimaginative "Ronnie Frown" based upon his appearance and demeanor. He took every opportunity to glare at them when they played in their yards or rode their bikes, as if he hated them for their youth and enjoyment of life, and many of them had taken to staying indoors more and more. Out of all the kids in the neighborhood, John was the only one that had spoken to him and he retold the tale of that meeting multiple times. His natural athleticism and friendly nature had made him popular, but with The Story, he always had other kids that wanted him to come over to their house now.
The end of July approached rapidly, and the neighborhood, which should have been teeming with children at the apex of their summer shenanigans, was like a ghost town. A general malaise had swept over the area, with even the adults limiting their time outside of their houses. Working parents drove directly to their places of employment and came straight home. Yard work, when it was done, was dealt with as quickly as possible. No one could place exactly what was causing the unease, but without fail, all were quick to place blame elsewhere. First, it was married couples blaming one another for imagined slights, then it was parents pointing the fingers at their children for always being indoors.
Ultimately, following phone calls and bar meetings, the neighborhood laid responsibility at the feet of Ronnie Frown, as even the grown ups called him. Through conversations John wasn't privy to, the men and women of the block made mention of the late-night screaming, which had reached a fever pitch. One neighbor pointed out, finally, the decaying nature of his yard and tree. Another relayed the fears of her sons, who said that they had been chased from his property with a club. Still another brought up his talking to thin air. Their frayed nerves forced them to huddle closer and talk in hushed tones about what could be done.
John knew none of this at the time, of course. He was far too busy doing typical teen boy things, mostly thinking about girls, despite everything else. Unlike the other neighborhood children, Ronnie didn't really frighten him. If he were asked, the only emotion he felt was anger at the disruption to the normally placid life of summer break. He didn't go out of the way to shout names at Ronnie though, like several on the block did during the rare occasion he was out of his house, nor did he throw rocks or sticks at said house, as he had witnessed his brother do more than once. He just wanted to go about his life and do the things that made him happy without concern for what the neighborhood hermit did.
The unmistakable sound of shattering glass grabbed John's attention, and he could hear kids cheering. Going outside, a small group of five, led by Timmy, was hitting Ronnie's car with various items, including the baseball bat with which his brother broke one of the old wagon's windows. Glancing around the street, John could see adults standing on their porches or looking out of their windows, not making any attempt to stop Timmy and his friends.
John was not the only one alerted by the sound, as Ronnie threw open his front door and charged out, yelling, "you goddamned kids, leave me alone!"
"Ronnie Frown, Ronnie Frown!" was their only response as Timmy, and one other, continued to beat the car.
With a sneer, Ronnie picked up several large rocks and began hurling them in the direction of the kids. Several cracked against the street, flinging flakes of shale in several directions at once. The adults began to join in the chanting without conscious thought, as if they were all pulled by herd mentality.
With a metallic thump and then a cry of pain, a projectiles bounced off of the hood of the car, and hit Timmy just above the collarbone. A jagged piece of the stone embedded itself in his flesh, as another piece sliced a massive gash through his shirt and shoulder. John, and several of the grown ups ran out into the street at that. One of them grabbed his brother, as the rest, including him, starting throwing things at Ronnie and his house. The wave of rage was palpable, so much so that everyone ignored that it was Timmy and his friends that started things in the first place.
The shouts and insults, the missiles being flung and the din of the crowd, all combined to a roar that made the first gunshot almost imperceptible. It wasn't until the second one, and the resulting woman's blood-freezing wailing that anyone realized Ronnie had fired. Everyone panicked and tried to run away as he pulled that gun from his pocket. The shots weren't aimed and, in fact, it barely seemed as if Ronnie was looking at anyone in particular as he backed slowly towards his door. But a bullet doesn't care if it has a target or not, and before his six shots were spent, three people were down on the road. The rest frantically attempted to get inside, to call for police assistance. Their fear and their rage combined with the smell of blood and gunpowder to make the air oppressive in John's lungs.
Like the day that Ronnie showed up on the street, John was the first to see him leave. With just his suitcases, he rushed to the station wagon, cranking it over with a metallic shriek like a demon from hell, as flames became visible in the darkened house. Those souls powered more by anger than fear still outside threw bottles at the car as it drove through yards and sped away. John, unharmed, felt emotionally drained as Ronnie's taillights vanished in the distance. He worried about his brother, and the people on the ground, but he no longer felt the same degree of rage, and looking around as the fire engulfed Ronnie's house, he could see the confusion and shock registering other people's faces, moreso when kids and grownups walked back outside, waiting for the emergency response teams that were surely on their way.
"No one ever saw Ronnie Frown again after that. The police lumped everything in with the race riots that happened that year, and everyone eventually moved on with their lives. Not me, but you knew that already." He waits for you to nod before continuing. "I've spent decades searching for any sign of him. I've hired private investigators and bounty hunters, hell even psychics and mediums. Every lead has added pieces to the puzzle. Until now, I've never been able to see the whole." He pauses again, the forgotten brunette pulls away and leaves the room as he leans in closer, locking eyes with you. "You've heard my story. You have a good idea what I want and I'm willing to bet an even better idea of how much I'm ready to pay. So, are you in?"
He sits down in the high-backed leather chair opposite you, and isn't what you were expecting. You'd heard that he was spry for his age, despite pushing 70. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, with his scotch and his cigar and a level of confidence rarely found in men 30 years his junior, or maybe it's the underwear-clad, 20-something brunette draped over him. Regardless, he is far from the doddering old fool you thought you'd be meeting when his silent butler ushered you in. The glean in his eye competes with the shine of a massive emerald on his finger, though from malice or mirth, you can't begin to tell.
"I always said that there was something wrong, something very strange with Ronnie Long." He begins in that steady Midwestern tone, accented with a tinge of a Southern lilt long time country music fans pick up. "He never laughed, never smiled, talked alone..."
(Art @ Krisztian Gacsi)
******
All the green things died when Ronnie moved to that place. Under any other circumstances, it would have set off alarm bells in the community, but it had already been an exceptionally hot and dry summer by July, and no one's yard looked healthy. Other than a caretaker checking on the property monthly, upkeep had been sporadic. Still, in hindsight, had anyone paid attention, the shriveling and browning of the plants was a slow but noticeable process.
Local news programs had steadily focused upon ongoing racially-charged rioting and most of the adults in the neighborhood were too glued to their television screens to see the recent arrival lugging several suitcases from a rusted out '50s model station wagon. Like all changes in the day to day tedium, the kids were the first to see him. John (never Johnny, not since he had become a teen) was in the vanguard of these children, playing football in his yard that day. Turning to see his new neighbor, he missed the ball as it sailed past him, onto the sidewalk. Ronnie set his bags down on the grass and picked the ball up, turning it in his hands like an alien artifact discovered on some long-abandoned world, uncomprehending of its purpose.
"Could you please throw the ball back, sir." Timmy, John's unfailingly polite younger brother, asked.
Ronnie raised his head from the football to stare at the boys. Rather than acquiesce to the request, he walked towards John with his arm outstretched. As he drew closer, John took in every detail of him, from his far below average height, to the disheveled nature of his clothing. Nothing compared to his ruined visage, however. Scars ran from the corner of his mouth the length of his jawline, setting a perpetual grimace across his features.
"Geez, mister, did you fight in the war?" John inquired as he took the offered football.
"Don't you dare ask why I'm cursed to wear this face," Ronnie snarled in reply, snatching his hand back. Despite being shorter than John by a couple of inches, he loomed large and imposing, before he quickly turned his back on the boys and returned to his suitcases. Stunned at the vehemence in his voice, neither boy felt much like playing anymore. Instead, they went back inside, to pull their parents away from the TV.
*****
"I've lost my way!" John heard the screams through his open window a week later. Stumbling from his bed, he looked out to see lights blazing in every vsible window of the neighbor's house. "All things wash away!" They continued. He could see motion in the uppermost of them, shadows obscured by thick cloth hangings that could only be called curtains by the very generous.
It had been a rough week for the entire neighborhood. His parents, and most of the adults on the block, had been excited when they were informed that the empty house had been filled. The excitement soon soured into disappointment when Ronnie made infrequent appearances to answer the knocks of curious people coming to introduce themselves. The quiet unobtrusiveness of a shut-in was preferable to the screaming, which was causing dogs to howl, and as John looked, lights were turning on all over the street. Angry people in pajamas and bathrobes were marching out of their front doors when the screaming stopped, and all of the lights in Ronnie's house simultaneously flickered off. Confused, a murmuring crowd stood in the middle of the street, conversing among themselves for a few minutes before breaking away and returning home.
The next morning, John listened to his mother gossip on the phone about the neighbor, referring to him as "Mister Long," though the kids had taken to calling him the unimaginative "Ronnie Frown" based upon his appearance and demeanor. He took every opportunity to glare at them when they played in their yards or rode their bikes, as if he hated them for their youth and enjoyment of life, and many of them had taken to staying indoors more and more. Out of all the kids in the neighborhood, John was the only one that had spoken to him and he retold the tale of that meeting multiple times. His natural athleticism and friendly nature had made him popular, but with The Story, he always had other kids that wanted him to come over to their house now.
******
The end of July approached rapidly, and the neighborhood, which should have been teeming with children at the apex of their summer shenanigans, was like a ghost town. A general malaise had swept over the area, with even the adults limiting their time outside of their houses. Working parents drove directly to their places of employment and came straight home. Yard work, when it was done, was dealt with as quickly as possible. No one could place exactly what was causing the unease, but without fail, all were quick to place blame elsewhere. First, it was married couples blaming one another for imagined slights, then it was parents pointing the fingers at their children for always being indoors.
Ultimately, following phone calls and bar meetings, the neighborhood laid responsibility at the feet of Ronnie Frown, as even the grown ups called him. Through conversations John wasn't privy to, the men and women of the block made mention of the late-night screaming, which had reached a fever pitch. One neighbor pointed out, finally, the decaying nature of his yard and tree. Another relayed the fears of her sons, who said that they had been chased from his property with a club. Still another brought up his talking to thin air. Their frayed nerves forced them to huddle closer and talk in hushed tones about what could be done.
John knew none of this at the time, of course. He was far too busy doing typical teen boy things, mostly thinking about girls, despite everything else. Unlike the other neighborhood children, Ronnie didn't really frighten him. If he were asked, the only emotion he felt was anger at the disruption to the normally placid life of summer break. He didn't go out of the way to shout names at Ronnie though, like several on the block did during the rare occasion he was out of his house, nor did he throw rocks or sticks at said house, as he had witnessed his brother do more than once. He just wanted to go about his life and do the things that made him happy without concern for what the neighborhood hermit did.
The unmistakable sound of shattering glass grabbed John's attention, and he could hear kids cheering. Going outside, a small group of five, led by Timmy, was hitting Ronnie's car with various items, including the baseball bat with which his brother broke one of the old wagon's windows. Glancing around the street, John could see adults standing on their porches or looking out of their windows, not making any attempt to stop Timmy and his friends.
John was not the only one alerted by the sound, as Ronnie threw open his front door and charged out, yelling, "you goddamned kids, leave me alone!"
"Ronnie Frown, Ronnie Frown!" was their only response as Timmy, and one other, continued to beat the car.
With a sneer, Ronnie picked up several large rocks and began hurling them in the direction of the kids. Several cracked against the street, flinging flakes of shale in several directions at once. The adults began to join in the chanting without conscious thought, as if they were all pulled by herd mentality.
With a metallic thump and then a cry of pain, a projectiles bounced off of the hood of the car, and hit Timmy just above the collarbone. A jagged piece of the stone embedded itself in his flesh, as another piece sliced a massive gash through his shirt and shoulder. John, and several of the grown ups ran out into the street at that. One of them grabbed his brother, as the rest, including him, starting throwing things at Ronnie and his house. The wave of rage was palpable, so much so that everyone ignored that it was Timmy and his friends that started things in the first place.
The shouts and insults, the missiles being flung and the din of the crowd, all combined to a roar that made the first gunshot almost imperceptible. It wasn't until the second one, and the resulting woman's blood-freezing wailing that anyone realized Ronnie had fired. Everyone panicked and tried to run away as he pulled that gun from his pocket. The shots weren't aimed and, in fact, it barely seemed as if Ronnie was looking at anyone in particular as he backed slowly towards his door. But a bullet doesn't care if it has a target or not, and before his six shots were spent, three people were down on the road. The rest frantically attempted to get inside, to call for police assistance. Their fear and their rage combined with the smell of blood and gunpowder to make the air oppressive in John's lungs.
Like the day that Ronnie showed up on the street, John was the first to see him leave. With just his suitcases, he rushed to the station wagon, cranking it over with a metallic shriek like a demon from hell, as flames became visible in the darkened house. Those souls powered more by anger than fear still outside threw bottles at the car as it drove through yards and sped away. John, unharmed, felt emotionally drained as Ronnie's taillights vanished in the distance. He worried about his brother, and the people on the ground, but he no longer felt the same degree of rage, and looking around as the fire engulfed Ronnie's house, he could see the confusion and shock registering other people's faces, moreso when kids and grownups walked back outside, waiting for the emergency response teams that were surely on their way.
******
"No one ever saw Ronnie Frown again after that. The police lumped everything in with the race riots that happened that year, and everyone eventually moved on with their lives. Not me, but you knew that already." He waits for you to nod before continuing. "I've spent decades searching for any sign of him. I've hired private investigators and bounty hunters, hell even psychics and mediums. Every lead has added pieces to the puzzle. Until now, I've never been able to see the whole." He pauses again, the forgotten brunette pulls away and leaves the room as he leans in closer, locking eyes with you. "You've heard my story. You have a good idea what I want and I'm willing to bet an even better idea of how much I'm ready to pay. So, are you in?"
Wednesday, September 27, 2017
Lay of the Land: Grand Meadow Psychiatric Institute
"Sanitarium, just leave me alone..."
Grand Meadow? Well, yeah, I brought it up, but why would ya wanna know about the place? I guess, the place is just creepy. It has too much history and there're too many stories up North Side involving it. Ya sure ya want all this background, its kind of a lot? Alright, it's on ya then.
Not Even a Twinkle in the Eye
So back before UC was even a consideration, the most ya could find out this way was some plains, a river, and a whole mess of angry natives. The Otoe counted the area north of North Side as their lands, but avoided the space around where Grand Meadow is. "Ancient burial grounds"? Nah, or if it is, it wasn't their burial grounds. Ya'd have to track down a scholar in that sort of thing. All I ever heard was talk of mounds that they didn't go near.
Europeans came through earlier but it wasn't until the 1790s that any of them settled near Union City. A few outposts and river crossings sprung up, and that's what brought James Teesdale here. Rumors follow the rich and powerful and by all accounts, he was both. A supposed occultist, Teesdale built a mansion or hunting lodge, local history isn't exactly clear on it, not far from the river, close to the Otoe's mounds, despite all of their warnings to the contrary. So it isn't real surprising that the house burned to the ground in 1812. No one knows what started the fire, but only his eldest son escaped it, with both his wife and daughter away at the time.
The Teesdale homestead sat there untouched for almost 40 years, before it was purchased by a preacher man, Reverend Benjamin Bodycombe. Like Joseph Smith, he claimed visions led him to the place and he started a commune to practice his branch of Protestantism. History says it was all communal wives and vegetarianism. Sounds like a real party. Union City officially became a city not long after that, and Bodycombe's people weren't too popular with the townsfolk. Within a couple of years, they cut all ties and communication with UC. That's when it gets tragic. See, summer of 1857, Reverend Bodycombe and almost all of his followers committed mass suicide. The Reverend himself swallowed the barrel of a rifle. Only two little girls were found alive, but they didn't live much longer.
Foundation and Early Days
Yeah, ya think there's some rocky stuff back then, hold on. The land went up for auction, and a doctor from the East Coast, Ignatius Hopper, bought it. For a dollar. Ya can still find the submission of the plans for a sanitarium to be built there, using something called the "Kirkbride Plan." No idea what that actually means. Sounds fancy. Meadow Sanitarium, as it was called back then, was complete in 1862. We weren't a state during the Civil War but the fighting sometimes spilled over this way, and the government made use of the place as a military hospital. It wasn't until 1866 that Hopper was back in charge. He was as much a businessman as he was a doctor, and he pulled big money from back east to add to the sanitarium's grounds, building a bunch of extra housing units. They're still there, Hampden House, and all of that. If ya ever end up there, ya can see them.
Running a sanitarium must take a lot out of a guy 'cause Dr Hopper took a year long sabbatical in 1870, putting Dr Albert Cave in charge of the place until his return in 1871. Newspapers from back then have picture of the good doctor looking like he aged ten years in the space of one. Anyway, during Cave's tenure as Deputy Director, the sanitarium begins specializing in clinical insanity ahead of anything else. He's also the first to institute, see what I did there? a tier program for rich patients to get amazing care while the poor and wretched were often neglected. Unfortunately for him, he was trampled to death by a horse in 1881. Dr Edward Brake was tapped to be his replacement.
Brake became the Director when Hopper died in 1898, and one of his first acts was to have a statue of Hopper sculpted. Last time I was there, I swear the statue was watching me. What? No, I was visiting, not a resident. I'm not that crazy, yet.
Brave New Century
Things went great, I assume, until they didn't. Ya probably heard about the 1906 riot? No? It made national headlines back then. A handful of abused patients started an uprising in the East Wing of the sanitarium, killing three people and then setting a fire which killed another 130 or so.
Brake was the "turn a frown upside down" type of guy, and took the opportunity to improve the facilities. He had the burnt out wing demolished so that a newer, more modern one could be built. Rumor is that he connected the basements of the East Wing to the tunnels that already existed under the grounds, but I've never met anyone brave enough to check it out.
In 1908, two of Brake's staff were charged with negligence that led to the patient deaths from the fire. It was argued that by leaving the mentally ill strapped to beds, they had no way to save themselves. Justice was a fickle thing back then, however, and the staffers were acquitted of all charges.
1917 saw the death of Dr Brake by hanging suicide in his East Wing office. His successor, Donald Roe, found out that Brake had put the hospital into a poor financial position, and made plans to fix it. His plans were almost as short lived as his tenure, because he was strangled by a patient in 1920. Yeah, I know, a lot of Directors have died in the course of Grand Meadow's history. It doesn't stop there though.
The Dark Ages
The Nazis are best known for their eugenics program, but most of their ideas, they took from Americans. Of course, we got them back when German science aided us in building a-bombs and cruise missiles. Ah, so, Farnsworth Weaver became the next Director. He led a drug company back then, and wasn't a doctor himself, so he hired the now-infamous Dr Matthew Gorlay to be his head of medicine. Yeah, -that- Gorlay.
Then I probably don't have to tell you about the hundreds of patients that died from his experiments into lobotomy and sensory deprivation and extreme torture techniques. Did you know that Guantanamo Bay still uses some of the tricks he devised on terrorism suspects? That's what I've heard.
1933 was a bad year for the hospital. That's when Thomas Werner uncovered Gorlay's experiments and, over Weaver's objections, brought them to a medical ethics committee. The whole sordid affair has been made into numerous movies and I'm pretty sure a season of that murder story show. Gorlay was arrested for his medical fraud and Weaver ended up in prison for embezzlement. Of course, Gorlay committed suicide in his cell and Weaver died of stomach cancer years down the road. Thomas Werner was practically a hero back then, but no hospital administrator wanted to hire him. Probably because they had their own dirty laundry.
World Wide War
After Weaver died, the hospital went through a bit of an upheaval, since he owned the majority share of it. Werner stepped in and purchased it when no one else would, for one dollar. I know, that is a crazy coincidence.
During the war, in 1944, Werner pushed for the facility, simply Meadow Hospital, to be reopened with a focus on helping returning military men get right in the head. War is Hell and Werner recognized that many soldiers with "exhaustion," the term for PTSD back then, would need a facility that understood their mental struggles. It was a short term solution though, and the hospital only stayed open for a couple of years.
Werner received the Key to Union City back then, going into the '50s. And another award for public service. because of that, he was able to gather up enough funding to get the hospital opened back up for general use in '52.
He retired back in 1954 and the Board of Trustees, his group of investors, named Jeremiah Moorcock as the new Director. After Werner died in 1955, this guy worked the Board into returning Meadow to its old ways as a facility for the medically and criminally insane.
Moorcock reopened most of the East Wing and by '57, there weren't any more patients there for medical care. The same year, the name was changed to Grand Meadow Psychiatric Institute. Right, because it was such a place of learning, ya know? As a nod to that idea though, Moorcock built an addition to the medical center and named it after Werner, the Thomas Werner Annexe.
With the TWA dedicated to his "studies," Moorcock performed hundreds of lobotomies and electroconvulsive therapy experiments in the name of science. Yeah, electroshock. Never heard of that helping anyone, either. He kept meticulous notes that you can find if you know what books to look up. It came to a boil in '68 when he performed a lobotomy on a girl that was just tripping on acid. Her parents sued, he won, but it brought more scrutiny back to the hospital and someone eventually decided to act the role of karma in '73, when Moorcock was lobotomized by an assailant that they never found.
Ultra Modern Times
Johnathan Sendak took over after that, and did his best to clean the Institute up. Lobotomies and ECT was thrown into the trash heap as not conducive to true scientific advancement. There are still some bitter locals from back then, as Sendak fired a good portion of the staff and hired out-of-towners as replacements. He even convinced the Board of Trustees to sell a large portion of their share in Grand Meadow to a Japanese firm called Teijin in the late 70s, just ahead of the "Japanese Invasion" craze of the 80s. Teijin jumped into things on the condition that they chose the Deputy Director of the facility, and Sendak hired Dr Thomas Bateman on their recommendations.
About a year after the Teijin purchase, Sendak talked the Board into divesting themselves of their remaining interests, and the shares were split between Eisai and Mitsubishi Tanabe, two of Teijin's rival Japanese pharmaceutical manufacturers. Yeah, I'm old enough to remember the waves that caused in town, since Union City has never had a large Japanese population. Well, I'll show ya Chinatown, but that isn't the same. Sorry, I know some people think all "slant eyes" are the same. Not implying anything. Ya look like a good person.
The struggle between the companies made it harder for Grand Meadow to treat its patients, but when Bateman became the Director after Sendak's retirement, he worked hard to bring modern psychiatric techniques into the forefront of the Institute. He even made some documented breakthroughs with therapy techniques, all while dealing with ongoing pay disputes. The hospital continually lost money through the 80s, and Teijin was eventually able to buy out their competitors, even if they stopped looking at Grand Meadow as a profitable venture.
Ready for another tragic turn? In 1991, Bateman murdered his assistant and ran off with as much money from the hospital as he could. Ironically, he claimed temporary insanity and could never explain why he did it. Almost as ironically is that he was killed in prison by a former Grand Meadow patient. After his arrest, Dr Bridget McClusky became the first female Director hired on. Hey. women can do anything. And I guess she did a good job, since Grand Meadow mostly stayed out of the news, until she stepped down in 2006. The stress of the job would get to anyone with that kind of history to deal with.
Dr Kumiko Noguchi, a stunning lady from Kyoto City and yes, I sure do like seeing her picture in the papers, runs the facility now. I still wouldn't want to be locked up in the place, and if ya ever have to visit anyone, make it a short visit, but I sure wouldn't be mad if she wanted to spend time in a padded room with me, if ya know what I mean.
Yeah, every now and then there is a big to-do about someone famous going there for treatment, and kids make up urban legends about escapees killing whole families in the park near it, but I wouldn't dwell on that too much if ya go North Side. Just, stay off the bridge across the river late at night. It's for the best.
----Jon De Luca, $5 tour guide
Grand Meadow Timeline
< 1790s - Otoe Natives consider the area their territory, but shun it due to supersition of underground mounds in the vicinity
1794/1795 - first European settlements in the area
1798 - James Teesdale arrives, builds mansion/hunting lodge to the north on Otoe land, despite warnings
1799 - Completion of the Teesdale Mansion
1803 - Louisiana Purchase, area becomes US territory
1812 - War with Britain, Teesdale Mansion burns to the ground, most of the family dies
1822 - Bellevue becomes first NE town
1833 - Moses Merril Mission built southwest of Bellevue, US govt relocates the remaining Otoe in the region there, none remain north of UC by 1841
1851 - Benjamin Bodycombe purchases the land from the remaining Teesdale descendants, establishes a commune
4 July 1854 - Union City officially founded
(Jan) 1857 - Issues with UC cause Bodycombe and his followers to withdraw from "polite society," neither he nor his adult followers are seen alive again|
(July) 1857 - Bodycombe and his followers commit mass suicide. Only two survivors, seven year old girls, are found. They're dead within a year.
1861 - Dr Ignatius Hopper purchases the land at auction for $1, and submits plans to the City Council for a sanitarium based on the Kirkbride Plan, he designs the place with help of local architect Jonathan Teesdale, who adds personal touches like the sculpting of six saints on the front face of the main building
28 Feb 1862 - Meadow Sanitarium is complete amidst spillover fighting from the Civil War
9 June 1862 - The US government makes use of the sanitarium as a military hospital
1866 - Dr Hopper regains full control of the hospital
1868 - With a series of shrewd business deals and investors, Hopper is able to expand the grounds of the facility, and secure prestigious East Coast patients. Hampden House, Whitehall House, Brochardt House, and Maxwell Gymnasium are all built at this time and named after Hopper's investment partners, with his own offices in the East Wing of the main building.
1870 - Dr Hopper experiences a breakdown and takes a leave of absence from the hospital, as Dr Albert Cave takes over as interim Director
19 Jan 1871 - Dr Hopper returns, names Dr Cave as as Deputy Director. Local papers speculate on his leave of absence as he returns looking aged a decade. Dr Cave transitions the hospital towards a specialization in the insane
27 Mar 1876 - Meadow Sanitarium is renamed Meadow Asylum for the Insane. Dr Cave institutes a heavier "pay for treatment" plan wherein the rich are basically given top tier medical care in private suites whilst the poor are subjected to beatings, loss of human comforts, and isolation
1881 - Building of Chesterton Hall and Platte House, massive barn renovations
16 June 1894 - Albert Cave is trampled to death by carriage horse transporting wealthy patient, no report of what spooked the horse, Dr Edward Brake takes his place as Deputy
1898 - Dr Hopper dies in his office of an apparent heart attack, Dr Brake becomes Director of Meadow Asylum. He commissions a statue of Dr Hopper sculpted by Frank Teesdale, to be erected at one side of the main drive. It still stands there.
10 Nov 1906 - Patients from the lower wards (the "poor wards") revolt against their treatment, attacking staff and attempting to escape the hospital. Three staff are killed in the attempt and a blaze erupts in the East Wing, gutting it, and causing the loss of 17 more staff, along with 116 patients, before it is contained.
1907 - Brake starts a renovation of the hospital, beginning with the demolishing of the East Wing. Plans for a more modern facility are drawn up with the aid of Frank Teesdale, utilizing preexisting tunnels for the buildings sub-basements. When the building is complete, however, Dr Brake orders the sub-basements to be sealed.
16 Jan 1908 - Two faculty members, accused of being responsible for the deaths of so many patients in the East Wing, are acquitted of all charges
1917 - Brake's body is found hanging by his belt from a light fitting in his office, Dr Donald Roe takes control of the facility and discovers Brake over-leveraged the hospital's finances during reconstruction, he works on plans to fix the situation
1919 - Six patients are found dead from starvation in a basement room, no staff is ever investigated for the incident
23 Oct 1920 - A patient suffering from delusional psychosis strangles Dr Roe in his office, then slits his own throat with a scalpel. Afterwards, the Board of Trustees finally see the dire financial straits of the hospital
(March) 1921 - Following months of uncertainty, Farnsworth Weaver, president of Weaver Pharmaceuticals, is appointed as Director. Not a doctor himself, he hires Dr. Matthew Gorlay to be Head of Medicine
1922 - Weaver renovates Hampden House, which had gone unused for a decade, to be used as his private offices. The East Wing office space is turned into apartments for wealthy patients. Dr Gorlay, a fan of eugenics-based pseudo science, begins to conduct experiments on patients
1927 - An orderly is arrested and tried for running an illegal still. The booze created causes blindness in at least half a dozen patients.
1930 - A patient riot in the lower East Wing, much smaller than the 1906 incident, occurs, leading to the death of 17 patients and five staff members. It is allegedly incited by one of Gorlay's test subjects
1933 - James Sercombe, a 21-year diagnosed with "Mongolian idiocy" (now known as Downs Syndrome) dies of a brain hemorrhage. Dr Gorlay is out of town at the time and the autopsy duties fall to Dr Thomas Werner, a new appointee to the staff. Dr. Werner discovers that Sercombe was subjected to 14 different surgeries prior to his death, the last of which directly caused the fatality. Though ordered to cover up the findings by Weaver, Dr Werner goes to the AMA Ethics Committee. In the course of investigation, its found that Gorlay covered up the deaths of over 300 patients in the course of 12 years, and the needless maiming of another 100. His is arrested for medical fraud, and Weaver, aware of his practices, is arrested for embezzling hospital funds. Sentenced to only five years in prison, Gorlay nevertheless commits suicide within two weeks of being sentenced. Meadow is shut down and even those doctors, like Werner, not charged with a crime, have trouble finding work through the Depression.
1939 - Weaver dies from stomach cancer whilst in prison. With no heirs, his assets are liquidated and the closed hospital is sold to Thomas Werner at auction for $1.
1944 - Werner pushes for the facility, now Meadow Hospital, to be reopened as a veterans care facility. With a grant from the US Army, the West Wing of the hospital is dedicated to those returning from World War II and suffering from "exhaustion" (PTSD), Union City refers to the hospital as "The Purple Heart" for this, a name that sticks into the '70s.
1946 - With the end of the war and the need for veteran mental care (falsely) believed to be extraneous, the hospital once again closes due to funding. Werner is awarded the Key to the City by UC's mayor, Alexander Teesdale. A month later, Werner receives the Commander's Award for Public Service. With his reputation restored, he begins a campaign to bring investors back to "his" hospital
1952 - This sterling reputation pays off, as Werner secures funding to reopen as a hospice and long term care facility for the developmentally disabled
1954 - Werner retires and whilst technically the owner of the hospital, the Board of Trustees names Dr. Jeremiah Moorcock as his successor, despite his objections. Moorcock is a firm believer in psychosurgery and retrieves as many of the old asylum files from the County Clerk as possible
(April) 1955 - Thomas Werner dies of a heart attack. Moorcock convinces the Board to return Meadow to its days as an institute for the insane. Within five years, it once again becomes the kind of place that people send their afflicted family members to forget about
1956 - Moorcock reopens three wards in the East Wing and expands the Medical Center
1957 - The last solely medical patient is transferred from the hospital, renamed the Grand Meadow Psychiatric Institute after all of the expansions
1959 - Moorcock adds a small extension to the Medical Center, called the Thomas Werner Annexe. It is dedicated to psychosurgery and ECT, and Moorcock will perform more than 500 lobotomies there
1968 - Alison Purchase, a 19 year old Southern California native, is brought to the hospital by police after suffering a bad LSD trip. Once the drug has passed through her system, she (rightfully) protests that she doesn't belong at Grand Meadow. After causing hundreds of dollars in damages to her ward, Moorcock performs a frontal lobotomy that leaves her docile, but incontinent. Her parents file a lawsuit, which he successfully defends himself against
1 Aug 1973 - Dr Moorcock receives a transorbital lobotomy from person or persons unknown
1974 - After spending considerable time and assets to keep Moorcock's fate out of the press, the Board of Trustees appoints an outsider, Dr Johnathan Sendak, to the Directorship. Appalled at Moorcock's techniques, he systematically fires many of the individuals involved and demolishes the Thomas Werner Annexe, in an attempt to make the hospital far more progressive in treatment
1977 - Sendak convinces the Board to sell half of the hospital's assets to Teijin, a Japanese pharmaceutical company, to make up for expenses occurred during Moorcock's administration. Teijin encourages Sendak to hire Dr Thomas Bateman as his assistant
1978 - Against Bateman's advice, Sendak convinces the Board to divest their remaining interest in the hospital to pharma companies Eisai and Mitsubishi Tanabe, themselves Teijin competitors. These leads to numerous power plays between the three which impact the hospital's ability to treat the insane
1980 - Sendak retires, Bateman becomes Director. Due to a pay dispute, his relationship with Teijin worsens. He embarks on an ambitious program to ultra modernize the facilities, including reopening the entirety of the East Wing. He repurposes Brochardt House into a school house, and Whitehall House as a dorm for visiting interns. Profits plummet over the next ten years. Whilst the pharmaceutical firms return control, they soon lose interest in Grand Meadow as a money making venture.
(April) 1991 - Dr Bateman murders his assistant, Dr Zachary Teesdale, with a scalpel, and absconds with the previous years profit. Investigations reveal that the plummet in profits was partially attributed to Bateman's embezzlement
(June) 1991 - Police apprehend Bateman
(January) 1992 - Bateman pleads guilty to murder and embezzlement, but under diminished faculties. He claims that he doesn't know why he killed his assistant, only that he felt compelled to do so. He is sentenced to 26 years in a county correctional facility. Dr Bridget McClusky is appointed Director of Grand Meadow, the first woman in its history to hold the title
4 March 1993 - Adam Barker, a former patient of Grand Meadow, beats Bateman to death in prison
2006 - Citing extreme exhaustion and stress, Dr McClusky retires. Teijin, now the sole backers of the facility, transfers in Dr Kumiko Noguchi from their Kyoto City branch. She brings Grand Meadow into the new millennium with multiple technology advances
Grand Meadow? Well, yeah, I brought it up, but why would ya wanna know about the place? I guess, the place is just creepy. It has too much history and there're too many stories up North Side involving it. Ya sure ya want all this background, its kind of a lot? Alright, it's on ya then.
Not Even a Twinkle in the Eye
So back before UC was even a consideration, the most ya could find out this way was some plains, a river, and a whole mess of angry natives. The Otoe counted the area north of North Side as their lands, but avoided the space around where Grand Meadow is. "Ancient burial grounds"? Nah, or if it is, it wasn't their burial grounds. Ya'd have to track down a scholar in that sort of thing. All I ever heard was talk of mounds that they didn't go near.
Europeans came through earlier but it wasn't until the 1790s that any of them settled near Union City. A few outposts and river crossings sprung up, and that's what brought James Teesdale here. Rumors follow the rich and powerful and by all accounts, he was both. A supposed occultist, Teesdale built a mansion or hunting lodge, local history isn't exactly clear on it, not far from the river, close to the Otoe's mounds, despite all of their warnings to the contrary. So it isn't real surprising that the house burned to the ground in 1812. No one knows what started the fire, but only his eldest son escaped it, with both his wife and daughter away at the time.
The Teesdale homestead sat there untouched for almost 40 years, before it was purchased by a preacher man, Reverend Benjamin Bodycombe. Like Joseph Smith, he claimed visions led him to the place and he started a commune to practice his branch of Protestantism. History says it was all communal wives and vegetarianism. Sounds like a real party. Union City officially became a city not long after that, and Bodycombe's people weren't too popular with the townsfolk. Within a couple of years, they cut all ties and communication with UC. That's when it gets tragic. See, summer of 1857, Reverend Bodycombe and almost all of his followers committed mass suicide. The Reverend himself swallowed the barrel of a rifle. Only two little girls were found alive, but they didn't live much longer.
Foundation and Early Days
Yeah, ya think there's some rocky stuff back then, hold on. The land went up for auction, and a doctor from the East Coast, Ignatius Hopper, bought it. For a dollar. Ya can still find the submission of the plans for a sanitarium to be built there, using something called the "Kirkbride Plan." No idea what that actually means. Sounds fancy. Meadow Sanitarium, as it was called back then, was complete in 1862. We weren't a state during the Civil War but the fighting sometimes spilled over this way, and the government made use of the place as a military hospital. It wasn't until 1866 that Hopper was back in charge. He was as much a businessman as he was a doctor, and he pulled big money from back east to add to the sanitarium's grounds, building a bunch of extra housing units. They're still there, Hampden House, and all of that. If ya ever end up there, ya can see them.
Running a sanitarium must take a lot out of a guy 'cause Dr Hopper took a year long sabbatical in 1870, putting Dr Albert Cave in charge of the place until his return in 1871. Newspapers from back then have picture of the good doctor looking like he aged ten years in the space of one. Anyway, during Cave's tenure as Deputy Director, the sanitarium begins specializing in clinical insanity ahead of anything else. He's also the first to institute, see what I did there? a tier program for rich patients to get amazing care while the poor and wretched were often neglected. Unfortunately for him, he was trampled to death by a horse in 1881. Dr Edward Brake was tapped to be his replacement.
Brake became the Director when Hopper died in 1898, and one of his first acts was to have a statue of Hopper sculpted. Last time I was there, I swear the statue was watching me. What? No, I was visiting, not a resident. I'm not that crazy, yet.
Brave New Century
Things went great, I assume, until they didn't. Ya probably heard about the 1906 riot? No? It made national headlines back then. A handful of abused patients started an uprising in the East Wing of the sanitarium, killing three people and then setting a fire which killed another 130 or so.
Brake was the "turn a frown upside down" type of guy, and took the opportunity to improve the facilities. He had the burnt out wing demolished so that a newer, more modern one could be built. Rumor is that he connected the basements of the East Wing to the tunnels that already existed under the grounds, but I've never met anyone brave enough to check it out.
In 1908, two of Brake's staff were charged with negligence that led to the patient deaths from the fire. It was argued that by leaving the mentally ill strapped to beds, they had no way to save themselves. Justice was a fickle thing back then, however, and the staffers were acquitted of all charges.
1917 saw the death of Dr Brake by hanging suicide in his East Wing office. His successor, Donald Roe, found out that Brake had put the hospital into a poor financial position, and made plans to fix it. His plans were almost as short lived as his tenure, because he was strangled by a patient in 1920. Yeah, I know, a lot of Directors have died in the course of Grand Meadow's history. It doesn't stop there though.
The Dark Ages
The Nazis are best known for their eugenics program, but most of their ideas, they took from Americans. Of course, we got them back when German science aided us in building a-bombs and cruise missiles. Ah, so, Farnsworth Weaver became the next Director. He led a drug company back then, and wasn't a doctor himself, so he hired the now-infamous Dr Matthew Gorlay to be his head of medicine. Yeah, -that- Gorlay.
Then I probably don't have to tell you about the hundreds of patients that died from his experiments into lobotomy and sensory deprivation and extreme torture techniques. Did you know that Guantanamo Bay still uses some of the tricks he devised on terrorism suspects? That's what I've heard.
1933 was a bad year for the hospital. That's when Thomas Werner uncovered Gorlay's experiments and, over Weaver's objections, brought them to a medical ethics committee. The whole sordid affair has been made into numerous movies and I'm pretty sure a season of that murder story show. Gorlay was arrested for his medical fraud and Weaver ended up in prison for embezzlement. Of course, Gorlay committed suicide in his cell and Weaver died of stomach cancer years down the road. Thomas Werner was practically a hero back then, but no hospital administrator wanted to hire him. Probably because they had their own dirty laundry.
World Wide War
After Weaver died, the hospital went through a bit of an upheaval, since he owned the majority share of it. Werner stepped in and purchased it when no one else would, for one dollar. I know, that is a crazy coincidence.
During the war, in 1944, Werner pushed for the facility, simply Meadow Hospital, to be reopened with a focus on helping returning military men get right in the head. War is Hell and Werner recognized that many soldiers with "exhaustion," the term for PTSD back then, would need a facility that understood their mental struggles. It was a short term solution though, and the hospital only stayed open for a couple of years.
Werner received the Key to Union City back then, going into the '50s. And another award for public service. because of that, he was able to gather up enough funding to get the hospital opened back up for general use in '52.
He retired back in 1954 and the Board of Trustees, his group of investors, named Jeremiah Moorcock as the new Director. After Werner died in 1955, this guy worked the Board into returning Meadow to its old ways as a facility for the medically and criminally insane.
Moorcock reopened most of the East Wing and by '57, there weren't any more patients there for medical care. The same year, the name was changed to Grand Meadow Psychiatric Institute. Right, because it was such a place of learning, ya know? As a nod to that idea though, Moorcock built an addition to the medical center and named it after Werner, the Thomas Werner Annexe.
With the TWA dedicated to his "studies," Moorcock performed hundreds of lobotomies and electroconvulsive therapy experiments in the name of science. Yeah, electroshock. Never heard of that helping anyone, either. He kept meticulous notes that you can find if you know what books to look up. It came to a boil in '68 when he performed a lobotomy on a girl that was just tripping on acid. Her parents sued, he won, but it brought more scrutiny back to the hospital and someone eventually decided to act the role of karma in '73, when Moorcock was lobotomized by an assailant that they never found.
Ultra Modern Times
Johnathan Sendak took over after that, and did his best to clean the Institute up. Lobotomies and ECT was thrown into the trash heap as not conducive to true scientific advancement. There are still some bitter locals from back then, as Sendak fired a good portion of the staff and hired out-of-towners as replacements. He even convinced the Board of Trustees to sell a large portion of their share in Grand Meadow to a Japanese firm called Teijin in the late 70s, just ahead of the "Japanese Invasion" craze of the 80s. Teijin jumped into things on the condition that they chose the Deputy Director of the facility, and Sendak hired Dr Thomas Bateman on their recommendations.
About a year after the Teijin purchase, Sendak talked the Board into divesting themselves of their remaining interests, and the shares were split between Eisai and Mitsubishi Tanabe, two of Teijin's rival Japanese pharmaceutical manufacturers. Yeah, I'm old enough to remember the waves that caused in town, since Union City has never had a large Japanese population. Well, I'll show ya Chinatown, but that isn't the same. Sorry, I know some people think all "slant eyes" are the same. Not implying anything. Ya look like a good person.
The struggle between the companies made it harder for Grand Meadow to treat its patients, but when Bateman became the Director after Sendak's retirement, he worked hard to bring modern psychiatric techniques into the forefront of the Institute. He even made some documented breakthroughs with therapy techniques, all while dealing with ongoing pay disputes. The hospital continually lost money through the 80s, and Teijin was eventually able to buy out their competitors, even if they stopped looking at Grand Meadow as a profitable venture.
Ready for another tragic turn? In 1991, Bateman murdered his assistant and ran off with as much money from the hospital as he could. Ironically, he claimed temporary insanity and could never explain why he did it. Almost as ironically is that he was killed in prison by a former Grand Meadow patient. After his arrest, Dr Bridget McClusky became the first female Director hired on. Hey. women can do anything. And I guess she did a good job, since Grand Meadow mostly stayed out of the news, until she stepped down in 2006. The stress of the job would get to anyone with that kind of history to deal with.
Dr Kumiko Noguchi, a stunning lady from Kyoto City and yes, I sure do like seeing her picture in the papers, runs the facility now. I still wouldn't want to be locked up in the place, and if ya ever have to visit anyone, make it a short visit, but I sure wouldn't be mad if she wanted to spend time in a padded room with me, if ya know what I mean.
Yeah, every now and then there is a big to-do about someone famous going there for treatment, and kids make up urban legends about escapees killing whole families in the park near it, but I wouldn't dwell on that too much if ya go North Side. Just, stay off the bridge across the river late at night. It's for the best.
----Jon De Luca, $5 tour guide
++++
Grand Meadow Timeline
1794/1795 - first European settlements in the area
1798 - James Teesdale arrives, builds mansion/hunting lodge to the north on Otoe land, despite warnings
1799 - Completion of the Teesdale Mansion
1803 - Louisiana Purchase, area becomes US territory
1812 - War with Britain, Teesdale Mansion burns to the ground, most of the family dies
1822 - Bellevue becomes first NE town
1833 - Moses Merril Mission built southwest of Bellevue, US govt relocates the remaining Otoe in the region there, none remain north of UC by 1841
1851 - Benjamin Bodycombe purchases the land from the remaining Teesdale descendants, establishes a commune
4 July 1854 - Union City officially founded
(Jan) 1857 - Issues with UC cause Bodycombe and his followers to withdraw from "polite society," neither he nor his adult followers are seen alive again|
(July) 1857 - Bodycombe and his followers commit mass suicide. Only two survivors, seven year old girls, are found. They're dead within a year.
1861 - Dr Ignatius Hopper purchases the land at auction for $1, and submits plans to the City Council for a sanitarium based on the Kirkbride Plan, he designs the place with help of local architect Jonathan Teesdale, who adds personal touches like the sculpting of six saints on the front face of the main building
28 Feb 1862 - Meadow Sanitarium is complete amidst spillover fighting from the Civil War
9 June 1862 - The US government makes use of the sanitarium as a military hospital
1866 - Dr Hopper regains full control of the hospital
1868 - With a series of shrewd business deals and investors, Hopper is able to expand the grounds of the facility, and secure prestigious East Coast patients. Hampden House, Whitehall House, Brochardt House, and Maxwell Gymnasium are all built at this time and named after Hopper's investment partners, with his own offices in the East Wing of the main building.
1870 - Dr Hopper experiences a breakdown and takes a leave of absence from the hospital, as Dr Albert Cave takes over as interim Director
19 Jan 1871 - Dr Hopper returns, names Dr Cave as as Deputy Director. Local papers speculate on his leave of absence as he returns looking aged a decade. Dr Cave transitions the hospital towards a specialization in the insane
27 Mar 1876 - Meadow Sanitarium is renamed Meadow Asylum for the Insane. Dr Cave institutes a heavier "pay for treatment" plan wherein the rich are basically given top tier medical care in private suites whilst the poor are subjected to beatings, loss of human comforts, and isolation
1881 - Building of Chesterton Hall and Platte House, massive barn renovations
16 June 1894 - Albert Cave is trampled to death by carriage horse transporting wealthy patient, no report of what spooked the horse, Dr Edward Brake takes his place as Deputy
1898 - Dr Hopper dies in his office of an apparent heart attack, Dr Brake becomes Director of Meadow Asylum. He commissions a statue of Dr Hopper sculpted by Frank Teesdale, to be erected at one side of the main drive. It still stands there.
10 Nov 1906 - Patients from the lower wards (the "poor wards") revolt against their treatment, attacking staff and attempting to escape the hospital. Three staff are killed in the attempt and a blaze erupts in the East Wing, gutting it, and causing the loss of 17 more staff, along with 116 patients, before it is contained.
1907 - Brake starts a renovation of the hospital, beginning with the demolishing of the East Wing. Plans for a more modern facility are drawn up with the aid of Frank Teesdale, utilizing preexisting tunnels for the buildings sub-basements. When the building is complete, however, Dr Brake orders the sub-basements to be sealed.
16 Jan 1908 - Two faculty members, accused of being responsible for the deaths of so many patients in the East Wing, are acquitted of all charges
1917 - Brake's body is found hanging by his belt from a light fitting in his office, Dr Donald Roe takes control of the facility and discovers Brake over-leveraged the hospital's finances during reconstruction, he works on plans to fix the situation
1919 - Six patients are found dead from starvation in a basement room, no staff is ever investigated for the incident
23 Oct 1920 - A patient suffering from delusional psychosis strangles Dr Roe in his office, then slits his own throat with a scalpel. Afterwards, the Board of Trustees finally see the dire financial straits of the hospital
(March) 1921 - Following months of uncertainty, Farnsworth Weaver, president of Weaver Pharmaceuticals, is appointed as Director. Not a doctor himself, he hires Dr. Matthew Gorlay to be Head of Medicine
1922 - Weaver renovates Hampden House, which had gone unused for a decade, to be used as his private offices. The East Wing office space is turned into apartments for wealthy patients. Dr Gorlay, a fan of eugenics-based pseudo science, begins to conduct experiments on patients
1927 - An orderly is arrested and tried for running an illegal still. The booze created causes blindness in at least half a dozen patients.
1930 - A patient riot in the lower East Wing, much smaller than the 1906 incident, occurs, leading to the death of 17 patients and five staff members. It is allegedly incited by one of Gorlay's test subjects
1933 - James Sercombe, a 21-year diagnosed with "Mongolian idiocy" (now known as Downs Syndrome) dies of a brain hemorrhage. Dr Gorlay is out of town at the time and the autopsy duties fall to Dr Thomas Werner, a new appointee to the staff. Dr. Werner discovers that Sercombe was subjected to 14 different surgeries prior to his death, the last of which directly caused the fatality. Though ordered to cover up the findings by Weaver, Dr Werner goes to the AMA Ethics Committee. In the course of investigation, its found that Gorlay covered up the deaths of over 300 patients in the course of 12 years, and the needless maiming of another 100. His is arrested for medical fraud, and Weaver, aware of his practices, is arrested for embezzling hospital funds. Sentenced to only five years in prison, Gorlay nevertheless commits suicide within two weeks of being sentenced. Meadow is shut down and even those doctors, like Werner, not charged with a crime, have trouble finding work through the Depression.
1939 - Weaver dies from stomach cancer whilst in prison. With no heirs, his assets are liquidated and the closed hospital is sold to Thomas Werner at auction for $1.
1944 - Werner pushes for the facility, now Meadow Hospital, to be reopened as a veterans care facility. With a grant from the US Army, the West Wing of the hospital is dedicated to those returning from World War II and suffering from "exhaustion" (PTSD), Union City refers to the hospital as "The Purple Heart" for this, a name that sticks into the '70s.
1946 - With the end of the war and the need for veteran mental care (falsely) believed to be extraneous, the hospital once again closes due to funding. Werner is awarded the Key to the City by UC's mayor, Alexander Teesdale. A month later, Werner receives the Commander's Award for Public Service. With his reputation restored, he begins a campaign to bring investors back to "his" hospital
1952 - This sterling reputation pays off, as Werner secures funding to reopen as a hospice and long term care facility for the developmentally disabled
1954 - Werner retires and whilst technically the owner of the hospital, the Board of Trustees names Dr. Jeremiah Moorcock as his successor, despite his objections. Moorcock is a firm believer in psychosurgery and retrieves as many of the old asylum files from the County Clerk as possible
(April) 1955 - Thomas Werner dies of a heart attack. Moorcock convinces the Board to return Meadow to its days as an institute for the insane. Within five years, it once again becomes the kind of place that people send their afflicted family members to forget about
1956 - Moorcock reopens three wards in the East Wing and expands the Medical Center
1957 - The last solely medical patient is transferred from the hospital, renamed the Grand Meadow Psychiatric Institute after all of the expansions
1959 - Moorcock adds a small extension to the Medical Center, called the Thomas Werner Annexe. It is dedicated to psychosurgery and ECT, and Moorcock will perform more than 500 lobotomies there
1968 - Alison Purchase, a 19 year old Southern California native, is brought to the hospital by police after suffering a bad LSD trip. Once the drug has passed through her system, she (rightfully) protests that she doesn't belong at Grand Meadow. After causing hundreds of dollars in damages to her ward, Moorcock performs a frontal lobotomy that leaves her docile, but incontinent. Her parents file a lawsuit, which he successfully defends himself against
1 Aug 1973 - Dr Moorcock receives a transorbital lobotomy from person or persons unknown
1974 - After spending considerable time and assets to keep Moorcock's fate out of the press, the Board of Trustees appoints an outsider, Dr Johnathan Sendak, to the Directorship. Appalled at Moorcock's techniques, he systematically fires many of the individuals involved and demolishes the Thomas Werner Annexe, in an attempt to make the hospital far more progressive in treatment
1977 - Sendak convinces the Board to sell half of the hospital's assets to Teijin, a Japanese pharmaceutical company, to make up for expenses occurred during Moorcock's administration. Teijin encourages Sendak to hire Dr Thomas Bateman as his assistant
1978 - Against Bateman's advice, Sendak convinces the Board to divest their remaining interest in the hospital to pharma companies Eisai and Mitsubishi Tanabe, themselves Teijin competitors. These leads to numerous power plays between the three which impact the hospital's ability to treat the insane
1980 - Sendak retires, Bateman becomes Director. Due to a pay dispute, his relationship with Teijin worsens. He embarks on an ambitious program to ultra modernize the facilities, including reopening the entirety of the East Wing. He repurposes Brochardt House into a school house, and Whitehall House as a dorm for visiting interns. Profits plummet over the next ten years. Whilst the pharmaceutical firms return control, they soon lose interest in Grand Meadow as a money making venture.
(April) 1991 - Dr Bateman murders his assistant, Dr Zachary Teesdale, with a scalpel, and absconds with the previous years profit. Investigations reveal that the plummet in profits was partially attributed to Bateman's embezzlement
(June) 1991 - Police apprehend Bateman
(January) 1992 - Bateman pleads guilty to murder and embezzlement, but under diminished faculties. He claims that he doesn't know why he killed his assistant, only that he felt compelled to do so. He is sentenced to 26 years in a county correctional facility. Dr Bridget McClusky is appointed Director of Grand Meadow, the first woman in its history to hold the title
4 March 1993 - Adam Barker, a former patient of Grand Meadow, beats Bateman to death in prison
2006 - Citing extreme exhaustion and stress, Dr McClusky retires. Teijin, now the sole backers of the facility, transfers in Dr Kumiko Noguchi from their Kyoto City branch. She brings Grand Meadow into the new millennium with multiple technology advances
Just a few minutes from I-680
(From World of Darkness: Asylum)
(OON - World of Darkness: Asylum is one of the best books in my collection. Grand Meadow is a version of Bishopsgate intertwined with the history of Union City. The book version was definitely written to be placed within the original colonies, so I had to move the timeline up a hundred years to fit with real world settlements in what eventually became Nebraska, but once I got there, it was pretty easy to slide it into the narrative. It follows so many horror movie tropes and cliches that it is almost impossible not to love the idea.)
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Drowning Sorrows
"Shape shift, nose to the wind..."
Smell. It's the hardest thing for me to put into words. Take tension, for example. It has a stink to it. No, I don't mean the way people sweat when they're tense. I mean the tension in the air, the thing people describe as "thick enough to cut with a knife." I can smell the normal musky scents of my pack, sure, but there's the bitterness of the tension overlaying it, an odor kind of like the way a penny tastes. That's not exactly it, of course, since there is the tang of burning ozone as well, but you get the picture.
It's the latest rash of violence in the city that has everyone on edge. Not the normal gang violence or robberies, those tend to come and go. Arson, a mass shooting, flayed bodies dumped in a stream, that sticks out. Alex Mei, Bone Shadow and our Ithaeur, her tension smells the strongest right now. See, every time some big shit happens, it stirs up spirits in the area. Our darlin' Alex, she gets to deal with the little fish caught up in the wake. Me? I'm double dosed with badassness; Blood Talon Rahu. Give me something to fight and to kill, and I'm a happy camper. Too much dealing with spirit courts makes me twitchy.
"Look, it's close enough to our territory that we should probably check it out." Alex has finally stopped her pacing to argue the point. She does that. A lot. Pace and argue.
"Alex, 'close enough' doesn't make it OUR territory. And murders are a problem for the police." That's Kelvin Lange. Iron Master, Elodoth. He usually gets stuck playing devil's advocate, comes with the arbiter territory, but he likes to argue just as much as Alex. Knows the ins and outs of the city better than anyone. Also a complete asshole. Also the closest thing I have to a best friend.
"A random shooting is a problem for the police. Three bodies getting pulled from a stream without a strip of flesh left in the space of a month, that sounds like Pure. Suffering like that leads to Wounds. That is OUR problem." Her point is valid. Fuck the Anshega.
"Honor your territory in all things. It means 'don't go looking for problems when they're already knocking on your door,' kiddo." Okay, he's an asshole, but his point is just as valid. "Besides, nothing says the Pure are involved in any way."
"Don't fucking 'kiddo' me, Kel. I KNOW there isn't anything in the story that screams 'Pure.' That's why I want to take a look."
That brings us back to the tension. Quick poll of the rest of the room by scent and body language says Deb, that's Deborah Hutmacher, our Irraka, also Iron Master, is going to side with Kelvin. Like normal. Old Man Puck Arnold, Hunter in Darkness Cahalith, looks thoughtful, which means he can go either way, but the fucker is so quiet when he gets lost in thought, unless prodded.
"Hey, Old Man, whachu thinkin' about this?" There, prodding.
He stares blankly at the wall for a moment, probably dredging up some half-forgotten piece of lore. Puck is like that. Knows his shit, just takes a bit to find it through the random garbage.
"Could be... That Kel is right. Human killer that the police will catch sooner or later. But... It does remind me of something that happened back in the 80s..."
I look to Alex, and I know she's suppressing a groan just as much as I am. Puck isn't just the oldest member of our pack, he's one of the oldest Uratha in Union City. Between spirits, other werewolves, and uncountable things in the dark, we don't tend to lead long lives, unless we're exceptionally lucky. Or cowards, but that isn't Puck.
"The Brethren War was just starting to settle. There was an Ivory Claw... No... No, she was a Predator King. That's right. There was a Ninna Farakh that came down from the Dakotas. It was a bloody time back then, as you all know, but even our enemies had those they considered 'too extreme.'" His eyes lose focus, so I know he's pulling this information from somewhere deep and unpleasant. "She was brutal, vicious, every bit as primal as Dire Wolf. She would skin our kinfolk alive, and leave the bodies in places where we were sure to find them as a taunt, to get us to enter into Kuruth. It took an entire pack to face her in the Hisil, and only one survived to tell the tale to the rest of us..." He trails off and I know that means there is more to the story.
When he doesn't continue, I prod some more. "So she's dead?"
Puck shakes his head, slowly. "The survivor was Blood Talon, Suthar Anzuth like you, and he told us that she was defeated. I always took that to mean 'dead,' but if these murders are connected, I'm not so sure."
At that, Kelvin returned to his argumentative stance. "If this Predator King was so powerful, and still alive, why would she wait almost 30 years to kill someone in a way that would draw our attention? This isn't the Brethren War anymore; the Pure will always be a threat, but we aren't distracted like packs were back then. And if the victims were kinfolk, one of the People would surely have sounded the alarm."
Best thing about being pack alpha is that when you get tired of the arguing, you can just make a decision, one way or the other. Before I have a chance to do so, Deb pipes up.
"I agree with Kel." As Alex starts to speak, she holds her hands up in pacification. "But, we should still look into it. Alex is right as well. Anything that is stirring up the spirit courts enough to put it on her radar can't really be ignored."
Alright, time to step in. "That settles it. Kel and Deb can put some feelers out with the other packs, have them check on their kin, just in case. Me, Alex, and Puck will hit up the Keystone, track down some spirits, see what they're saying."
Kelvin shrugs and Alex looks pleased. If only everything life were as easy as pack politics.
The Little Papillion Creek is a glorified run off stream in the north-central part of Union City that joins up with the (average sized) Papillion Creek before meeting the Missouri River south of the city. I imagine it looked peaceful and serene a couple hundred years ago. Now, it has the Keystone Trail running along its length; a concrete foot and bike path that covers more than ten miles of distance through town. Sure, it's nice, if you're a soccer mom that needs to find some "me time" or a pet owner that needs some place for their animal to shit.
We park a couple miles north from where the bodies were found. The sun is already setting but low light isn't much of a problem for us. Besides, the less people can look at us, the better.
Puck shifts into Urhan, the wolf form of Uratha, as Alex gains a little bit of hair and mass going into the near-human Dalu. As long as we're not in direct light, we could pass for a couple just out walking their dog. Maybe we should put Puck on a leash.
His lips curl back in a snarl and I think its from reading my mind for a moment, before I realize that he's picked up the scent of something. Trotting up the path, Alex and I flank him at a slight distance, keeping careful watch of our surroundings. Half a mile later at a brisk pace and we're at a small y-intersection of the stream. Even without shifting, the smell of rot hits me in the face like a sledgehammer. It's like a skunk sprayed musk all over itself, was eaten by a coyote with stomach issues, then was shit back out and left in the sun to bake. As strong as it is, I'm surprised that I didn't smell it sooner. I... Should have.
Sure, yeah, I'm not the swiftest on the uptake. By the time I shift into Dalu and pick up the new scent, I'm already rolling down the hilly embankment towards the creek. So much for my double dose of badassness, The massive tan wolf tumbles after me, snapping its slavering jaws toward my face. I can hear the sounds of my packmates engaging as we go down. Pushing its mouth away with one hand and clawing at its eye with the other, I get it to back off enough to stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see wolf-Puck squaring off with a thick-built Hispanic man in flannel. Can't see her, but I hear the usual grunts and growls of a fighting Alex behind me.
Fucking Pure. The Urshul form of Uratha looks a lot like an Ice Age dire monstrosity. This one is big, bigger than most, but not bigger than me. I feel bones and sinew pop and realign as I match forms with it. My majestic brown and gray pelt is a hunter's wet dream. I throw back my head and let loose an ear-splitting howl that clearly intimidates the tan, as it backs off and whines. My packmates pull themselves away from their own fights to join me. A quick glance around and yep, I'm the biggest badass in this.
My body tenses as we rush into the interlopers. I see Alex's knives flash in the glow of streetlights when she does what I've affectionately referred to as "death yoga," twisting and contorting her body to strike at Puck's flannel guy. Puck, snarling, leaps at a ragged young lady in Dalu, probably not even a year past her First Change. The tan wolf comes at me like a bolt of lightening, but I'm ready for it this time and I go low, catching one of its front paws in my teeth with a sickening snap of bone. It yelps as I shake my head from side to side, trapping it like a vise.
Puck is getting slow in his old age. The little girl has him down. I don't smell silver, and nothing is on fire, so he'll heal if he lives. I just have to make sure that happens. The Mother gives each of us gifts according to our natures, and the greatest thing She ever gave me was pure unadulterated Rage. I let the dam burst and slip into the war-form, the nightmare-inducing Gauru. It's like being paralyzed, deaf, and blind, then suddenly having the abilities of an Olympic athlete. Any bruise, scratch, or cut sustained rapidly disappears as my entire body is filled with a desire for carnage. Towering over these fucksticks, I grab the girl off of Puck by the back of her neck and hurl her a dozen feet into a tree with an almost comical crunching sound.
It's taboo to use Gauru in pack challenges or against allies, as it's difficult to stay in control and not become a whirling engine of death towards friends, so maybe I'm reveling in this a little too much as I scoop up the injured tan wolf and slam it back down into the concrete. I can tell it wants to shift as well, but I'm not about to give it a chance. Not that I'm afraid, of course, it's just smarter to defeat an opponent before they can defeat you.
Guess this one realizes it, too. It croaks out some words in the First Tongue, a language that we all instinctively know from the spirit half of our nature. "Silih’mamu firha!" Uh, it's rough to translate to English, but basically I take it as "fuck, I yield." It's kind of sad, actually. Usually Pure fight us until one side or the other is dead or fleeing. Returning to Hishu, my normal dashingly handsome human self, I take stock of our situation. Tree girl is still laying in the grass. Flannel guy is torn up about as bad as Puck, which isn't great but also not terrible, and fucking Alex looks like she just took a completely normal stroll through the park. The tan wolf returns to human as well, a beat to hell dishwater blonde that is as scraggly as tree girl.
"We didn't see any markings. We'll leave."
I stare at her, uncomprehending, adrenaline is a bitch for conversation. Alex mutters to herself and then speaks loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. "What's your Tribe, girl?"
She shakes her head. "No Tribe." Ghost Wolves. Thihirtha Numea. Forsaken, like us, not Pure, but antisocial fence-sitters where the rest of us are pack and Tribe oriented.
Tree girl stumbles back to the rest of us. They're all just kids, really. A bunch of omegas without the brains to tell them not to attack their betters. "So what are you doing here?" Alex continues.
Blonde girl shrugs. "We didn't see any markings so we thought this area was unclaimed territory. Just looking for a place to rest for a bit."
Puck coughs. Calmed, or close enough to it, I take over from Alex. "It is. Unclaimed. You just picked a real bad time to squat here." We make introductions and I bring them up to speed. Climaco is flannel guy. Tanika is tree girl, and she sure is mad at me if the glare is any indication. Ella is their pack alpha, as much as they have one. Like I said, kids.
"So that's the deal. You attacking us when we're looking out for Pure is shit luck."
"Yeah." Ella says, slowly. "We've only been here a day, but you're the first of us we've seen. The spirits are really quiet here, too, which is why we thought we could rest."
Something in that triggers Alex. She tilts her head and vanishes from view. No one else in our pack can cross the divide between the physical and spirit realms like Alex can, inside or outside of a Locus. She's our poster child for good spirit relations, even if we have to hunt them more often than anything else.
Ella looks to her packmates and to us, but before she has a chance to ask anything, Alex reappears.
"We need to go, now!"
"What?" It's all I can get out before she is pulling me.
"Questions later. Let's go." She motions for the Ghost Wolves to follow us as well.
"It's a mess." She talks to the rest of us like we've never been in the Shadow wherever spirit courts are concerned. Whatever. I'm more interested in hunting and pulling Gifts from them than being their best friend. "Puck, did your Predator King skin victims in the place where she killed them?"
He thinks for a moment. "No. If I recall correctly, they were all butchered in the Ninna Farakh's lair north of town and dropped close to Loci that we controlled."
"Okay?" I'm driving, so that's the most I can contribute at the moment.
"The bodies they pulled from the creek, they were killed there. And before you ask 'how do you know?' the Hisil is filled with pain and murder spirits, way more than I've ever seen in one place. Way more than the stream chorus native to the area. The deaths must have attracted them like shit attracts flies, or they were born from it. Either way, I'm betting they're why our new friends were in such a hurry to attack us over territory that they don't control."
The trio look pretty crestfallen. Not really their fault that they bit off more than they can chew. Failure is a good lesson though, so maybe next time, they'll do better.
"Alright, so even if it wasn't a Pure tactic, we're still stuck with someone killing people and bad mojo spirits fucking with the locals on a busy walkway." My ability to rapidly assess a situation is legendary.
"That reminds me of the stockyard fights in the '90s..." Puck begins.
Thankfully, we're pulling into home before he can go on for too long, and it looks like Kelvin is here as well. Deb usually works nights, but we can fill her in later. We haven't even stepped into the house before Kel is launching into a diatribe from the kitchen.
"Told you they weren't kinfolk. Just skimming the police reports shows nothing to link any of the victims together and none of my contacts have heard of anyone tied to us going missing. So it's not Puck's big bad Predator King and not really our problem, like I said."
"Um, Kel." Alex clears her throat. "I hate to have to correct you, once again..."
He comes out of the kitchen and stares at our guests. "Shit."
To be perfectly fucking clear, my house isn't a flop for homeless Uratha. I want to throw that out there just in case anyone is planning on coming by for an extended stay. I already have a constantly pissed off ex-wife and two kids that I support without needing more mouths to feed. As a one time exception to that policy, given the circumstances, I invited Ella and her folks to crash in my spare room. Hey, I get what you're thinking, but we can't fuck each other. Bad shit comes from that. And it's not like I think they're worth much in a fight. Just eight werewolves can clear out unwanted spirit problems a lot easier than five, even if three are pups. Besides, it'll do them all some good to see me in combat and not be fighting for their lives at the time.
Alex starts the train,"going in and wiping them out won't work." Two days later and we're still stuck on the same debate. In an ironic and sort of nauseating turn of events, Alex and Kelvin are on the same side of the argument for this one.
"We get rid of the out of place spirits and bring balance back to the creek, all well and good until the next murder starts the process over." Kelvin pulls it into the station.
"But that buys time for the cops, right?" Tanika chimes in. She's a Half Moon, like Kelvin, and he has been mentoring her these past couple of days. Probably because he hasn't sired any offspring, she serves as a surrogate for his paternal instincts. Or he needs to get some hobbies.
"Eh... UCPD is overworked and understaffed. If the FBI stepped in like the serial killer shows on TV, yeah, it might be enough to bandage things for now. I ain't got much faith in that happening." I respect law enforcement as much as the next guy who can turn into a ten foot hairball, which isn't enough for me to give them the benefit of the doubt here. "But a band-aid beats active bleeding."
"Whatever we can do to help, we're down. No one enjoys being manipulated." I feel for Ella. She isn't used to someone else calling the shots. It's been a while but I remember how shitty that used to be.
"What about a pact with the spirit of the Little Papio? It can't be happy about the situation." Hm, Deb might have an idea.
My head starts pounding like the onset of a migraine, except migraines aren't something we have to worry about. It's Hammerin' Jack, our pack's totem. Like the jackhammer it embodies, it isn't a subtle spirit. <SMASH IT!> It practically yells in our heads. Ella, Climaco, and Tanika are spared by not being a part of the pack. <CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!> Really, It's a great totem when you're in a fight and need to call upon some extra destructive force, but for fuck's sake, does It want to attack first and ask questions later all of the time.
I cringe. "Kel? Think that would help?" <GRIIIIIIIIIIIIND!>
"It's still a temporary solution, not a permanent fix, but yeah. Yeah, short term, that could work. If we can take care of what don't belong, and if these three oath bind to patrol the creek for more, we could probably get the spirit to aid us." Alex nods in agreement, as does Ella's pack. <BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!>
"The Little Papillion... Yes. There is a bridge not far to the south of where we fought that the Gauntlet is weak and we can find the spirit." Good old Puck. Might not be the best in a fight anymore, but he knows his shit. Our totem falls silent. We'll have to destroy something later to make it happy again.
"Works for me. Let's get things together and head back down at nightfall. Longer we sit on this, the more time the pain and murder spirits have to spawn."
"That... Is kind of disturbing." We're under the bridge Puck mentioned in the middle of town, all staring at the graffiti on the support wall. Tanika just says what we're all thinking.
"This is the right place, yeah Puck?" His expression is concerning me more than the mural. Even when things go entirely to shit, he is the solid foundation of our pack's stability.
"This is the place, but it isn't right. This has been desecrated." He reaches out to touch the concrete surface and as his fingertips make contact, his entire body goes rigid, like from being electrocuted. He slumps forward and hits the ground hard, eyes open, mouth slack. His body writhes and contorts in front of us.
"Puck!" I'm not sure who yells it. Could have even been me, for all of my focus on shifting. Making a spirit pact becomes a secondary concern to protecting our packmate and confronting his attacker. Without the need to communicate or coordinate, we all reach across the Gauntlet. Puck was correct about the weakness in the separation of physical and spiritual here.
It looks like a fucking warzone. The Hisil has weird colors compared to what you get used to in the realm of flesh, but these colors are off from even that. There should be spirits for all the concepts that you would expect with the creek and the running trail. Instead, it's all the negative shit that Alex mentioned, and more. Blazing lights and shapes of hate spirits, knife-edged murder spirits, hyperactive concepts of insanity and mania, all attempt to dominate their lessers. They all pale compared to the spirit of the Little Papillion itself. Those shit zombie flicks could learn a thing or two from it. Tall and emaciated, with blue-tinged skin and brackish water oozing from sores, its mouth drooling foul ichor, it's almost impossible to look at. The other spirits orbit it like tiny planets, or those fish that hang off the mouths of sharks, waiting for a meal of essence. It makes horrible squishy sounds and the other spirits swarm us.
"It's a goddamned Magath!" Alex shouts as a warning to everyone. A bastardized hybrid of multiple incompatible spirit groups, these things are abominations in the eyes of any right thinking Uratha. Kelvin especially hates them, as beings that defy balance. It explains the desolation of the Shadow, and the ease with which people are provoked into violence. Magath are spiritual Wounds waiting to happen.
Hammerin' Jack's desires are still screaming in my brain when the spirits surround me. Fighting ephemeral entities is a lot less satisfying than feeling flesh tear and bone snap when ripping apart a pack of Pure, but it is a great way to satiate the spirit half of Uratha nature. The four of us move with precision and grace, shifting forms as needed to better rip into the Little Papio, while our three allies harry the smaller threats.
Deb's claws shred through one of its arms, covering her in slime and gore. She's such a neat freak normally that I'm not surprised when she spazzes out about it. Kelvin and Alex circle it in Urshul relentlessly, diving in and biting where they can, trying to keep it from returning to the water. If it were still anything resembling a normal creek spirit, its mercurial nature would make that impossible, but for whatever else this thing is, it's relatively solid and unchanging. And insane. Incredibly insane.
It slams the shards of its shredded arms through Deb's midsection applying the same electric effect that dropped Puck, flinging her into Ella's group. They momentarily go down in a pile of spirits, but the rest of us are quick to take up the slack and help them back into the fight. Spirits of concepts involving conflict are more difficult to defeat in combat, and bring much more glory when they are, so of course I'm not shying away from the attack. The boon that Hammerin' Jack gives us ensures that we hit hard and fast,
Unfortunately, the momentary break allows the Magath to kick away from us and land back into the Shadow reflection of the stream. Even if its fundamental nature has changed, it still retains enough of the original to be a bigger threat in the water than on land. Still, more dangerous or not, it needs to be contained and we follow, keeping to the hillside as it rapidly moves up the stream.
It doesn't travel far, stopping at the y-intersection that Puck originally led us to. The cause of the rotten meat smell becomes evident as the place that is merely a darkened branch off in the physical world more accurately resembles a slaughterhouse in the Hisil. This is clearly where the bodies had been flayed down to the muscle, as the tattered meat hangs in strips from immobile tree spirits. The stench of taint and decay permeates and overwhelms the senses, blocking out everything else. Kelvin and Tanika swell up into Gauru and Hulk out on all of the spirits in the area. The Magath and its attendants are so much stronger here, however, as they're able to easily bat aside the attacks.
"Ella, Alex, we need to split its attention. Ignore everything else and keep striking from the sides!" I hate yelling orders when I should be chomping the hell out of something, but without the pack bond, I can't communicate as well with the rest of them. The biggest concentration of pain spirits all converge on Tanika and she howls in torment as her Rage overcomes her ability to think. Gauru is a dangerous gamble. If you lose your shit, friend and foe no longer make a difference. Climaco is fighting too close to her and she slams her jaws down into his shoulder. Even in Dalu, an Uratha's body can't handle that kind of damage and as she pulls away, his right arm comes with her.
His screams shock her to her senses and she shifts back into the human form, devastated from attacking her packmate. We don't have the luxury of going to either of their aid. The Magath is stronger in this place but it has used much of its strength fighting so many of us that it is starting to slow.
Alex and Ella's distraction allows Kelvin to bury his claws in its spine. With the ladies throwing themselves onto each of its legs, and a mostly-healed Deb protecting me from the pain and murder spirits, I sprint towards it, shifting into Urshul in motion to ram into it with as much force as possible. Kelvin pulls downward as I impact, Alex and Ella yank outward and between the four of us, we pull the Magath apart. I drain its remaining essence, erasing any trace of its existence. The last of the spirits cease fighting against us, offering us boons in supplication.
Tanika is gone. Climaco's body lay still, his wounds unhealed. She must have realized he was going to die and fled from the Shadow. There are punishments, incredibly brutal ones at that, for turning on a packmate in Kuruth, Death Rage, but they are survivable. To not only kill a member of one's pack but to also run from it, and a battle, in cowardice... She will be hunted by all Forsaken.
We travel back to the bridge and return across the Gauntlet to the physical. Puck looks almost peaceful, were it not for the twisted expression frozen on his face. A long life of wars fought and enemies slain, we don't mourn the end of his life as much as we mourn the hole his passing leaves in ours. Raising our voices to Mother Luna, we howl his praises so that She may remember a valiant son.
A week passes swiftly, with Puck's funeral, a meet up with the other local Forsaken to share the news, and the initiation of Ella into our pack. No one could ever replace him, but she has begun to gather as much lore as she can to try, starting by joining the Hunters in Darkness.
No new murders have occurred at the creek. We are sharing patrol duties with other packs, giving the area nightly checks to make sure more batches of murder and pain spirits aren't spawned. Puck's sacrifice ensures that we'll continue to do that much at least.
Tanika successfully escaped Forsaken judgement. She ran into a pack of Pure as she tried to leave Union City. Fire Touched may have recruited her, but the Ivory Claws that she met were more interested in removing her head than gaining a new follower.
For now, I have to take it that we did good, and not focus on the cost. There's a shit storm brewing in this town and my pack is gonna see it through.
Werewolf: the Forsaken Wiki
Smell. It's the hardest thing for me to put into words. Take tension, for example. It has a stink to it. No, I don't mean the way people sweat when they're tense. I mean the tension in the air, the thing people describe as "thick enough to cut with a knife." I can smell the normal musky scents of my pack, sure, but there's the bitterness of the tension overlaying it, an odor kind of like the way a penny tastes. That's not exactly it, of course, since there is the tang of burning ozone as well, but you get the picture.
It's the latest rash of violence in the city that has everyone on edge. Not the normal gang violence or robberies, those tend to come and go. Arson, a mass shooting, flayed bodies dumped in a stream, that sticks out. Alex Mei, Bone Shadow and our Ithaeur, her tension smells the strongest right now. See, every time some big shit happens, it stirs up spirits in the area. Our darlin' Alex, she gets to deal with the little fish caught up in the wake. Me? I'm double dosed with badassness; Blood Talon Rahu. Give me something to fight and to kill, and I'm a happy camper. Too much dealing with spirit courts makes me twitchy.
"Look, it's close enough to our territory that we should probably check it out." Alex has finally stopped her pacing to argue the point. She does that. A lot. Pace and argue.
"Alex, 'close enough' doesn't make it OUR territory. And murders are a problem for the police." That's Kelvin Lange. Iron Master, Elodoth. He usually gets stuck playing devil's advocate, comes with the arbiter territory, but he likes to argue just as much as Alex. Knows the ins and outs of the city better than anyone. Also a complete asshole. Also the closest thing I have to a best friend.
"A random shooting is a problem for the police. Three bodies getting pulled from a stream without a strip of flesh left in the space of a month, that sounds like Pure. Suffering like that leads to Wounds. That is OUR problem." Her point is valid. Fuck the Anshega.
"Honor your territory in all things. It means 'don't go looking for problems when they're already knocking on your door,' kiddo." Okay, he's an asshole, but his point is just as valid. "Besides, nothing says the Pure are involved in any way."
"Don't fucking 'kiddo' me, Kel. I KNOW there isn't anything in the story that screams 'Pure.' That's why I want to take a look."
That brings us back to the tension. Quick poll of the rest of the room by scent and body language says Deb, that's Deborah Hutmacher, our Irraka, also Iron Master, is going to side with Kelvin. Like normal. Old Man Puck Arnold, Hunter in Darkness Cahalith, looks thoughtful, which means he can go either way, but the fucker is so quiet when he gets lost in thought, unless prodded.
"Hey, Old Man, whachu thinkin' about this?" There, prodding.
He stares blankly at the wall for a moment, probably dredging up some half-forgotten piece of lore. Puck is like that. Knows his shit, just takes a bit to find it through the random garbage.
"Could be... That Kel is right. Human killer that the police will catch sooner or later. But... It does remind me of something that happened back in the 80s..."
I look to Alex, and I know she's suppressing a groan just as much as I am. Puck isn't just the oldest member of our pack, he's one of the oldest Uratha in Union City. Between spirits, other werewolves, and uncountable things in the dark, we don't tend to lead long lives, unless we're exceptionally lucky. Or cowards, but that isn't Puck.
"The Brethren War was just starting to settle. There was an Ivory Claw... No... No, she was a Predator King. That's right. There was a Ninna Farakh that came down from the Dakotas. It was a bloody time back then, as you all know, but even our enemies had those they considered 'too extreme.'" His eyes lose focus, so I know he's pulling this information from somewhere deep and unpleasant. "She was brutal, vicious, every bit as primal as Dire Wolf. She would skin our kinfolk alive, and leave the bodies in places where we were sure to find them as a taunt, to get us to enter into Kuruth. It took an entire pack to face her in the Hisil, and only one survived to tell the tale to the rest of us..." He trails off and I know that means there is more to the story.
When he doesn't continue, I prod some more. "So she's dead?"
Puck shakes his head, slowly. "The survivor was Blood Talon, Suthar Anzuth like you, and he told us that she was defeated. I always took that to mean 'dead,' but if these murders are connected, I'm not so sure."
At that, Kelvin returned to his argumentative stance. "If this Predator King was so powerful, and still alive, why would she wait almost 30 years to kill someone in a way that would draw our attention? This isn't the Brethren War anymore; the Pure will always be a threat, but we aren't distracted like packs were back then. And if the victims were kinfolk, one of the People would surely have sounded the alarm."
Best thing about being pack alpha is that when you get tired of the arguing, you can just make a decision, one way or the other. Before I have a chance to do so, Deb pipes up.
"I agree with Kel." As Alex starts to speak, she holds her hands up in pacification. "But, we should still look into it. Alex is right as well. Anything that is stirring up the spirit courts enough to put it on her radar can't really be ignored."
Alright, time to step in. "That settles it. Kel and Deb can put some feelers out with the other packs, have them check on their kin, just in case. Me, Alex, and Puck will hit up the Keystone, track down some spirits, see what they're saying."
Kelvin shrugs and Alex looks pleased. If only everything life were as easy as pack politics.
*****
The Little Papillion Creek is a glorified run off stream in the north-central part of Union City that joins up with the (average sized) Papillion Creek before meeting the Missouri River south of the city. I imagine it looked peaceful and serene a couple hundred years ago. Now, it has the Keystone Trail running along its length; a concrete foot and bike path that covers more than ten miles of distance through town. Sure, it's nice, if you're a soccer mom that needs to find some "me time" or a pet owner that needs some place for their animal to shit.
We park a couple miles north from where the bodies were found. The sun is already setting but low light isn't much of a problem for us. Besides, the less people can look at us, the better.
Puck shifts into Urhan, the wolf form of Uratha, as Alex gains a little bit of hair and mass going into the near-human Dalu. As long as we're not in direct light, we could pass for a couple just out walking their dog. Maybe we should put Puck on a leash.
His lips curl back in a snarl and I think its from reading my mind for a moment, before I realize that he's picked up the scent of something. Trotting up the path, Alex and I flank him at a slight distance, keeping careful watch of our surroundings. Half a mile later at a brisk pace and we're at a small y-intersection of the stream. Even without shifting, the smell of rot hits me in the face like a sledgehammer. It's like a skunk sprayed musk all over itself, was eaten by a coyote with stomach issues, then was shit back out and left in the sun to bake. As strong as it is, I'm surprised that I didn't smell it sooner. I... Should have.
Sure, yeah, I'm not the swiftest on the uptake. By the time I shift into Dalu and pick up the new scent, I'm already rolling down the hilly embankment towards the creek. So much for my double dose of badassness, The massive tan wolf tumbles after me, snapping its slavering jaws toward my face. I can hear the sounds of my packmates engaging as we go down. Pushing its mouth away with one hand and clawing at its eye with the other, I get it to back off enough to stand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see wolf-Puck squaring off with a thick-built Hispanic man in flannel. Can't see her, but I hear the usual grunts and growls of a fighting Alex behind me.
Fucking Pure. The Urshul form of Uratha looks a lot like an Ice Age dire monstrosity. This one is big, bigger than most, but not bigger than me. I feel bones and sinew pop and realign as I match forms with it. My majestic brown and gray pelt is a hunter's wet dream. I throw back my head and let loose an ear-splitting howl that clearly intimidates the tan, as it backs off and whines. My packmates pull themselves away from their own fights to join me. A quick glance around and yep, I'm the biggest badass in this.
My body tenses as we rush into the interlopers. I see Alex's knives flash in the glow of streetlights when she does what I've affectionately referred to as "death yoga," twisting and contorting her body to strike at Puck's flannel guy. Puck, snarling, leaps at a ragged young lady in Dalu, probably not even a year past her First Change. The tan wolf comes at me like a bolt of lightening, but I'm ready for it this time and I go low, catching one of its front paws in my teeth with a sickening snap of bone. It yelps as I shake my head from side to side, trapping it like a vise.
Puck is getting slow in his old age. The little girl has him down. I don't smell silver, and nothing is on fire, so he'll heal if he lives. I just have to make sure that happens. The Mother gives each of us gifts according to our natures, and the greatest thing She ever gave me was pure unadulterated Rage. I let the dam burst and slip into the war-form, the nightmare-inducing Gauru. It's like being paralyzed, deaf, and blind, then suddenly having the abilities of an Olympic athlete. Any bruise, scratch, or cut sustained rapidly disappears as my entire body is filled with a desire for carnage. Towering over these fucksticks, I grab the girl off of Puck by the back of her neck and hurl her a dozen feet into a tree with an almost comical crunching sound.
It's taboo to use Gauru in pack challenges or against allies, as it's difficult to stay in control and not become a whirling engine of death towards friends, so maybe I'm reveling in this a little too much as I scoop up the injured tan wolf and slam it back down into the concrete. I can tell it wants to shift as well, but I'm not about to give it a chance. Not that I'm afraid, of course, it's just smarter to defeat an opponent before they can defeat you.
Guess this one realizes it, too. It croaks out some words in the First Tongue, a language that we all instinctively know from the spirit half of our nature. "Silih’mamu firha!" Uh, it's rough to translate to English, but basically I take it as "fuck, I yield." It's kind of sad, actually. Usually Pure fight us until one side or the other is dead or fleeing. Returning to Hishu, my normal dashingly handsome human self, I take stock of our situation. Tree girl is still laying in the grass. Flannel guy is torn up about as bad as Puck, which isn't great but also not terrible, and fucking Alex looks like she just took a completely normal stroll through the park. The tan wolf returns to human as well, a beat to hell dishwater blonde that is as scraggly as tree girl.
"We didn't see any markings. We'll leave."
I stare at her, uncomprehending, adrenaline is a bitch for conversation. Alex mutters to herself and then speaks loudly enough for the rest of us to hear. "What's your Tribe, girl?"
She shakes her head. "No Tribe." Ghost Wolves. Thihirtha Numea. Forsaken, like us, not Pure, but antisocial fence-sitters where the rest of us are pack and Tribe oriented.
Tree girl stumbles back to the rest of us. They're all just kids, really. A bunch of omegas without the brains to tell them not to attack their betters. "So what are you doing here?" Alex continues.
Blonde girl shrugs. "We didn't see any markings so we thought this area was unclaimed territory. Just looking for a place to rest for a bit."
Puck coughs. Calmed, or close enough to it, I take over from Alex. "It is. Unclaimed. You just picked a real bad time to squat here." We make introductions and I bring them up to speed. Climaco is flannel guy. Tanika is tree girl, and she sure is mad at me if the glare is any indication. Ella is their pack alpha, as much as they have one. Like I said, kids.
"So that's the deal. You attacking us when we're looking out for Pure is shit luck."
"Yeah." Ella says, slowly. "We've only been here a day, but you're the first of us we've seen. The spirits are really quiet here, too, which is why we thought we could rest."
Something in that triggers Alex. She tilts her head and vanishes from view. No one else in our pack can cross the divide between the physical and spirit realms like Alex can, inside or outside of a Locus. She's our poster child for good spirit relations, even if we have to hunt them more often than anything else.
Ella looks to her packmates and to us, but before she has a chance to ask anything, Alex reappears.
"We need to go, now!"
"What?" It's all I can get out before she is pulling me.
"Questions later. Let's go." She motions for the Ghost Wolves to follow us as well.
*****
It isn't until we're in the car and moving, and thankfully I drove my Suburban, 'cause fitting everyone in Puck's hatchback or Alex's Camry would have been impossible, when she starts dropping information."It's a mess." She talks to the rest of us like we've never been in the Shadow wherever spirit courts are concerned. Whatever. I'm more interested in hunting and pulling Gifts from them than being their best friend. "Puck, did your Predator King skin victims in the place where she killed them?"
He thinks for a moment. "No. If I recall correctly, they were all butchered in the Ninna Farakh's lair north of town and dropped close to Loci that we controlled."
"Okay?" I'm driving, so that's the most I can contribute at the moment.
"The bodies they pulled from the creek, they were killed there. And before you ask 'how do you know?' the Hisil is filled with pain and murder spirits, way more than I've ever seen in one place. Way more than the stream chorus native to the area. The deaths must have attracted them like shit attracts flies, or they were born from it. Either way, I'm betting they're why our new friends were in such a hurry to attack us over territory that they don't control."
The trio look pretty crestfallen. Not really their fault that they bit off more than they can chew. Failure is a good lesson though, so maybe next time, they'll do better.
"Alright, so even if it wasn't a Pure tactic, we're still stuck with someone killing people and bad mojo spirits fucking with the locals on a busy walkway." My ability to rapidly assess a situation is legendary.
"That reminds me of the stockyard fights in the '90s..." Puck begins.
Thankfully, we're pulling into home before he can go on for too long, and it looks like Kelvin is here as well. Deb usually works nights, but we can fill her in later. We haven't even stepped into the house before Kel is launching into a diatribe from the kitchen.
"Told you they weren't kinfolk. Just skimming the police reports shows nothing to link any of the victims together and none of my contacts have heard of anyone tied to us going missing. So it's not Puck's big bad Predator King and not really our problem, like I said."
"Um, Kel." Alex clears her throat. "I hate to have to correct you, once again..."
He comes out of the kitchen and stares at our guests. "Shit."
*****
To be perfectly fucking clear, my house isn't a flop for homeless Uratha. I want to throw that out there just in case anyone is planning on coming by for an extended stay. I already have a constantly pissed off ex-wife and two kids that I support without needing more mouths to feed. As a one time exception to that policy, given the circumstances, I invited Ella and her folks to crash in my spare room. Hey, I get what you're thinking, but we can't fuck each other. Bad shit comes from that. And it's not like I think they're worth much in a fight. Just eight werewolves can clear out unwanted spirit problems a lot easier than five, even if three are pups. Besides, it'll do them all some good to see me in combat and not be fighting for their lives at the time.
Alex starts the train,"going in and wiping them out won't work." Two days later and we're still stuck on the same debate. In an ironic and sort of nauseating turn of events, Alex and Kelvin are on the same side of the argument for this one.
"We get rid of the out of place spirits and bring balance back to the creek, all well and good until the next murder starts the process over." Kelvin pulls it into the station.
"But that buys time for the cops, right?" Tanika chimes in. She's a Half Moon, like Kelvin, and he has been mentoring her these past couple of days. Probably because he hasn't sired any offspring, she serves as a surrogate for his paternal instincts. Or he needs to get some hobbies.
"Eh... UCPD is overworked and understaffed. If the FBI stepped in like the serial killer shows on TV, yeah, it might be enough to bandage things for now. I ain't got much faith in that happening." I respect law enforcement as much as the next guy who can turn into a ten foot hairball, which isn't enough for me to give them the benefit of the doubt here. "But a band-aid beats active bleeding."
"Whatever we can do to help, we're down. No one enjoys being manipulated." I feel for Ella. She isn't used to someone else calling the shots. It's been a while but I remember how shitty that used to be.
"What about a pact with the spirit of the Little Papio? It can't be happy about the situation." Hm, Deb might have an idea.
My head starts pounding like the onset of a migraine, except migraines aren't something we have to worry about. It's Hammerin' Jack, our pack's totem. Like the jackhammer it embodies, it isn't a subtle spirit. <SMASH IT!> It practically yells in our heads. Ella, Climaco, and Tanika are spared by not being a part of the pack. <CRUSH! CRUSH! CRUSH!> Really, It's a great totem when you're in a fight and need to call upon some extra destructive force, but for fuck's sake, does It want to attack first and ask questions later all of the time.
I cringe. "Kel? Think that would help?" <GRIIIIIIIIIIIIND!>
"It's still a temporary solution, not a permanent fix, but yeah. Yeah, short term, that could work. If we can take care of what don't belong, and if these three oath bind to patrol the creek for more, we could probably get the spirit to aid us." Alex nods in agreement, as does Ella's pack. <BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!>
"The Little Papillion... Yes. There is a bridge not far to the south of where we fought that the Gauntlet is weak and we can find the spirit." Good old Puck. Might not be the best in a fight anymore, but he knows his shit. Our totem falls silent. We'll have to destroy something later to make it happy again.
"Works for me. Let's get things together and head back down at nightfall. Longer we sit on this, the more time the pain and murder spirits have to spawn."
*****
"That... Is kind of disturbing." We're under the bridge Puck mentioned in the middle of town, all staring at the graffiti on the support wall. Tanika just says what we're all thinking.
"This is the right place, yeah Puck?" His expression is concerning me more than the mural. Even when things go entirely to shit, he is the solid foundation of our pack's stability.
"This is the place, but it isn't right. This has been desecrated." He reaches out to touch the concrete surface and as his fingertips make contact, his entire body goes rigid, like from being electrocuted. He slumps forward and hits the ground hard, eyes open, mouth slack. His body writhes and contorts in front of us.
"Puck!" I'm not sure who yells it. Could have even been me, for all of my focus on shifting. Making a spirit pact becomes a secondary concern to protecting our packmate and confronting his attacker. Without the need to communicate or coordinate, we all reach across the Gauntlet. Puck was correct about the weakness in the separation of physical and spiritual here.
It looks like a fucking warzone. The Hisil has weird colors compared to what you get used to in the realm of flesh, but these colors are off from even that. There should be spirits for all the concepts that you would expect with the creek and the running trail. Instead, it's all the negative shit that Alex mentioned, and more. Blazing lights and shapes of hate spirits, knife-edged murder spirits, hyperactive concepts of insanity and mania, all attempt to dominate their lessers. They all pale compared to the spirit of the Little Papillion itself. Those shit zombie flicks could learn a thing or two from it. Tall and emaciated, with blue-tinged skin and brackish water oozing from sores, its mouth drooling foul ichor, it's almost impossible to look at. The other spirits orbit it like tiny planets, or those fish that hang off the mouths of sharks, waiting for a meal of essence. It makes horrible squishy sounds and the other spirits swarm us.
"It's a goddamned Magath!" Alex shouts as a warning to everyone. A bastardized hybrid of multiple incompatible spirit groups, these things are abominations in the eyes of any right thinking Uratha. Kelvin especially hates them, as beings that defy balance. It explains the desolation of the Shadow, and the ease with which people are provoked into violence. Magath are spiritual Wounds waiting to happen.
Hammerin' Jack's desires are still screaming in my brain when the spirits surround me. Fighting ephemeral entities is a lot less satisfying than feeling flesh tear and bone snap when ripping apart a pack of Pure, but it is a great way to satiate the spirit half of Uratha nature. The four of us move with precision and grace, shifting forms as needed to better rip into the Little Papio, while our three allies harry the smaller threats.
Deb's claws shred through one of its arms, covering her in slime and gore. She's such a neat freak normally that I'm not surprised when she spazzes out about it. Kelvin and Alex circle it in Urshul relentlessly, diving in and biting where they can, trying to keep it from returning to the water. If it were still anything resembling a normal creek spirit, its mercurial nature would make that impossible, but for whatever else this thing is, it's relatively solid and unchanging. And insane. Incredibly insane.
It slams the shards of its shredded arms through Deb's midsection applying the same electric effect that dropped Puck, flinging her into Ella's group. They momentarily go down in a pile of spirits, but the rest of us are quick to take up the slack and help them back into the fight. Spirits of concepts involving conflict are more difficult to defeat in combat, and bring much more glory when they are, so of course I'm not shying away from the attack. The boon that Hammerin' Jack gives us ensures that we hit hard and fast,
Unfortunately, the momentary break allows the Magath to kick away from us and land back into the Shadow reflection of the stream. Even if its fundamental nature has changed, it still retains enough of the original to be a bigger threat in the water than on land. Still, more dangerous or not, it needs to be contained and we follow, keeping to the hillside as it rapidly moves up the stream.
It doesn't travel far, stopping at the y-intersection that Puck originally led us to. The cause of the rotten meat smell becomes evident as the place that is merely a darkened branch off in the physical world more accurately resembles a slaughterhouse in the Hisil. This is clearly where the bodies had been flayed down to the muscle, as the tattered meat hangs in strips from immobile tree spirits. The stench of taint and decay permeates and overwhelms the senses, blocking out everything else. Kelvin and Tanika swell up into Gauru and Hulk out on all of the spirits in the area. The Magath and its attendants are so much stronger here, however, as they're able to easily bat aside the attacks.
"Ella, Alex, we need to split its attention. Ignore everything else and keep striking from the sides!" I hate yelling orders when I should be chomping the hell out of something, but without the pack bond, I can't communicate as well with the rest of them. The biggest concentration of pain spirits all converge on Tanika and she howls in torment as her Rage overcomes her ability to think. Gauru is a dangerous gamble. If you lose your shit, friend and foe no longer make a difference. Climaco is fighting too close to her and she slams her jaws down into his shoulder. Even in Dalu, an Uratha's body can't handle that kind of damage and as she pulls away, his right arm comes with her.
His screams shock her to her senses and she shifts back into the human form, devastated from attacking her packmate. We don't have the luxury of going to either of their aid. The Magath is stronger in this place but it has used much of its strength fighting so many of us that it is starting to slow.
Alex and Ella's distraction allows Kelvin to bury his claws in its spine. With the ladies throwing themselves onto each of its legs, and a mostly-healed Deb protecting me from the pain and murder spirits, I sprint towards it, shifting into Urshul in motion to ram into it with as much force as possible. Kelvin pulls downward as I impact, Alex and Ella yank outward and between the four of us, we pull the Magath apart. I drain its remaining essence, erasing any trace of its existence. The last of the spirits cease fighting against us, offering us boons in supplication.
Tanika is gone. Climaco's body lay still, his wounds unhealed. She must have realized he was going to die and fled from the Shadow. There are punishments, incredibly brutal ones at that, for turning on a packmate in Kuruth, Death Rage, but they are survivable. To not only kill a member of one's pack but to also run from it, and a battle, in cowardice... She will be hunted by all Forsaken.
We travel back to the bridge and return across the Gauntlet to the physical. Puck looks almost peaceful, were it not for the twisted expression frozen on his face. A long life of wars fought and enemies slain, we don't mourn the end of his life as much as we mourn the hole his passing leaves in ours. Raising our voices to Mother Luna, we howl his praises so that She may remember a valiant son.
*****
A week passes swiftly, with Puck's funeral, a meet up with the other local Forsaken to share the news, and the initiation of Ella into our pack. No one could ever replace him, but she has begun to gather as much lore as she can to try, starting by joining the Hunters in Darkness.
No new murders have occurred at the creek. We are sharing patrol duties with other packs, giving the area nightly checks to make sure more batches of murder and pain spirits aren't spawned. Puck's sacrifice ensures that we'll continue to do that much at least.
Tanika successfully escaped Forsaken judgement. She ran into a pack of Pure as she tried to leave Union City. Fire Touched may have recruited her, but the Ivory Claws that she met were more interested in removing her head than gaining a new follower.
For now, I have to take it that we did good, and not focus on the cost. There's a shit storm brewing in this town and my pack is gonna see it through.
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