It was surely an evening to remember. The sight of Jules Pollack’s
infested body in the spore-laden cold air of the drawing room, and then the
light bulb exploding and plunging the room into utter darkness sent the
investigators scrambling in what seemed to be an organized fashion. Flashlights
were secured by Mackie, Moira got her hands dirty with the slime, phlegm and
mucus that was covering much of Jules, and Henry went to the rather
well-equipped gardening shed to find useful tools and perhaps even protective
gear. Jules was alive, but just…well, altered in some horrifying way.
Nevertheless, Moira made sure that Jules was stable, and as Mackie returned
with two flashlights, Moira grabbed one and headed for the basement while
Mackie and Henry checked the upstairs bedrooms.
As Moira
opened the door to the basement stairs, she noticed that the indescribable odor
of both growth, fertility and fetid decay grew stronger, and the stairs were
covered by even more of the pungent slime that had graced Jules. It was only matter
of second before she slipped on the stairs, rolling down into the abyss and
landing on something disturbingly soft as the basement door slammed shut. Moira
dropped her flashlight in the fall, and it rolled of only to reveal a glimpse
of something horrific that seemed to have been biding its time in the womb of
the basement: a brownish-gray tentacle horror of unspeakable quality, something
that was not of this world, yet part of some unwholesome fertility spectacle.
Moira tried to get up the basement stairs, slipping, shrieking and cursing
while clawing her way to the closed door.
This was,
of course, noticed by Henry and Mackie, and perhaps even at some level by Jules,
and Henry, now fully equipped with a shovel, a pickaxe and protective gear and looking
like a sick and twisted garden gnome butcher started working on opening the
door, tightly followed by Mackie, who was brandishing a sturdy cast-iron poker
from the fireplace. A filthy, bruised and distraught Moira was pulled out into the
hallway, and it was decided that it was time to leave the house and clean up,
at least for a bit. However, as Henry gathered some of his possessions as well
as a change of clothing for Moira and Jules, he gazed into a mirror and saw a
reflection of that very same mass of tentacles that Moira confronted in the
basement. Shrieking, Henry ran down the stairs, arm flailing and babbling uncontrollably.
By then,
even Jules had been persuaded to come out into his own garden, and after being thoroughly
cleaned, supplied with a change of clothes, and having taken a swig or two from
his generous hip flask, his senses seemed to return. Moira was also rinsed off
in the cold rain, and although she was cold, she felt much more composed. The
investigators huddled on the front porch, trying to figure out what their next
step would be. The party’s suspicions focused in on Mr. Simmons, the gardener,
who had seemed quite unaffected by the many unfortunate events that had struck the
various inhabitants of Hampton Hill House. Would Mr. Simmons return? None of
the investigators were willing to go back into the house, and it was decided to
keep a lookout in Jules’ automobile while the rest of the party took turns
napping in the gardening shed.
At around 3
am Moira was struggling to stay awake in the front seat of the auto, but sudden
movement outside Hampton Hill House made her wide awake. A furtive figure
carrying some form of equipment and perhaps a sack moved up to the front door
and into the house. The intrepid adventurers armed themselves as best as they
could: Mackie had her poker, Henry had his pickaxe (the shovel had been lost),
Moira picked up a vicious-looking tree secateurs, and Jules opted for a croquet
set. Armed and somewhat dangerous, the investigators entered Hampton Hill
House, with Jules and Moira going upstairs while Mackie and Henry started
stacking furniture in front of the door to the basement door.
As Jules
and Moira entered the master bedroom, they did indeed run into Mr. Simmons. The
gardener had previously not been threatening, but now Moira noticed what seemed
to be a writhing mass of mucous matter underneath his shirt. Jules was more
concerned about Simmons pointing a shotgun in their direction, and he launched
one of the croquet balls at Simmons. The throw was not great, but Simmons was distracted
enough to fire the shotgun up into the ceiling, raining plaster on everyone
while Moira lunged at Simmons with her vicious secateurs. Simmons was impaled
just below the throat, and ooze and ichor spurted out of Simmons’s near-severed
neck as he lay shrieking and flailing on the floor until Moira finished off his
miserable existence.
The polite and pleasant-looking unspeakable horror that was Mr. Simmons.
Meanwhile,
Mackie and Henry heard faint scratching against the basement door, and Henry
leaned forward, putting his ear to the door. He could not have anticipated the
unearthly tendrils that writhed into his ear, piecing his ear drum and pinning
him to the door, Fortunately, Mackie had her trusty pocket knife, and at the
cost of one-third of Henry Chester’s ear, he was free.
By now, the
entire house was buzzing, vibrating, and leaving the investigators with a
feeling of distinct queasiness as well as with headaches all around. As Mackie
quickly ran off to make a couple of Molotov cocktails out of Jules’s liquor
cabinet, Jules ran down and fired into the basement door, only to see a
distinctly unwholesome tentacle probe its way out of the hole in the door.
Pulling out his favorite revolver, Jules fired off a round at the tentacle,
which promptly withdrew. This was followed by doors opening and closing, glass
breaking, lights fluttering, and a dreadful chill descending on the house as
the windows were filled by visions of the ungodly tentacle menace that seemed
to be very close to actually fully materializing. It was time to leave Hampton
Hill House, and although the front door was locked, sheer desperation forced it
open, and Mackie decided to give the house a farewell in shape of her two
extra-stuffed Molotov cocktails. The house was consumed at an alarming rate,
and the investigators had to run away from Hampton Hill as the house seemed to
implode, extinguishing the fire and leaving the investigators out in what was
now a slight drizzle. Only faint markings were left of Hampton Hill House as
well as a strangely inscribed metal plaque where the basement used to be. It
was time to return to Arkham.
No comments:
Post a Comment