Week 6: Heel Turn
This is an entry for the therealljidol. If you'd like to read any of the other entries added during this Week and vote for any of them, you can do so here!
Apologies to Kymon and my other Call of Chtulu RPG buddies for using and abusing one of our adventures.
1986, Greater London.
Sir Whittaker cordially invites you to dinner.
It didn't take long for the shoe to drop.
A car had been sent for them all, and they couldn't help but be suspicious of both the invitation and each other.
Rosalind Smith kept nervously touching her hair, which was up in a swish hair do, with long decorative pins. She was a bank clerk, not terribly high up in the industry.
Jessica, who had developed nerves of steel being a female police officer in these times, was chatting lightly with Mortimer Jones, journalist and truth-seeker, as he had introduced himself.
It seemed they had met before, working in parallel on police cases. Rosalind remembered him mostly from tabloid cases. or maybe it was the Tabloid Daily Weekly, which was in the newspaper rack at work, despite being a rag.
Clint Pitman, "academic" of crypto-zoology, was discussing the current stellar landscape with Andrew Klein, psychologist and noted occultist.
The driver dropped them off, directed them to the front door.
It was very quiet. The estate was in the middle of nowhere, outside the city, and in the sunny daytime would have been beautiful. Now it was just impressive. Large, cold, dark.
The butler opened for them, lead them through the dimly-lit hallways to a study, where sir Whittaker was waiting.
Rosalind had been before, as a guest/connoisseur of art and artifacts.
Sir proceeded to take everyone down a peg, quoting their secrets and jobs.
This irked Rosalind. She moonlighted as a cat-burglar. It was more of a hobby, really. But it wasn't something she wanted to have brought up in front of people she didn't know.
Mortimer certainly disliked being linked to the Tabloid Daily Weekly, but preened when his military record was brought up.
Long story short - occultist magic. Cult magic.
Mortimer cocked his head, "Magic?"
Rosalind didn't scoff, but shook her head in a way that suggested she would have tossed her hair, were it down. Jessica also rolled her eyes, but both Klein and Clint Pitman nodded.
The stars were in the right position.
Look. The thing is that this is a dangerous story. It's not just caution, or fantasy, or fiction.
They waited for the dinner they were invited to while Whittaker dissappeared, and there was a scuffle on the roof, and things went much too fast for everyone.
Whittaker's body crashed through the skylight, ruining dinner and some of the good stemware.
Jessica's eyes narrowed as she tried the main door, and the phone, and the side door.
They were locked in.
Jessica carefully pulled out a gun from her boot and handed it to Mortimer, then unlatched another one from her belt for herself.
Pitman and Klein raised their eyebrows in unison, and exclaimed.
"Fine."
Rosalind pulled out a gun from her handbag.
"Let's go."
Mortimer isn't sure whose idea it was to go exploring, but he resented having to go about the creepy mansion.
There were locked rooms, and safe-rooms equipped with cameras, and creepy, creepy paintings that followed you with their eyes, and library stacks that tried to kill you.
Klein found books in the library, and Pitman found a clue in the paintings, and Jessica found clues and passwords, and Rosalind found weird artefacts in the safes that she used her hairpins to unlock.
The thing is. Well. The thing is that it doesn't actually matter how the story goes from here. What matters is that the story doesn't end well for most people.
So it turned out there was a group of occultists (is the plural noun of a group of occultists a cult?) who were also locked in, and they had locked the group in with them to sacrifice them to some sort of ridiculous monster in the creepy basement without a floor.
They had heard roars and scratches and felt the unnatural cold, but they had all assumed. Well. They had assumed it was natural.
The cult told them there was a labyrinth hidden in the basement.
They had radios, and food and water, and they were all dresses in unseasonable robes.
Rosalind did not trust the cult. She volunteered to stay with them and watch, direct the rest of the group through the maze where the solution to this ridiculous summoning was, since someone had strung up all those cameras.
Mortimer volunteered to stay with her to make sure she didn't kill anyone, jumpy and twitchy.
Rosalind turned away from the group of occultists, still speaking to Jessica via radio, double checking the route they needed on the monitors, "Right turn, now!"
She watched as Clint Pitman sacrifed himself for the good of the group and humanity.
She was so preoccupied with keeping the others alive. She hadn't thought to watch her back in the room where she was. Someone was meant to be looking out for her.
Crack!
She slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Mortimer smiled at the men, slowly lowering his weapon.
"So, magic?"
They grinned back, purple crowding in at the edges, waiting for the sacrifices in the maze to die.
Apologies to Kymon and my other Call of Chtulu RPG buddies for using and abusing one of our adventures.
1986, Greater London.
Sir Whittaker cordially invites you to dinner.
It didn't take long for the shoe to drop.
A car had been sent for them all, and they couldn't help but be suspicious of both the invitation and each other.
Rosalind Smith kept nervously touching her hair, which was up in a swish hair do, with long decorative pins. She was a bank clerk, not terribly high up in the industry.
Jessica, who had developed nerves of steel being a female police officer in these times, was chatting lightly with Mortimer Jones, journalist and truth-seeker, as he had introduced himself.
It seemed they had met before, working in parallel on police cases. Rosalind remembered him mostly from tabloid cases. or maybe it was the Tabloid Daily Weekly, which was in the newspaper rack at work, despite being a rag.
Clint Pitman, "academic" of crypto-zoology, was discussing the current stellar landscape with Andrew Klein, psychologist and noted occultist.
The driver dropped them off, directed them to the front door.
It was very quiet. The estate was in the middle of nowhere, outside the city, and in the sunny daytime would have been beautiful. Now it was just impressive. Large, cold, dark.
The butler opened for them, lead them through the dimly-lit hallways to a study, where sir Whittaker was waiting.
Rosalind had been before, as a guest/connoisseur of art and artifacts.
Sir proceeded to take everyone down a peg, quoting their secrets and jobs.
This irked Rosalind. She moonlighted as a cat-burglar. It was more of a hobby, really. But it wasn't something she wanted to have brought up in front of people she didn't know.
Mortimer certainly disliked being linked to the Tabloid Daily Weekly, but preened when his military record was brought up.
Long story short - occultist magic. Cult magic.
Mortimer cocked his head, "Magic?"
Rosalind didn't scoff, but shook her head in a way that suggested she would have tossed her hair, were it down. Jessica also rolled her eyes, but both Klein and Clint Pitman nodded.
The stars were in the right position.
Look. The thing is that this is a dangerous story. It's not just caution, or fantasy, or fiction.
They waited for the dinner they were invited to while Whittaker dissappeared, and there was a scuffle on the roof, and things went much too fast for everyone.
Whittaker's body crashed through the skylight, ruining dinner and some of the good stemware.
Jessica's eyes narrowed as she tried the main door, and the phone, and the side door.
They were locked in.
Jessica carefully pulled out a gun from her boot and handed it to Mortimer, then unlatched another one from her belt for herself.
Pitman and Klein raised their eyebrows in unison, and exclaimed.
"Fine."
Rosalind pulled out a gun from her handbag.
"Let's go."
Mortimer isn't sure whose idea it was to go exploring, but he resented having to go about the creepy mansion.
There were locked rooms, and safe-rooms equipped with cameras, and creepy, creepy paintings that followed you with their eyes, and library stacks that tried to kill you.
Klein found books in the library, and Pitman found a clue in the paintings, and Jessica found clues and passwords, and Rosalind found weird artefacts in the safes that she used her hairpins to unlock.
The thing is. Well. The thing is that it doesn't actually matter how the story goes from here. What matters is that the story doesn't end well for most people.
So it turned out there was a group of occultists (is the plural noun of a group of occultists a cult?) who were also locked in, and they had locked the group in with them to sacrifice them to some sort of ridiculous monster in the creepy basement without a floor.
They had heard roars and scratches and felt the unnatural cold, but they had all assumed. Well. They had assumed it was natural.
The cult told them there was a labyrinth hidden in the basement.
They had radios, and food and water, and they were all dresses in unseasonable robes.
Rosalind did not trust the cult. She volunteered to stay with them and watch, direct the rest of the group through the maze where the solution to this ridiculous summoning was, since someone had strung up all those cameras.
Mortimer volunteered to stay with her to make sure she didn't kill anyone, jumpy and twitchy.
Rosalind turned away from the group of occultists, still speaking to Jessica via radio, double checking the route they needed on the monitors, "Right turn, now!"
She watched as Clint Pitman sacrifed himself for the good of the group and humanity.
She was so preoccupied with keeping the others alive. She hadn't thought to watch her back in the room where she was. Someone was meant to be looking out for her.
Crack!
She slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Mortimer smiled at the men, slowly lowering his weapon.
"So, magic?"
They grinned back, purple crowding in at the edges, waiting for the sacrifices in the maze to die.