Name: Ferd Smith

Age: 35



Appearance: 6'1", Brown hair blue eyes, often in a white shirt and tie with a business style trench coat over top. His top button is nearly always undone, and his tie loosened to match.

Occupation: Former Military Intelligence Officer, Currently Unemployed but claims to be a "Private Investigator currently studying the complex tendencies of certain unnatural occurrences."

Interests: Survival Prepping, Stamp Collecting, Supernatural Occurences, and Astronomy

Fears and Phobias: Ferd is terrified of never finding the answers he's looking for, and has a phobia of mailmen. He swears it's a real phobia, and can't be categorized as a social phobia since only postmen ever trigger this fear.

Superstitions: Ferd believes in nearly every superstition he's ever heard. In his opinion he's seen plenty of proof to back them up.

Skills: Well versed in Judo, Kung-Fu, American Boxing, Gunplay, Lockpicking, Persuasion, Impersonation, general Deception, Sneaking, German, Russian, Polish, Spanish, Mandarin, Latin, Hieroglyph's, and Tax Evasion. No really. He hasn't paid taxes in ten years. Says it's all some sort of conspiracy.

Intelligence/Sanity: Ferd is a very intelligent and surprisingly sane person... Well, for the most part. He got perfect scores all through out his schooling and received high praises for his work in the military before his discharge. However he has reason to question the reality he thought he knew. His sanity is solid and reliable, even in the midst of supernatural events, though people around him would likely be dubious concerning this fact. Though he technically remains calm, this is mostly because he mentally lives as though the supernatural exists, causing him to do things like look for supernatural explanations where others would search for rational ones. He also makes no effort to hide his fascination with the supernatural, causing his sanity to seem questionable at best.

Backstory

Ferd Smith was born in Boston Massachusetts to normal parents. He lived a fairly normal life for the majority of his child hood. In fact nothing particularly strange took place in Ferd's life until his third year serving as a Military Intelligence officer, and his 6th year in the military itself. The year was 1919 and he was 29. He was on an undercover assignment in Germany, keeping an eye on things as was the governments policy since the Great War. For Ferd this was an average assignment, and he didn't expect anything out of the ordinary. Things had been quite in the Prussian state for years now, with the only notable occurrence being the birth of a new political party calling themselves the Nazis. The end of the war had left them in a tight spot financially and socially so they weren't exactly in a position to be causing any trouble. Ferd was fairly certain he was wasting his time in Germany, which irked him greatly. He was far more concerned about the rebellion in Russia. That communist party just rubbed him the wrong way.

Ferd spent his days fairly leisurely. He would lend a hand in welfare relief efforts from time to time, and of course he never slacked off on his regular duties, but since there wasn't much to investigate he found that he had a lot of time on his hands. It wasn't long before he found himself sitting in pubs, conversing with elderly locals. He found them charming, and strangely relatable. Especially one group of elderly men who he met in an old town outside of Frankfurt. They called themselves the "Dumm Opa's", or Silly Geezers. Ferd loved these old men dearly. They would discuss all current events as only the elderly can, full of satire and sarcasm. He spent many happy hours with these men, but not as many as he should have liked. It all ended rather suddenly one day. One of the men who was named Shultz didn't come to the pub one evening. The others didn't seem very concerned, but Ferd couldn't help but wonder where the old fellow was. It wasn't like Shultz to miss an evening at the pub.

He began questioning the others about Shultz's absence, but they laughed him off and told him to have another drink. Ferd was confused, they didn't seem themselves. He noticed shaky hands, and darting glances. He tried to follow these glances but couldn't understand what they were looking at. The ceiling?

Ferd never saw Shultz again, and after than night the rest of the Dumm Opa's disappeared as well. Ferd put off all of his official duties to investigate their disappearance, but found himself blocked at every turn. Family and friends claimed never to have known them, public records made no mention of them, and things like bank accounts had disappeared along with them. Only two things remained to even hint at their existence. Ferd's memory of them, and their empty homes. Homes that no one bought, looked at, or even seemed to realize existed. Ferd once dragged a random passerby into one of these homes and yelled at him to acknowledge it's existence. The man just stared at Ferd with blank fear. It finally sank in for Ferd then. The man was serious. He didn't see a house, and the world had no recollection of the existence of the old men. Only he remembered. But why him? So many questions.

Ferd was discharged from his duties on account of his seemingly fragile state of mind shortly there after. He didn't care. He knew he was sane, and he knew what he'd seen. More than that he knew what he needed to do. He needed to see the supernatural with his own eyes. Someone needed to come to understand the strange things in the world, so that some day maybe someone could save the next group of Dumm Opa's...

Five years after beginning his investigations Ferd received a strange letter. He was surprised to find mail in the P.O. box he was still using as an address, since he seldom received anything but bills. He instantly recognized the name of Old Jeremy, though this Harry character was new. After pouring over it two or three times inside his car, Ferd dropped it and sat forward, leaning on the steering wheel hand over his mouth. This was probably going to end badly, he thought. Then again, he went on as he turned the key and pushed the car into gear, since when has that been news to me?

Name: Valentino "Val" Ricci

Age: 26

Appearance: Approximately 6 foot tall with classic Italian features, black hair, olive skin, and brown eyes. He also has the aquiline nose of the Romans. Val is in the prime of his life so with the combination of his shady lifestyle and genetics he is in rather good shape.

Occupation: Bootlegger

Interests: Fast cars, baseball, reading

Fears and Phobias: Drowning never sat well with Valentino, despite the fact he has on the giving end of that situation a handful of times. The first time Valentino killed a man he was forced to hold the man's soon-to-be-deceased head under water. Just the struggling before finally collapsing still sent shivers down his spine.

Superstitions: Val will knock on wood to prevent bad luck, as well as the occasional sign of the cross for more dire situations. The quick hand of his mamma also instilled an unhealthy fear to not spill olive oil.

Skills: Pistols, amateur fighting, Italian, driving, charisma

Intelligence and Sanity: Val never did make his way Chicago university, not that he doesn't have the brains, he just never was cut out for school. The lack of book smarts is made up by street smarts. Val is not the kind of man to break under pressure, however some of his past deeds are pushed down deep, searching for a way out.

Back Story: Chicago born and bred Valentino was the only son of Salvatore Ricci, one of the Caporegime, the captains, of the Chicago mob. He was a strict man and a loving father, however when it came time to choose Salvatore put his other family first.Despite many broken promises Val still loved his father and from a young age to the current day he would do anything just to gain approval. This pushed Valentino into a life on the other end of the law. It really started with the trouble in school, which slowly increased to petty vandalism and finally to a full time job running bootleg alcohol from Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan.

Bootlegging is something near and dear to Val. The thrill of it all, pumped by each beat of heart gives him something he can't find anywhere else and its lucrative. Being in your 20's with a pocket full of cash makes you spend money like a fool and for the right car Val would spend a fortune. Luckily, one of the perks of being associated with gangsters was that they might be able to pick one up off the docks for a fraction of the price. However this lifestyle does have drawbacks. It was years ago, but Val can still remember it clearly.O ne of his father's men was seen talking to the police and any form of crime, organized or not generally does not look kindly on rats. Val still doesn't know why his father chose him to do it, maybe he needed to show dedication or possibly just prove he was a man, yet he still had to do it. It shook him to the core, but he soldiered on. Val has killed many men, but nothing was as haunting as the first.

As the years went on Val continued to make himself useful to his father and those above him. Things were good in his life until his father came down with tuberculosis. It started with blood on his handkerchief and quickly progressed. As of this year he has been confined to his bed and stays wracked by red viscous coughs. It was not too long back when a letter crawled in speaking of the an old debt that needed to be repaid. In his father's place Valentino Ricci is sent out and dispatched to settle matters of a time past.

Name: James Daniel Anderson

Age: 27

Occupation: Weird and speculative fiction author, part-time journalist

Description: A man of average height. Black, straight and short hair. A stubble. Build otherwise like a runner: lean, not highly muscular, but otherwise in better than average pedestrian shape.

Interests: History, hiking, running, boxing, the occult and arcane events, folklore, archaeology, jazz.

Fears and Phobias: Drowning, burning to death, number thirteen, blank pages, artillery barrages.

Superstitions: James believes that cats bring bad luck and nightmares if they are near him at nighttime.

Skills: Speaks Swedish and English. Excellent eye-hand coordination for playing darts and throwing other small objects. Keen imagination and curiosity. Boxing, a clear outfighter with long arms and small arms training from the military, mainly rifles, pistols, revolvers and knives. Outdoor survival and navigation.

Intelligence/Sanity: James has been said to be a decently smart man. He has a keen mind and imagination, but he might jump into the more... imaginary conclusions than most. When a hunter sees foot prints and declares they're deer's prints, James might say they're unicorn's, and start formulating a story in his mind.

Backstory:

Born in 1898 on a well-to-do farm near the town of Wake Springs, Maine. Wake Springs is a small town of no great importance, and you would have great trouble find it on regular maps of the day. His parents were a Swedish speaking Finn and an Irish-American woman of local descent. James was named after Joanna's grandfather.

His father, Emil Anderson was a Evangelical Lutheran from a small Ostrobothnian fishing village, while his mother was a Catholic Irish-American Joanna O'Connor. As a child James read voraciously of anything he got his hands on, from farmers' almanacs, newspapers and fairy tale books and adventure novels he loaned from other locals or bought for his parents whenever he could spare a minute from farm work.

His father died at the age of barely thirty-five after his heart failed. Emil had been diagnosed with heart problems a couple years before by a local doctor, but he could ill-afford medical treatments or medication. By his mid-thirties, Emil's farm had suffered from drought, and his financial problems mounted with new loans from local banks and the farm was sold to cover most of the loans. Joanna had worked as a seamstress at a local clothing shop, but after the farm's auction she moved with the now teen-aged James to her aunt's apartment in Brooklyn, New York City. The trio shared a small but cozy apartment.

James did well at school, but never excelled. His teachers often said his mind wandered somewhere else, and he was bullied by other kids for his curious interests and topics. He was mostly introverted and enjoyed his own company, often writing short stories and essays. For example, one of his early characters included a cowboy named Dutch McAllen, the brave and formidable sheriff of County Galloway, Texas. When attending the City College, James wrote serial stories for the students' newspaper. His most popular story was The McAllen's Last Duel at Noon!, which was published in four parts over the autumn semester.

While attending college, James' life took a change. The United States was gearing towards joining the Allies for the European Great War, and many young people were either joining or otherwise being employed by the industry for the war effort. James joined the United States Army and was shipped to Europe in the middle of 1918, taking briefly part in the Hundred Days and Meuse-Argonne campaigns against the Germans during the autumn of 1918. After the Armistice, James was shipped back to the United States and he continued writing new short stories. A tragedy hit him shortly after the Armistice, when his mother died of the Spanish Flu.

Now in his twenties, James created a few new characters, fantastic locales and wondrous beasts and sold his stories to newspapers, short story collections and cheap pulp magazines like The Weird Tales, Oh, the Horror and The Half-A-Dollar Dreadful, earning a decent living. He utilized his war experiences in many stories, like The Tales of the Messengers Cody and Barks and The Mummy Strikes Back!. James has usually added fantastic or horror elements into his stories. He finished bachelor's degree in English by 1921. James also started to work as a part-time journalist, usually writing book reviews and interviews on other authors.

James met Jeremy through a publishing agent. The agent knew that James had an interest for the mysteries, occult happenings and arcane trivia, as he often used those in many stories. Jeremy apparently had knowledge of a lost city hidden somewhere in the world's oceans or something more ancient than Atlantis.

James had heard of similar legends of Atlantis and desert city of Iram o' Pillars during college classes on folklore and ancient mythology. James spent an evening interviewing and chatting with Jeremy, and they shared their addresses for future correspondence. They would exchange letter every few months, until Jeremy vanished and James was sent a letter by his house sitter.

Interested in the case for using it in future stories and finding out what has happened to Jeremy, James has decided to keep a diary on his findings.

This is for generic reference, I don't intend to draw maps for 90% of the buildings here.
The train station is located above the river, at the bottom of the top half, and in the middle. You should be able to see the railroads.
Jeremy's home is North West from the train station in the block just South of the word Northside. I'll have an up-close street map up tomorrow sometime.

Name: Richard Barker

Age: 33

Apperance: The quintessence of the Private Detective, the "'Dick" and Professional Snoop, Richard Barker looks like a man who's got knocked down quite a few times but always gotten back on his feet. Mostly. Richard stand at an average height with an average build, with combed back black hair and brown eyes. What's most striking about the private detective isn't his dress or skill as a snoop, but the big scare on his nose. Few people know really what happened, but Richard sure won't tell just anyone.

Occupation: Private Detective, Private Eye, Private Investigator, Snoop and Gumshoe. Richard's been attributed many of these titles, though he personally uses the first professionally.

Interests: When not in his office or out working his ass off on another case, you can find Richard in any typical joint, drinking whatever legal or illegal beverage they serve to the clientele. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he'll go over the may-have-beens, the what-if's, the if-only's, trying to crack those cases still uncracked. If not, you'll find him taking long drives in his automobile, catching a picture or chatting with his old police buddies from the Force. But there's always a case on his mind.

Fears and phobias: Fears? Listen pal, after serving nearly ten years in the NYPD, you'll get used to a hell of a lot. Either you crack under the pressure, or you grow numb from it. Richard's of the latter, grown to have a lead belly. There's only two things he fears - Never finding his missing daughter, and barbers.

Superstitions: Richard has seen so much in his years that he rarely finds the necessary to explain the happenings of the real world with superstitious mumbo-jumbo. There's no God, and if there is, he's nowhere to be found. No, the world can be a bad and messy place just because people are bad and messy. No need to add an extra step to include anything we can't see or feel.

Skills: Arabic, Deduction of clues, psychology, Driving, Intimidation, Alertness, Stealth, Research, Dancing, Breaking & Entering, Stamina, Streetfighting and unarmed, Pistols and Shotguns.

Intelligence/Sanity: Richard never attended anything close to Harvard or anything those men in high places attended. No, Richard only got the regular educated most American kids did back in the day, but that's all he needed. While not naturally inclined to be book-smart, Richard's intelligence was rarely questions when he was in the New York Police Department. Richard is a quick thinker and a quick learner. What's the use of learning what the essence of Wiliam Shakespeare's "The Tempest" if you can't dodge a blow of a guy who's no Romeo? Not that he doesn't like a good read, just never really was his thing.

Is Richard a sane person then? Maybe, it's difficult to say. He's stable, that's for sure. But having been through all that he has, you'd be surprised if some wacky thoughts hadn't crossed him. Still he keeps his head cool and collected.

Backstory:

Richard was born the first of four children to the Barker-couple, born and raised in one of New York's shadier neighbourhoods. While things could get rough now and again, the four Barker-children had a fairly good childhood, even when their parents didn't have time for them. For Richard's father, Richard Barker senior, was a cop in the New York Police Department. Which was what Richard junior too wanted to become. So when he wasn't attending school or watching over his siblings, Richard could most often be seen following cops on duty to learn as much as he could. He even sometimes watched them from afar, witnessing how many conducted their work with ruthless efficiency and batons. But they only attacked the bad guys, right?

Richard never got a degree, but managed in 1906 to become a cop just after turning 18 partly thanks to his father already being in the same station. But a few short years later Richard junior was the only Barker left on the force. His father was suspected of taking bribes from a certain Italian establishment and swiftly kicked off-duty for an indefinite amount of time. At first Richard outright refused to believe that his father, the hero in shining armour and blue uniform he had looked up to for so many years could do such a thing, but with age came the creeping realization that no-one was uncorruptable. Every man had his price, even Richard himself.

His idealistic view on his duties as a cop brought him close to the neighbourhood he regularly patrolled. It was commonly known as "Little Egypt" for obvious reasons, as the main demographic of its inhabitants came from the Middle East and many spoke Arabic several generations after emigrating to America. Richard came to know those streets and its regulars more and more as the years on patrol went, and even learned an decent amount of Arabic himself. Of course he never got the accent right, but the others thought of it as characteristic of him, perhaps a bit cute? And he enjoyed it all; his work, his friends, his wife Beatrice and his soon-to-be-born child. Even if his father was a tainted mark on him, life was good.

It wasn't until after the Raid in 1914 that it all started falling apart.

It was meant to be routine task for the now promoted Richard and the rest of the team; they had solid information of a opium trade taking place, who would attend, and when and where it would take place. It would all be simple, put up an ambush and catch the criminals in the act, before going home just in time for dinner. It was anything but simple. They hadn't anticepated the pepretrators to put up resistance like they did, revolvers and knives all thrown into the mix of dark alleyways and too many cooks in one kitchen, so to speak. One of the Portugese guys grabbed Richard from behind, while another came at him with a razor and cutting his nose nearly clean off. Hadn't it been for the backup, Richard knew he'd probably be dead. And he also knew that this operation was doomed from the start. Someone from inside the Department warned them. It angered him, hardened him, even made him a little colder.

Either it was him turning colder that pushed his wife away, or it was his wife's departure that cooled the already shaken police officer, because a year later Beatrice wanted nothing more from Richard. Nothing more except his money and their daughter Elise. He could let go of the money, but Elise he couldn't part with. Not in a million years, not when he needed her the most to stay above water mentally. So when Elise disappeared without a trace another year after his and Beatrice's separation, he had no doubts as to who did it. At least he thought he did, until Beatrice out of all people came crying to him demanding to know where their little Elise was. Richard didn't know, she didn't know, and nobody else did either.

Richard couldn't take the pressure, and quit the force. When the police themselves stopped looking for her, he started on his own, even without many leads. Like she was torn out of this very reality and stored away in another. Richard was a broken man, left with little in that world to live for. Perhaps except for the slim hope of Elise returning home safe. Perhaps that's why he became a private detective, to earn enough money to still be alive if...when Elise comes home, or he himself found wherever those devils had taken her.

There doesn't pass a day without Richard looking up at the door in his office, waiting for Elise to walk in and tell him she's home, like nothing's wrong. Like everything is all right. Like things were almost ten years ago before all of this; The scar on his nose, his tired-looking eyes, the wedding ring lying in his mostly empty safe, and the letter on his desk from a certain Harry Everfield.

Richard didn't know the name, but he instantly recognized the one of Jeremy Stockhold. Odd fella, had been hired by him years ago in order to track down a certain book. Richard rarely took on such odd-jobs both before and since, but hey the case payed, and Richard managed to both find and deliver the book to strange Mr. Stockhold. Drove all the way up to Arkham, as per Jeremy's instructions and handed off the book. Never heard from him since, though the case stuck with him. Perhaps this was the case he would turn over this time?

The Friars Lullaby: Palästinalied
youtu.be/isxvXITTLLY
Age: 56

Appearance: 5’7”, Thinning dark red hair, green eyes, and smile crinkles around his eyes. The stout Irishman clearly loves to laugh, but often maintains a pious facade in the general public.

Occupation: A Catholic Priest, though when ‘ill-disposed’ he seems to drift ideologically between denominations- Also a well educated man, based on his ability to mix latin and irish with only a little encouragement.

Interests:

• Cooking
• Philology
• Religious Studies
• Zymology
• Cultural Anthropology

Fears and Phobias:

• Nifaliophobia
• Capiophobia

Superstitions:

• Mirrors in the Dark
• Cracked Doors/Windows
• Empty Bottles
• The Government

Skills:

• Memorized Bible
• Speaks and Reads fluent Latin/Irish/English
• Familiar with a broad number of religious beliefs
• Skilled in Vinification and similar arts (He provides the wine for his own congregation.)
• Silver Tongued (Has a talent for convincing others to repent.)
• Trustworthy (Most wouldn’t doubt his intentions.)

Intelligence/Sanity:
Beoir is a highly intelligent man with many skills. He has walked across a tightrope while citing the Lord’s Prayer in Latin while juggling two bottles, just one example of his mental capacity to learn new skills while displaying old ones. He has read ancient documents hanging upside down from a great height without the slightest panic, demonstrating that he possesses both focus and the ability to perform under pressure.

Beoir isn’t a perfect man by any means, and that has helped him to bring others peace. The unknown holds little terror to him, as in his relationship with his God he has learned that there are many things we don’t understand.

That said, his superstitions have a very logical foundation: There is little to fear from the unknown, as the unknowable bears little impact on the conscious mind beyond that which is assigned to it by those arrogant enough to attempt to understand that which should not be and is not understandable. That which is truly terrifying is that evil which one can see, and far more scary, can understand.

Backstory:

Beoir was born in Ireland, and his parents migrated to America when he was still a wee lad. The third son, he was made for the cloth- and from a young age had a great interest in the religions of the world, specifically the ancient and unknown. He also gained a fascination in the art of brewery and the science of fermentation, and utilized his travels to satisfy both curiosities. This went on for several years, going from church to church across Europe,South America, Africa, and even India; learning folklore, scripture, and local recipes.

He settled down in his thirties to lead a small congregation in Boston, providing the communion utilizing locally acquired and produced resources, and helping guide his flock. In that time he gained some connection to the mafia, helping save their souls by providing sustenance and receiving equal compensation for his efforts in parishioners.

His faith over the years has become firm. He has witnessed across the world many things that others thought only superstition and the product of imagination; in fact he knows some of those experiences may well be only imagination. Some however he cannot deny. He has witnessed possession, and evil manifest in man in a form that could only be described as alien. He has also witnessed the purifying power of the Almighty. Yes, there are powers at work beyond their comprehension- and only the prideful seek to understand such. The humble have faith in the Lord and only seek to serve and bring his children unto him.