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Springton, Ohio

"Sicut Superius, Et Inferius"




Basic Information:

Population: 3,000

Weather: High of 75 degrees low of 40 degrees. Rain is common in Springton

Area: 4 square miles

Population Density: 750 per square mile

Local Time: CST

Date: September 20th, 2018

Important People:

Mayor Thomas Wellington: A fifty year old African American gentleman who ran on a platform of education and employment reforms, as well as lower taxes, Mayor Wellington is a well liked man that does his best to maintain the status quo and appease his voter base. He rarely does anything unpopular, and if he does he'll let his spinsters find a way to work it into a positive.

Reverend Matthew Griffin: Moved to Springton nine years ago with his daughter seeking a better life. He was invited to become the pastor at Springton Baptist Church, where he's made his roots for nearly a decade, cultivating a loyal congregation. His teachings have always held a sense of judgment and dread about them, as Matthew prefers more somber subject matter- believing wholeheartedly that preaching a 'prosperity gospel' is vapid and a waste of everyone's time.

Principal Harry Newt: The Principal of Springton North High School

Principal Martha Gunmen: The Principal of Springton South High School

Ol' Ren "Renny" McWheel: Patriarch of the McWheel family and pseudo-leader of the rural community in Springton

Agent Conrad Dowry: FBI Agent sent to Springton to investigate the recent murder of Officer O'Connell

Important Places:

Town Hall:

Library:

Richie Rich's Diner:

Springton Baptist Church:

Jason and Lee's Apartment:

Springton North:

Springton South:

McWheel's Farm:

Quiet Spring Cemetery:

Maggie's Occult Shop:

History:



Monster is the One, the Monad. The Ossuary was built in the 14th century by Knights Templar, drawn to this place by the presence of the One. They sought to contain the creature originally, offering up sacrifices to Apotheosis in order to sate it's ravenous hunger for consciousness. This order was continued in secret when it was handed off to the natives, who- over time- morphed and twisted the ritual into something to celebrate. They began worshiping the One as a god.

When the settlers arrived, these natives were persecuted and driven away, leaving the early settlers of Springton to be tormented by the Monad without their knowledge. This dark presence drove the town to pandemonium, imprinting insanity and violent tendencies into the weaker willed inhabitants for centuries.

Springton, in it's modern incarnation, is the serial killer capital of the world. More people from Springton- per capita- have gone on to become serial murderers sometime in their lives. This fact has been swept under the rug and hidden to the best of the town's ability, though the occasional internet article or column in some obscure blog manages to dig up the information.

Plot/Theme Map:




Characters:

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The screams of the dying and the damned echoed through the night air as the Frailfield colony tore itself apart. A choking mass of smoke and embers had taken to the sky like the ingbillowing hand of an angry god, reaching up toward the heavens to block out the light of the moon and stars, drench Frailfield in darkness. Only the blazing fires that consumed many a home and many a settler alike kept back the heavy shadow of night.

A vicious, brutal warcry left the lips of a father as he descended upon his terrified family with a hatchet, a maddened fear gleaming in his eyes. Right before he was atop them the thunderous crack of a musket sent an iron ball tearing through his lungs, felling him in a single shot. His sons and wife shared a look at one another before they dived across the grass, grabbing desperately so that they could use the hand ax themselves.

Not far from that stomach churning display, a young boy sat atop his best friend's chest, a rock clutched between his hands and held over his head. Tears stained his cheeks, yet he used the stone all the same. Such debase cruelty had taken over the entire colony. Friends turned on friends, lovers on lovers. It was a desperate, senseless struggle for survival against an enemy unseen that had fractured their once thriving community; all that was left was depravity.

Only a single, lone structure held out against the violence, it's steeple unblemished by the licking of the flames- at least for now. The town's church had barred it's doors and set pews against the windows, the congregation all huddled together underneath the shadow of the cross. They whispered every prayer that they knew, desperately holding onto the man or woman seated next to them as they tried to find an anchor amidst the chaos. Mothers attempted to sooth their crying children as other survivors demanded they be silenced, for fear of the others outside hearing them.

Most of them wondered where the Reverend had gone to during this dark hour.

A trio of men in brown, heavy robes descended stood in a tight corridor of roughly cut stone and brick, a set of winding, narrow stairs leading up behind them. They stood before a heavy door of iron, it's lock rusted and apparently ill-used. One of the men, an elderly gentleman with a forked, graying beard, held up a candle to offer them some meager light by which to see. The other man beside him was just as old, though he was significantly broader, and he carried a rugged claymore over his shoulder.

The last of them was the shortest and the youngest, his hair cut down to the scalp and his jaw peppered with a golden beard. He was the reverend that the survivors so sorely missed- and if he were honest, John wished he could have stayed with them as well. Duty had called him away, for there was yet a chance that this horror could be stopped.

"Hurry, John, we haven't much time." The broad-shouldered swordsman, Henry, cried. His voice was broken and uneven. If he had any tears left to give, his red, puffy eyes would've been bleeding them. He had been forced to abandon his wife and daughter to the horde of madmen, for they, too, had been taken by the unseen enemy. John knew that if Henry were a lesser man, he would've chosen to stay with them regardless, his own safety be damned. But Henry was far from lesser, and John...John only wished there was something he could do to ease his friend's pain.

He sighed, his eyes locked on his own hands. They were shaking violently, and no matter how he tried to calm them, he could not. "I'm sorry." John breathed, clutching ever tighter the iron key he held. It was the only chance they had, and he would not lose it- even if it meant losing his soul to the grasp of the devil. The lives of his flock meant far more to him than his own. Fighting to keep himself still, he pressed the key into the rusted lock, struggling to turn it.

Yet it refused to budge. Whether it was because of it's age or lack of use, John couldn't know, but it would not budge. Surely it hadn't broken. Surely...Surely this was not what ended them all. God would never allow such an injustice.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he found himself moved to the side. His elder, Dale, stepped forward, taking the key from John and pressing the candle into his hands in one swift, silent motion. With a powerful twist of his hands, Dale was able to turn the key, a loud click sounding as the ancient tumbler moved. In another quick movement, he exchanged the two components again, once more wielding the light that batted away the darkness. "Onward, brethren. The Order trusts us to keep the seal." Dale's voice rumbled like thunder, and John felt his heart swell with pride. He had learned under Dale for decades; to be called his brother, even in this darkest of hours, steeled his resolve against all despair.

Yes," John nodded enthusiastically, moving swiftly inside. "Our duty must be upheld." The door led them into an even tighter corridor, where there was barely room for one man to walk alone. They were forced to enter single file, the bearer of light as the vanguard and the swordsman at the stern. Despite having such confident, experienced men around him, John couldn't help but feel a touch of anxiety at the sight of the walls.

This crypt bore in it the bodies of every other guardian the Order had sent here. The walls of the corridor had been carved in such a way that small inlets could contain the corpses of the fallen. There were at least three of these miniature death beds on either side of the corridor at any time, skeletons in varying states of decay and drenched in incense filling most of them. The deeper within they got, however, the sparser the dead became, until all that remained were empty slots for future guardians to fill.

The trio of hidden figures exited the stretch of graves, stepping into a single, large room. It was too symmetrical to be a natural cave, yet it was far too large to have been carved by any of the settlers that came before. Bricks of smooth stone made up the walls, ceiling and floor, alien symbols and magic runes cut into most of them; their meaning was lost on John, all of them too ancient for him to even begin to understand. Those swirling vortexes that traced about the room in an endless, vertigo-inducing dance seemed to stare back at him whenever his gaze lingered for too long.

When he was first given access to these sacred halls, the reverend had asked what it all meant. He had wondered, too, at who could've possibly created it. But he was given an answer to neither question, save for a reminder that all would be revealed when he was elevated to the position of a true brother...when he finally proved himself to be worthy.

The Unseen Enemy had made sure John would never see that day come. It caused his heart to ache, if he were honest with himself. Perhaps, in some twisted, dark place in his soul, knowing that the truth would never be shown to him caused more pain than any of the rampant slaughter that took place on the surface.

Did that make him a bad person?

Or simply...human?

"Here." Dale called in a deep, baritone voice that could give thunder pause. John was dragged back into the present by that unshakable authority that rang with his elder's every word. He crossed over to where Dale stood atop a raised dais in the center of the chamber. Unlike the cool stone bricks that made up the rest of the room, the dais looked as if it had been transplanted there by the hand of God. It was made from shining obsidian blacker than the night, molded so smooth and perfect that one might think it the work of the Great Potter Himself.

John climbed up beside Dale, the iron key still clutched in his sweat-soaked palm. He held it so tightly that he thought it might meld into his very flesh; it was more than simply the means of the opening the front gate. It was the tool which had been passed down from keeper to keeper as long as any could remember.
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