It's not bed-time horror stories. Things really do go 'Bump' in the night.
"Where is he?"
"Through here, Ms Thorne."
"Excellent."
The conservatory was cool and lush. Great, leafy plants lined the glass walls. The blinds were down, just in case; it was a wonder that the greenery could survive with such little access to natural light nowadays. There was a faint whirr from above, a side-effect of the ceiling fan. Once upon a time, Ms Thorne was aware, the conservatory had been used for cocktail parties and the sort, the French windows open during the midsummer. Wicker furniture brought specially from somewhere Eastern was arranged all around the room, decorated and made comfortable with throws and cushions of similar provenance. Each armchair and sofa was unoccupied, all bar one; a man in a dishevelled suit sat in an armchair - or, rather, was strapped into it with thick leather belts. His eyes were open, but Ms Thorne did not get the impression he could see anything.
"What is his name, Edgar?"
Edgar lit a cigarette and offered one to Ms Thorne. She refused with a wave of a hand.
"Carter, I believe. Harold Carter," he put on a mock working-class voice and a stupid grin, "Or 'Arry to 'is mates."
"Thank you," Ms Thorne turned to their guest, and crouched before him, "Mr Carter? Can you hear me? My name is Emily Thorne," There was no response, to no great surprise, "Give me some indication if you can hear me. Blinking, nodding your head, they're all fine."
Edgar, a great plume of smoke billowing from between his lips, rattled a box of matches from his terrific slouch on the sofa. He tossed them over to Ms Thorne, who caught it loosely in one hand.
"Mr Carter - forgive me, I'll be calling you Harold from now. I feel we can dispense with the formalities given," she patted the solid leather girdles around his torso, "The circumstances. Now, these are matches. I don't know if you can see them," she struck one in front of his eyes. She could see the close source of light glimmer in his eyes, but he didn't react, "I really regret this part, but it's very important to us that we find out if you can respond to stimuli. We're not doing this to harm you."
One of his arms was unrestrained, for this purpose. She lifted it, a dead weight, and unfurled the fist manually. The match still burning, she took the flame to one fingertip. The man didn't so much as twitch. A few moments passed. Only when Ms Thorne could begin to smell burning skin did she withdraw the match and shake the flame out. She inspected Mr Carter's finger closely. It was a nice plump burnt red.
"Nothing?" asked Edgar, stifling a yawn.
"No. I don't think so," Ms Thorne stood up straight again and dusted herself down.
"Perhaps we need a better method," Edgar got up too, and wandered over to the restrained man and absently clapped a hand on his shoulder, "Or perhaps he just isn't chatty."
"What would you like me to chat about?"
Ms Thorne's blood went cold. She pushed Edgar out of the way and lowered herself in front of the armchair once again, eye to eye.
"Am I speaking to Harold Carter - or someone else?"
Harold Carter, or someone else, grinned, but said nothing and those eyes, that had not been in focus more than thirty seconds, rolled backward into his head. When Ms Thorne checked his pulse, there wasn't one. She dropped his arm, and it fell lifelessly into the crevice between his waist and the arm of the chair.
"It's chilly in here, Edgar," said Ms Thorne, matter-of-factly, "Could we not use the drawing room next time?"
"Good grief, no," Edgar tapped some of his cigarette ash into a plant pot, "I like the drawing room."
Those things that go 'bump' happen to be zombies or demonic possessions. Ish. A bit. That would be giving away the plot...
What you may know is that, recently, random people have begun to behave, ya know, strangely. Sometimes it's missing people turn up speaking gibberish on the far side of town. Other times, as in the case of the above Harold Carter, perfectly ordinary citizens decide to eat their wife alive. These are crazy days.
Quite exactly how the plot will unfold (ie: where you guys come in) is yet to be worked out, and much of it will be worked out based on any feedback I get here. Suffice to say, Demon-Zombie-Psychos are not your characters' favourite additions to the world recently, and you will be very much on the side trying to get rid of them. One of your allies in this quest is Ms Thorne, as is her macabre friend, Edgar. Quite how closely you will be working with them remains to be seen - again, depending on exactly where I fit the player characters in. This won't be a 'storming around town with an AK-47 shooting anybody that looks like they might like to eat brains' RP - whatever it is that's going 'bump' is elusive and doesn't just sit in the street waiting to be shot.
I intend to GM this from a distance. I won't control any Characters, beyond Ms Thorne and Edgar's contributions (some of which I may ask you lucky people to narrate), but I'll be kicking the plot along behind the scenes. Often, I will give special privileged ones among you a PM with information to incorporate into your posts. Say the plot involves the playable characters storming a warehouse - I will nominate one of you, or ask for a volunteer, to be the one to describe the warehouse will PM that relevant information for their use. Though I will guide the plot gently, I will not force the player characters into any course of action. Instead, I will use NPC's to guide and suggest what I have in-store next. By no means is this an instruction manual and you should feel free to have your characters follow whatever course of action they will.
The RP is going to be set vaguely (as I iron things out, more specifically) in an early 20th-century era.
Hopefully I've given enough to whet some appetites. I'm probably looking for a small cast for this, but I'm genuinely interested to get feedback, hear thoughts and such, so please be forthcoming with any additions (or even subtractions) you might like made.
bump