“Where’s the blood?!” was the first thing that Algernon said.
“What do you mean?” several people asked, in response.
“Where’s the blood? It’s missing!”
This confused the group, who if anything, would have voted to express that in the past few hours they had seen more than their fair share of blood. They were momentarily stunned into silence.
Their situation was this. They had been slowly made aware, through a serious of unfortunate incidents and spooky clues, that things were not quite right in this small New England town. Algernon, the journalist on the Arkham Investigator, had been the one to send letters to the others, informing them of his doubts and suspicions. One by one the party had been drawn in to the web of intrigue, each sworn to secrecy. They could not be sure who was involved in the spidery plot that was slowly being revealed before them. A murder here, a robbery there, a seemingly unconnected incident of criminal damage; all were noticed and drawn into the group’s deliberations from different sources: word of mouth, a story in Algernon’s own newspaper, a seemingly innocuous line or two in a parish newsletter, or even an advertisement that let on more than it intended.
And so their meetings had become more furtive and more hushed, as the clues pointed inexorably towards evil-doing. The band were now stalking through the mists of a graveyard, to which they had been led through a tunnel that began on the fog-wreathed coast, by an abandoned smuggler’s ship, its crew slaughtered and deposited through the tunnel’s length… They held their shaking electric torches and peered towards the tomb of one of the town’s founding fathers. And then…
“You hear a curdling cry!” said the Gamesmaster, behind his cardboard screen.
Dave, the literary one of the roleplaying group, couldn’t stand for this omission.
“It’s BLOOD-curdling, Anna. Get it right!”