Edgar Job

EDGAR JOB

Edgar Job was once a talented mathematician but was now a pathetic figure. He admitted to committing many acts of depravity and was present at the barn in LA when Walter Winston's group tried to stop Echavarria's ritual to "summon" something he called the Fisher. He killed Winston's friend, Vince Stack, with a knife and fled the scene. He has been moved to Joy Grove Sanatorium to be treated along side Douglas Henslowe. He has seen the Thing at the hospital and believes it is after him.

Images of Job were found in the depraved photographs left in Henlowe's safety deposit box.

Letters from Douglas Henslowe to Walter Winston

Letters given to us by Janet Winston-Rogers, written by Douglas Henslowe, to her late father Walter Winston.

 

Frank Kearns

FRANK KEARNS

An obviously trusted employee of Janet Winston-Rogers. He seems like a man I'd personally get along with and looks like he'd be good in a scrap. A real professional at what he does best - piloting planes.

Douglas Henslowe

DOUGLAS HENSLOWE

Douglas Henslowe was an associate of Walter Winston and a dabbler in the occult. Janet Winston-Rodgers gave us letters that Henslowe had written to her father so we might track down Douglas and hear his story. He had been admitted to Joy Grove Sanatorium in Savannah, Georgia, shortly after the events at the barn in LA. Henslowe was forth coming with information about the night they attacked the cultists and said that he had killed people and seen a Thing that in turned had try to kill them. 

He believes Winston and his group failed to stop what ever was going on that night. When released into his mother's care for a period, he hid a notebook away with a secret key to understanding more of what happened and also mentioned the existence of a safe deposit box in LA. The safety deposit box contained pictures of the cultists engaged in depraved sexual acts and a coded accounts book.

Edgar Job, one of the cultists present at the barn in LA who was being treated alongside Henslowe in Joy Grove Sanatorium. Henslowe admitted to seeing the Thing at the Sanatorium and believed it was after them.

Walter Winston

WALTER WINSTON

Walter Winston (deceased 1934) of Winston Pharmaceuticals, a company that had made its wealth during the war. Walter seemed the decent sort and spent some of the money on hospitals, especially after 1924. He wasn’t much of a public figure, but did show his face for charity events and such, until around 1926, after which he slowly faded from the public eye, eventually disappearing from print altogether by 1930. The old man had died in July of this year, making his daughter, Janet Winston-Rogers, the sole heiress to the Winston fortune, her mother having already passed away in 32.

His daughter told us how he had travelled the world studying folklore, which had led him to develop an interest in the occult. She said her father was bent on battling something, but Walter wouldn’t tell them exactly what it was. In ‘24 he spent most of the year away from home saying that he was on the trail of some “bad people”, as he called them. When he wasn’t traveling, he was having secret meetings with people he wasn’t in business with; other dabblers in the occult.

In August of 1924 Winston and his group battled a cult who were undergoing heretic rituals. He returned home rattled and unravelling. He didn’t have any more secret meetings after that. He stopped traveling. He saw a psychiatrist for a few years. He burned his books. He hardly ate. He jumped at shadows, insisted he was being watched. He was never the same. He claimed that "nothing mattered anymore". When his wife died, in ‘32, he hardly grieved. After that, he became only more paranoid and frustrated, until he finally passed away, early in '34, as a shadow of himself.

Walter Winston gathered and funded the group that battled the cult in '24, and was considered their leader. This group consisted of Douglas Henslowe, Vince Stack, Katherine Clark and Franklin Cormac Kullman.

Marcus Black's Character Sheet

MARCUS BLACK'S CHARACTER SHEET

Marcus James Black

July 3rd 1921.

This is my first entry in my journal, having never written in one before, this seems like an odd place to start.

My name is Marcus James Black, I was born in, well I don’t know where, all I know is I was raised in North London, and born, according to my carers in the year of our Lord 1894.

My first memories are those of the Sisters and Brothers who raised me at the convent I was found at when I was an infant.

I was a standard student, my teachers are all a blur of black and white uniforms mixed with haggard faces peering into me through spectacles, these are the recollections of youth, all seemed very droll until I was older, my mentor, the only man who ever held any sway over me, Father Gregory, took me under his wing as a keen academic and theologist.

The imagery of the divine captured my imagination from an early age, the study of which peaked my interest more than any other boy of the age of 9.

Father Gregory, a once senior member of the denomination and responsible for the oversight of the countries theological teachings, somehow had fallen out of favour and resigned himself to mastering a school for wayward children. How this came about, I will not know for some many years.

I studied under Father Gregory until I was 20, learning from him alone rather than in classrooms as he saw in me what he described only as, the gift, something he claimed meant my aptitude for academic study outweighed my necessity of socialising with other youth.  It was at that age that I was ordained within the Church of England as a Junior Cleric, assisting within the school I had grown up in as a teacher of modern theology.  It was at 22 that I secretly departed under the cover of night, the world was at war, something in me drove me to it, the war had been raging for years, however the feeling of longing for the distant battlefields was insatiable.

I only took part in one engagement, what is now called the bloodiest in history.

I was 23 and attached to the religious arm of the British army, marching upon France, the River Somme my destination.  My education allowing me to accept the call for chaplaincy to the troops, thus positioning me at the rear of the battle about to happen.  The battle was fierce, the death immeasurable, the pain, overwhelming.  I wrote a single letter to Father Gregory during my time at war, however brief, what I witnessed, has now made me who I am today.

My weeks afar by the River Somme brought with it scars of many kinds, after spending days praying with the dead and dying, my faith was not as Father Gregory had taught me, my spirit wavered, my resolve questioned, my faith rattled by the evil around me, the evil of man.  It was during the final days of the battle that my face was scarred, while praying over the body of a Lieutenant, the enemy drew near, the sounds of gunfire too close to be ignored.  I rose my head after my final words of Prayer only to be struck through the cheek by a bullet shot at close range.  Slicing my mouth from the right corner of my mouth, along me cheek and removing my earlobe, I fell to the ground, shocked and alarmed.  The soldier who had fired it appeared over me, in that moment, my left hand felt along the damp grass for the Lieutenants hand, my only thought was to still be a comfort as I met my end.

To my surprise, my left arm became outstretched, not finding his hand but rather his revolver, I fired the only shot I ever loosed during the war at that soldier.  My hand instead of finding the Lieutenant, found his revolver, I shot the soldier in the face, turning it to a mass of blood and wet bone under his helmet.  After that shot, I lost consciousness.

I woke to find my face bandaged, the victory won and the revolver I had fired so instinctively, tucked into my belt.  I still carry it today, for my Lord God protects me from damnation, my Webley protects me from man’s cruelty, something the war taught me has no bounds.

I have been home now for several months, the war is over, the war is won, my journal, this journal is the only record I will keep of it.

It was through my return that my inspiration for writing has emerged, upon my return, I was accompanied by the lady who saved my life in France, Beautiful Zoey, her care helped heal my wounds, her faith helped heal my soul.  She has agreed to return with me to my home, to give me the strength to face my past.

Her faith has strengthened my own, something that was nearly lost during my time at was, I find encouragement and strength now in all things through faith, she has truly taught me the virtues of our Lord.

July 21st, 1921

I faced my fears and returned to Father Gregory today, his hair seemed to have gone greyer in the past few years.

His eyes darker and his teachings, darker, he welcomed me with open arms, something I did not expect having left him so abruptly 2 years ago.  Something has changed, besides the war that consumed the world, something has changed on a more unseen level.

It was as If I can feel the change, something, unnerving looms over this place, over Father Gregory, something he refuses speak of.  Two of the sisters I knew had passed away this year, Sister Ruby and Sister Claudia, both were always nice to me, very gentle sisters, strange that they passed so close together.  They will be missed.

Zoey has agreed to remain with me, I think she is uncomfortable staying within the confines of the convent, I should very much like to find somewhere for her that is more to her liking.

August 26th, 1921

The occult, Father Gregory’s current passion.  I resumed my learnings with him a fortnight ago and it seems to be his drive.  He told me that my knowledge of the righteous is sound, not we must learn the darkness.  I am sure this has to do with how the feeling of fear that loiters here seems to be felt by all, even me, reading my previous entry in this journal, fear is what I had been trying to explain.

Father Gregory is talking about a pilgrimage, where to, I do not know.  I hope to know more soon.

Zoey has agreed to live close by, I found a cottage for us to live in, Father Gregory has permitted we live together as we are not married, with the condition of separate rooms, being of good faith and courage, we are thankful for the opportunity to do so.

February 12th, 1923

Father Gregory, Brother Alfred, Brother Hogan and I have now finished our journey across the great continent of Africa.  What I have seen here has been both fascinating and terrifying.  I fear Brother Hogan is not long for this world, the dangers and perils Father Gregory has led us through has been hard on us all, Hogan however has the sickness, I have seen this before, only on the battlefield, never on someone so young and full of faith.

I received word from my dear Zoey, she is looking forward to our return, she has planned everything for our wedding, her family is to be there in support of us, she is so dear to me, life without her seems so empty, I am looking forward to being reunited upon our return.

May 2nd, 1923

Brother Hogan has passed, his heart finally gave up, the fight against his fear was too great, it is here, on our way across the ocean that he has been lost.  We will put him to sea tomorrow, his loss has been difficult on us all, Father Gregory most of all, he mutters constantly now, I fear his mind is not the same, unworthy he whispers in the darkness, unworthy of what I do not know.

September 20th, 1923

Zoey and I are to be wed on the morrow.  She has been so patient with me, I have longed for her embrace since the moment I left home on my travels.  Father Gregory has agreed to minister our wedding, there was never another choice as he is more now to me than a teacher, he is the father I was deprived of, he is my blood.

Father Gregory seems to be troubled, upon our return he has made plans to make for Spain, he has taken on the company of two of his former colleagues, Father Rigal and Father Tom, both educated men. We’re also joined by the American Franklin Cormac Kuhlman, who seems to have history with Father Gregory, although he’s not clergy. He’s a very intelligent and educated man, with a very energetic attitude, even though he’s stuck in a wheelchair.  Father Tom, an expert in archaeology and anthropology seems to be of a brooding nature, he seems concerned for Brother Alfred, constantly muttering to Father Gregory about some sort of ritual.  Father Rigal however is yet to speak, I have heard rumours of his past and of how he no longer has a tongue, something about the black speech that consumed it nearly 20 years ago, I’m sure it’s just talk.

July 9th, 1924

I am certain Spain is the lair of something spawned from evil.  My nights are filled with dreams of darkness and pain.  I have not seen these images since I left France what feels like an eternity ago.  Something here has made my skin crawl for many weeks now, I am afraid, for the first time in years, I am afraid of what I cannot see.

Franklin has left us months ago, after receiving a few urgent letters from the States. He didn’t go into too many details but mentioned that an old friend of his, Walter Winston needed his help and occult expertise. I thought this odd that he was not accompanied by Father Gregory or myself as he has been my mentor in the occult and Ihave now a firm grasp of it myself.

I have been charged by Father Tom to find some sort of pit, deep in the subterranean system of Altamira, only God knows where.  Something is causing the sickness we see around us, something dark, something black.

My fear seems to be pushed back when I find myself alone with my thoughts.  My dearest Zoey filling my soul with her light.  I miss her more than I thought anyone could miss anything.

August 26th, 1924

I never wanted to use my Webley again, why I still carry it, I can only assume was God’s will and for this day.  Father Tom has been savaged, his flesh has been carved by something unknown to me, I have seen many battle wounds but nothing like this.

Carrying him on my shoulder as unable to move under his own power, Father Tom and I mad our way to village not far from the cave system, its partisans seemed disorganised and impoverished.  Without warning they turned on us, what I can only describe as eyes of pure black, I used my revolver on two of them, if I had not, I would surely be dead.  Forgive me lord, what I have done, and what I am certain to have to do again should I seek to get out of this forsaken place alive.

February 2nd, 1925

I have taken my leave of Father Gregory, I have returned home to see my beloved Zoey, my faith tested, my heart colder, she has brought more joy back to me in the past days than I ever thought possible.  She is truly a marvel and my clear road to salvation.

January 12th, 1927

Father Gregory has seen us through Spain, France, Germany, Poland and to Italy.  I have seen and done things in this past year that I know I shall never be forgiven for.  I can only hope that in sharing the word of our Lord in so many places that I may soon feel the warmth of God’s love within me once more. The women and children we have passed with no fathers, the desperation, how can I, a man of God turn my back so easily and leave these people to die.

The work I am doing seems so far removed from simple shepherd, I have become so similar to those wicked me who have killed in the name of God, yet I am convinced that what I am doing is right.  There is evil everywhere, something or someone moves in the darkness, everywhere I look I see its face, black as night, cold as ice, hungry for something I am yet to discover.

Brother Alfred has become estranged, his face seems twisted, his emotions almost void, he moves as if he were a mere marionette, his body rigid.  I fear he has lost part of himself.

December 29th, 1928

I have gone my own way. Father Gregory has taken ill, rather than seeing him fall, I have chosen to forge my own path.  I cannot listen to the whispers of Father Tom and the silence of Father Rigal.  I must continue my work for God somewhere afar.  I have asked Father Tom to accompany me as we have grown to be like brothers since our exploits in Spain, he has declined, for reasons unknown to me he has chosen to remain with Father Gregory.

October 14th, 1930

Zoey and I have moved away from all that has driven us apart for so many years.

I have been following in the footsteps of Father Gregory all my life and as such, found my way back to his company as he ventured to America.  His strength refusing to leave him, he recovered from all illness and has not suffered any illness since.

Together we traversed much of the country, yet I find myself now desiring a quieter existence.  Zoey has joined me here is Boston, we now have a house that is quite perfect for us.  We expect our first child within months.  I am now ministering to my first parish, they are good people, mostly Irish in background yet tolerant of an English shepherd.

Life has taken on a more even tone, Father Gregory has gone his own way with Father Rigal, Father Tom and Brother Alfred, still strange in appearance yet steadfast in his attachment to Father Rigal.

June 15th, 1931

My daughter Chloe was born today, she looks so like her mother, my life has been given new purpose and new light, this is clearly the reason people say children calm the soul and centre the mind.

April 22nd, 1932

Life continues to be fruitful, my family is happy, my parish is growing and my faith is strong.

I have received several correspondence from Father Gregory from around the country, he seems to be forever spreading the word.

I will be leaving my church soon as I have be requested to take a position in New York at the end of the year.  Something I’m sure Father Gregory has had a hand in, he always seems to be pushing me up the ladder.

I look forward to my new position as do Zoey and my darling Chloe.

September 9th, 1933

Father Gregory has been admitted in hospital, suffering from a stroke. I have visited him, and though the doctors are relatively optimistic, there is doubt as to whether he’ll ever be his former self.

October 22nd,1933

It is as the doctors warned us about, Father Gregory has lost the use of his right arm and leg. It looks like he’ll be wheelchair bound for the rest of his life. Fortunately, he hasn’t lost his keen intellect or sharp wits. He seems to have resigned himself to this and spends all his time reading.