Spoiler Warning!
This game report for the scenario Blackwater Creek will (hopefully) be an entertaining read and be a useful resource, both for GMs in particular to see one route this scenario can take if they are thinking of running it, and for people who just want to get a feel for a Call of Cthulhu game. If you are a player then you read on at your own risk, as it is contains many spoilers. You have been warned!
Prof. Henry Roades, an eminent archaeologist in the employ of Miskatonic Univeristy, is missing following a dig in the backwoods of Massachusetts – the latest episode in his obsession with a missing colonial-era settlement called Cade’s Rest, likely located near a settlement known as Blackwater Creek. Without warning, he sent the students working with him back to the university, before vanishing – along with his wife, Abigail. The new term has begun, and the Dean is getting worried. After all, the village is only a few miles down the road from Dunwich, where there was the ‘incident’ a few years back…a few dependable people associated with the university are reached out to; the brief being to find Prof. Roades and bring him back, or else work out what has happened to him.
After interviewing the students sent back to Arkham (a sometimes unsettling experience), our able investigators had an atmospheric drive over to the titular town, encountering local vet John Merritt and local drunk Hector Winney en route. The drivers also experienced a strange sensation at the edge of their perception, a throb that seemed at once both a noise and something deeper.
After some debate about accommodation, they dropped camping equipment at the old dig site they passed on the way in to town – largely at the urging of the straight-laced and skeptical Webster Jackson, who was very dubious of any local offers of bed and board. Webster and Dunk headed to Baxter’s General Store, and got the lowdown on the history of the area, narrated by the garrulous – and slightly tipsy – owner, who quickly took a shine to Dunk’s farm-boy demeanour. Meanwhile, Rita Eisler and Dorothy Brunswick made a beeline for Dick Sprouston, an affable chap who acts as the local law and order. The final member of the party, burly civil engineer and erstwhile mechanic ‘Tiny’ Tom Higgins, kept a watchful eye on the party’s vehicles, swigging away at his trusty hip flask.
A couple of homebrew whiskies later, the party was armed with both local knowledge and the location of somewhere ideal to bed down for the night – the Jarvey farm, home to Malcom and Edith (the maker of damn fine apple pies). Just as well, as darkness had begun to fall some time past. Webster declined, however, and opted to camp alone at the dig site.
A hearty dinner was had (somewhat more frugal in the case of Mr Jackson), and the party retired, replete, to bed; the ladies in the farmhouse and the gents in the barn. Meanwhile, Webster wrapped himself up in his blankets and stared into the dying embers of the fire…Why couldn’t they see that those hicks were obviously dangerous…before drifting into sleep.The long watches of the night passed without incident…until, around 3am, all hell broke loose. The throb in Dorothy and Tom’s heads intensified to a thrumming that shook the very buildings around them, as if the very earth cried aloud, and every farm animal went utterly berserk. Meanwhile, Webster awoke with a start and panned his flashlight round at the shadowed forest, as the trees groaned in time with the ground’s vibrations and strange whispers and cries arose on the air. Just then, a gathering rumble sounded from within the thicket of trees…
The investigators at the farm tumbled out of their beds and off their haybales. Emerging to a farmyard awash with cacophonous tumult, they were greeted with the sight of Old Pete, the venerable farmhand they met at dinner, bursting out of his shack to collapse retching on the ground, a torrent of steaming black foulness pouring from every visible orifice. Frozen in horror as Old Pete convulsed before them, the crew were suddenly snapped out of their stupefaction as Malcom Jarvey, that steadfast farmer, came pelting round the corner of the farmhouse, pursued by an enormous boar. Dark pus oozed from lesions all over its sweat-slicked body, and its eyes – glinting redly with a malign intellect – swiveled wildly in their crusted sockets, turning from person to person as it pawed the ground, choosing its target…