A Long Walk In Lovecraft Country (RPG All)

 

Jesus, Larry.

The last time I mentioned Larry Nixon it was because I'd picked up the saddest book, Vagabond Voyaging. That got me on a bit of a Nixon kick, because he also published What To Do When War Comes and I was so fascinated to find out what a travel guy thought about the upcoming global conflict I kept seeking it whenever I went into an antiquarian bookstore. 

Finally I broke down and bought a copy off of the internet (boo!) and since the internet was so helpful I also decided to pick this up. Because why not.

It's the same concept as Vagabond Voyaging. Go on vacation for a dollar a day. The difference being this time it's within the United States, not on a packet steamer going heaven-and-commerce only knows where.

In and of itself there's nothing wrong with the idea. There's a lot in its favor.

He starts the book with a chapter called Shank's Mare. 

The cheapest form of vacationing is found when you do all the work yourself. Spend no money for transportation on train or bus. Walk! Shoe leather's cheaper than gasoline, and while you're out burning some of the winter's fat, you'll add strength and endurance to help you face the long grind in the coming months. Don't pass out your coin in tips. Be your own waiter, cook, bus boy, and hotel clerk. Hit the trail!

Sounds nice, doesn't it? Not relaxing, exactly, but meditative. An early iteration of touch grass. 

Published 1940. 

In 1942, at least a third of his American adult male audience is going to go on an extended walking tour of Europe, North Africa and, for some lucky few, selected parts of Asia and the East. If I had been one of those and had read this book, I would have come back and kicked that Nixon character right where it hurt the most. Never have I read an author whose work entirely failed to read the room. 

Mind, as I said before, I've almost no idea what happened to Larry Nixon. About the only thing I've got on him is a Times obit, June of 1953, which I shall reprint here in full.

Larry Nixon, Director of Public Relations for Hewitt, Ogilvy, Benson & Mather, advertising, died on Wednesday in his home at 42 West Fifty-sixth Street. His age was 56. Mr. Nixon had been in public relations work for thirty years. He was the author of “Vagabond Voyaging” (1938), “American Vacations” (1939), and “See Canada Next” (1940), all published by Little, Brown & Co. He was born in New Orleans and had served as assistant to the publisher of The Billboard, theatrical periodical, editor of Airways, assistant public relations director for Pan American World Airways, and public relations consultant to the New York State Civil Defense Commission. In 1939-1940 he was press representative at the Bell Telephone Exhibit at the New York World's Fair. He also formerly was a partner in the public relations firm of F. Darius Benham and Larry Nixon. He leaves his wife, the former Dorothy Eiser; three daughters, Mrs. Cynthia Falkoff and Robin and Jan Nixon; his mother, Mrs, Leola Nixon, and two sisters, Mrs. Dorothy Younse and Mrs. Mildred Nolan.

No mention of what he did during the war. Presumably he was too old to serve. I note the obit doesn't mention his other book, What To Do When War Comes, of which he was editor. The company he worked for as DPR still exists; it's called Ogilvy these days. 

Honestly, he reminds me not a little of Anthony Scaramucci. If it had been possible in his day, Nixon would have been a podcaster. Just exactly that level of not-famous-but.

Should Keepers buy this book? Well, not unless you absolutely want to. It's a fun read and there's lots of information to help you set sessions in the 1930s, but it's a specialist subject. If you can get it in the library, great! I'd class this in the same category as Ruth Brown Park's book about running book stores. It's handy to have, a source of inspiration. It's not absolutely necessary.

Keepers who might benefit the most from this are those wanting to run sessions of Campfire Tales. While I have a copy I haven't read it yet and don't feel familiar enough with the rules to comfortably run a session. But I am keeping this in mind ...

I will add a warning against period racism. It's not egregious, but it is there. 

There are two parts of Larry's book I'm going to draw on today. One is the shank's mare chapter, the other The Farmer And His Daughter.

Shank's Mare spends a lot of time talking about Walking Clubs. This is the later 1930s and FDR ha spent a decade building up America under the Civilian Conservation Corps program. There are now plenty of walking trails, cleared and established, across the country. On their heels come hundreds of Clubs whose members walk those trails, and who establish cabins along those trails for overnight stays.

Supper-and-lodging is available for two dollars. That pays for your meal and bunk, mattress, pillows and blankets. There are dormitories for men and women. The campfire conversation is free - as is the advice you will get from the local huntmaster, who is always glad to help the stranger discover the beauties of the side trails. Breakfast is seventy five cents, lunch at the hut or in a parcel for eating out on the trail is only half a dollar. Visitors who want to stay all day pay three dollars for their meals and overnight bunk.

Sounds cosy, doesn't it? Much like the Conservation Corps, all this will come to an end in 1942. Parts of it will stagger on during and after the war, but this is a system that relies on civilian volunteers and there aren't going to be many of those in the next few years.

The Farmer and His Daughter describes the common practice of taking rooms at a farm house or plantation (again, period racism). If Larry's to be believed, not only was it all quite nice and civilized, it was a repeat business. Farmers would regularly rent out space to city dwellers looking for time out in the country. Whether they'd rent their own space or build special rental units was up to the farmer. An early form of Air B&B, effectively. 

The food, like the quarters, varies with the territory, the farmers, and the insistence of the guests. If you complain long enough and loud enough the farmer will stock almost any kind of food you choose, but take what is put before you and you'll more than likely gain weight; farmers aren't known for underfeeding.

Beside the conventional sports and swimming, you'll often find specialized farm activities that interest the visitor. The farmer has discovered that his guests like to fuss around and pretend to work. Pitching hay is good for your back muscles and even chopping the garden does something to strengthen you. The first few days at the farm the average visitor will pull the weeds or hoe the corn in frantic energy while farm folks look with wonder at their unpaid helpers. It's the old story of the other fellow's work being more interesting than your own ...

What happens if you rent a farm in Lovecraft Country for your vacation?

A Little Place in the Woods

There's a cottage near Arkham, in Billington's Wood, part of a farmstead owned by Eugene Blanchford. It's something Blanchford got by marriage; his uncle married a Billington, died without issue, and the cottage became part of Blanchford's farmstead. Blanchford values the acreage (all the better for his apple plantation) but had no use for the cottage until four years back, when some Arkhamites seeking a rural vacation spot persuaded him to rent the place. 

Since then, Blanchford's had enquiries from as far away as New York City. The cottage is a miniature gold mine, particularly in the off season just before picking time. He's even had a few who want the place over Christmas, in spite of its isolated location. The wintertime is just like a picture postcard, say his guests.

Mindful of his newfound success, Blanchford has started collecting furniture and other creature comforts to make his vacationers feel at home. There's even a small library, made up principally of books that his people leave behind them but also a small collection of things the family has gotten, over the years.

Including a dusty copy of Ward Phillips' Thaumaturgical Prodigies in the New-English Canaan, with annotations, nestled between the battered S. S. Van Dine locked room mysteries and the Mills & Boon romances. 

Option One: Romancing the Stone. Blanchford asks for help uncovering the origins of a peculiar stone monolith that one of his guests has found not far from the cottage. It has markings on it that resemble Ogham, and Blanchford wonders whether this is a significant find. It turns out that the holidaymaker didn't find it, exactly; they were guided to it by notes in the Thaumaturgical Prodigies, and the stone dates back to the early 1800s, when it was put there by one of the Billington breed.

Option Two: Tree Loving. In a fit of boredom, and guided by notes in the Thaumaturgical Prodigies, some of the Christmas vacationers try out a 'pagan ritual' for jollies. After this, they report seeing something peculiar out in the woods, where they tried their magic spell. Are those trees moving? Why? Blanchford gets involved because it's his orchard; are those valuable apple trees moving about?

Option Three: Former Owners. Some of Blanchford's guests complain of noises in the night. Creaking and muttering that can't be explained by floorboards or rats. Blanchford doesn't want his gold mine to lose its lustre and he's willing to try anything once, so he brings in some bona fide exorcist types to cleanse the place. Turns out one of the pieces of furniture he brought in has an unsavory past: that four-poster bed has seen its share of deaths, and one death in particular lies heavy on it. Are those bedsheets moving?

That's it for this week. Enjoy!

Dreams of the Drowned (Trail of Cthulhu)

 

Sourced from The Great War

Silent propaganda film 1918, sourced from Spreading Oak Tree

This is a Trail of Cthulhu scenario seed set in New England and loosely based on the deaths of Stewart Mason and his wife, Leslie. From: The Last Voyage of the Lusitania, 1957, A.A. and Mary Hoehling, published by Longmans of Toronto:

On board also were, inevitably, newlyweds. The Stewart Masons had been married in Boston on April 21. He'd come from Ipswich to wed his brunette Yankee bride, Leslie, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Lindsey. Her father was a man of many talents: writer, actor, patron of drama, and millionaire, whose huge stone mansion brooded over the Charles River in baronial splendor ...

Soon, he was sure, he must encounter Bill Lindsey's little girl, Leslie, or her husband, Stewart Mason. He never did. Yet Leslie was there. [American] Consul Wesley Frost found her, on an embalmer's slab in an improvised operating room in the rear of the Cunard office. "She lay like a statue typifying assassinated innocence." Stewart was washed ashore further up the [Irish] coast. The news was cabled to Lindsey in Boston. It 'hung' forever after like a cerement over the big stone house next to the Charles River. It made the great hall, and the oaken staircase flaring upward on either side, from which Leslie had thrown her bride's bouquet days before, seem to Lindsey like a mausoleum ... 

The seed is nominally set in Kingsport but can be relocated.

Hook

In 1915 the daughter of millionaire widower Charles F. Kinshaw died with her husband in the wreck of the Lusitania. That tragedy blighted his life, and all but ended his career as an early entrepreneur in silent cinema. From being a widely travelled angel investor he turned into a recluse, spending all his time at his Kingsport mansion by the sea. This former captain's mansion, built in the mid-1800s, was where young Sarah and her husband were married; ever since that day, it has had a funereal pall.

This hasn't changed, but recent activity at the mansion has Kinshaw's friends and family intrigued. Kinshaw, his artistic expertise undimmed, recently added a small film editing studio to the building. Nobody's sure what it means, exactly, and nobody knows what film he's been shooting if he's been shooting any film at all. However, some wealthy and influential people would pay good money to find out.

Enter the investigators.

Awful Truth

Kinshaw is under the influence of Deep Ones who have promised to return his daughter to him if he does as they ask.

They contacted him through dreams, pretending to be Sarah's husband William. William's body had never been recovered after the sinking, and the Deep Ones pretended that William was trapped in time and only able to communicate, imperfectly, though dreams. However, if Kinshaw were to build a special film camera to William's specifications he could improve the connection, and possibly establish a bridge between himself and his daughter strong enough to allow her to cross back over and rejoin the living.

Though nobody realizes it, Kinshaw has spent the last few months filming the sinking of the Lusitania from every possible angle, again and again. He now has enough film in the can to show every moment of the tragedy, from the perspective of every single person who died - 1,193 souls.

Though Kinshaw doesn't realize this, the Deep Ones are using subliminal stimuli. Each frame of his picture is underscored with Ry'leh and Cthulhu imagery; the Lusitania footage provides the impetus, the Mythos undertones are the punch. The overall intent is to create a kind of gate, using Kinshaw's emotional energy and the energy of anyone who happens to be in the room when he shows off his film footage, that directly connects that spot with Ry'leh. Not only will this cause a physical reaction (mostly involving several tons of transported icy ocean water) it will also spike a huge rush in hideous dream energy which in turn will blanket the East Coast with Cthulhu's message.

After putting the film together, Kinshaw intends to have a preliminary screening at a Kingsport cinema before taking it to New York. The Kingsport screening will be invited audience only. Some of the biggest names in American cinema will be there, as well as local dignitaries.

It's going to be one hell of a show, unless the investigators intervene.  

Christmas Keepers (Trail, Lovecraft Country)

This is going to be my last post for the year. Happy holidays to all, and I hope you have a great New Year!

Let's talk Christmas in New England, that jolly time of year when eating a mince pie can get your ears cut off.

When the Puritans settled in New England they brought their customs with them, and being a joyless bunch of asshats one of their most beloved customs was a hatred of all things cheerful. That included Christmas. The holiday season was a complete anathema to those stern Yankees, so much so that in 1647 laws were passed to ensure nobody kept Christmas, or any saint's day, and certainly didn't make mince pies, attend Christmas masques or dramas, dance, or play any musical instrument. Decoration was also banned, which meant no holly or mistletoe; that might encourage kissing, God forbid!

The first Puritans arranged things as they liked, but were constantly threatened by those among them who weren't Puritans and who enjoyed festive cheer. One such was Thomas Morton, who was caught by Miles Standish having a good time in his own home, and promptly banished from Plymouth Colony.

Thomas Morton was playing the Lord of Misrule, which was a particular grievance to good Puritans. The Lord of Misrule was a traditional Yule figure in English folklore, now not often seen in its Christmas role. Each year the Lord, usually a peasant or of low birth, would be appointed and go around the neighborhood dressed in green and orange, with bells at his ankles, dancing with his celebrants, leading the crowd in games and singing. The band would make a nuisance of themselves until given money, at which point they'd go off and find some other householder to torment. Often the merry pranksters would invade the church and interrupt the solstice sermon, which is why the Puritans so disliked the Lord. The tradition may have come from the Roman Saturnalia, but its origins are obscure, and in any case people usually don't need much excuse to get drunk and go round in a group making a nuisance of themselves. The 'getting drunk' part of the ceremony encourages any kind of bad behavior.

Being Puritans, the colonists' treatment of those caught in the act were severe. Morton was lucky to get away with banishment; cash fines, time in the stocks, branding, or having your ears or nose cut off were typical punishments. This was all intended to bring people to Salvation, for on the Day of Doom the Lord would judge impartial, but stern, and woe betide the sinners who passed on Christ's left hand side.

This worked so long as the colonies were made up entirely, or at least in the majority, of Puritans. However as time went by more Catholics, Episcopalians and Universalists arrived in New England, and public opinion changed. By 1681 the laws banning Christmas were repealed. It took time for people to become used to the idea - a small entertainment, called 'educational', here, a modest party there - but over time even the Puritans came to accept some Christmas frivolity.

However even after the law was repealed good Puritans, of whom there were many, treated Christmas like any other day. They did not close their shops or schools; as far as they were concerned, Christmas was a day of work, not play. It wasn't until 1797 that a churchman felt safe enough to call for a celebration of the holiday, and up to the 1870s schools kept on teaching right through the holiday period. It wasn't until after the Civil War, when Christmas became a Federal holiday, that New England really embraced Christmas. By that point the season was becoming commercialized; a time to work so you can buy and give presents, not to play games or dance around with bells on your ankles.

Now, to gamify:

Crack Nouts and Cry Yule

The Hook

The weather this Christmas is particularly harsh, and Arkhamites nervously joke about a return of the great 1921 ice storm that blanketed the town and nearly froze the Miskatonic. People don't hang around on the streets after dark; they hurry home, where there's warmth and cheer.

There's a story going round that a gang of carol singers are making a nuisance of themselves in East-town, the seedy and decaying residential section once so beloved of Arkham's upper class. Rumor has it that they use the singing as a distraction to burgle the houses they visit, and there have been several letters to the paper about it. Where are the police, they ask, and why can't more be done to stop these thieves?

However those with History, Occult or possibly Library Use notice a pattern. The lead figure of these criminal characters is dressed as the Lord of Misrule. The Lord never removes his mask or participates in the thievery, but it's clear from the accounts of those who've seen him that the Lord is the most menacing of the group. The attacks seem to radiate out in a circle from a central point: the First Unitarian Church of Arkham, on Federal Street. Further, every location where the carolers have been is visited by another mysterious figure with a much more violent MO. This character, whoever he is, attacks and brutally injures people outside after dark. Four attacks have been recorded, and in each case the victim lost extremities - noses, ears, always due to frostbite. Those who go into this further notice that, according to the hospitals and doctors (Charm, with a bonus die for those with Medicine above base), six people with that kind of injury have been treated by local hospitals or doctors.

The Awful Truth

The Minister of First Unitarian, Doctor Spencer, recently hired a professional archivist, Norton Deane, to help bring the church archive into some kind of order. This was more a question of charity than need; poor Norton recently had a great shock that required a stay in a sanitarium, and this job was meant to put him back on his feet.

Unfortunately for Deane some of the earlier documents in the archive, related to early Christmas traditions in Arkham, contained Mythos knowledge. The revelations Deane encountered, in his weakened mental state, drove him over the edge. He became the Lord of Misrule, visiting nearby houses to spread Christmas insanity.

His first two visits were solo affairs, as the investigators will discover if they talk to newspaper reporters or cops. However a bunch of criminals joined in, seeing an opportunity. These might be young Arkham hoods (the Finns, the Rocks), or more experienced bottom-feeders. Deane doesn't object to them following in his wake, so long as they dance and sing. He insists on that, and they're too frightened of him to object. The level of violence has increased since they joined in, but the Lord of Misrule doesn't mind that; violence is part of Christmas.

However something else has joined in the celebration. Icy Cold Ones are closing in on the Lord of Misrule, determined to put an end to him. They wouldn't be able to do it without the freezing weather, but so long as ice storms threaten they can roam the streets at night. The Mythos texts that Deane found draw these Cold Ones in, so they too congregate around or near First Unitarian. The church at night is a very hazardous place to be.

The two injured men who aren't part of the official tally are part of the gang of crooks that follow Deane, and if they're interrogated they can tell the investigators about the Cold One attacks and the Lord of Misrule. 

Defeating the Lord of Misrule, or burning the Mythos texts, drives off the Cold Ones and end the threat.

There is a time limit on this. The longer the Lord of Misrule, and by extension the Cold Ones, are allowed to do their work, the more likely it is that the gathering Cold Ones will cause an ice storm more dangerous than the 1921 event. Should that happen, the weak and vulnerable of Arkham will die off, frozen to death in their own homes. Assume there is a 10% chance, cumulative, per week, that this will happen. This deadly storm causes a SAN penalty of 1/1D6+1.

Enjoy!

Not Quite Book Review Corner: Lovecraft Country, Matt Ruff

I've been reading Lovecraft Country by Matt Ruff, a relative newcomer to the scene. He's been writing for a while, but keeps dropping off the map, and so his publication list isn't that long. First published in 1988, then nothing until 1997, then a gap, then a gap, everywhere a gap gap, old Matt Ruff he had a farm, and so forth. My copy is an uncorrected proof. When published, it will be via Harper Collins, and is expected to be a February 2016 release.

The central idea is fascinating. Ruff takes the tropes of Lovecraft's Mythos, and re-imagines the stories with African American protagonists. The setting is 1950s America, heartland of noir fiction, and the collection of short, interconnected stories opens with the tale of Atticus Turner, off to Chicago with a copy of the Safe Negro Travel Guide in his pocket, hoping to find his father. Except his father's gone missing, and all the clues suggest that he's gone to Arkham, Massachusetts, home of Lovecraftian horror. It soon develops that Montrose Turner is mixed up with a peculiar Order of the Ancient Dawn, who are themselves very interested in Atticus since he might be a direct descendant of the founder of their Order.

Things, as you might expect, get very complicated from that point forward.

I mentioned interconnected stories earlier. It wouldn't be entirely fair to call this a short story collection, even though it is a collection of several short-ish stories. There is a common long-term plot, however, and the characters are all related either by blood or by bonds of friendship. So in the first story Montrose is a relatively minor support character, but in a later story he becomes the main protagonist. Childhood friends, cousins, Brothers from the local Lodge, may all appear as fleeting glimpses in one story, only to reappear later as main characters. The Braithwaite clan and its magical machinations make up the main antagonists, along with its allies and rivals in the alchemical Orders that seem to spring up like weeds across America.

In and of itself the concept would be intriguing, but by combining it with Lovecraft Ruff manages to hit a very particular and sensitive nerve. After all, this is Howard Phillips we're talking about, the man who gave us Cthulhu but also gave us the comic verse On The Creation of Niggers, as Ruff reminds us very early on.

Recently the World Fantasy Awards statuette hit the news again. It's been pointed out, particularly in recent years, that having an award of this type made in Lovecraft's image is sending, at best, a mixed message to the world at large, and fandom in particular. "This is something people of color, women, minorities, must deal with more often than most when striving to be the greatest they can possibly be in the arts," said award winner Nnedi Okorafor, on discovering Lovecraft's reputation after receiving her award. "The fact that many of the Elders we honor and need to learn from hate or hated us."

It's been announced that future awards will not bear Lovecraft's image. Noted Lovecraftian scholar S.T. Joshi has been particularly outspoken in his disgust at this decision. "Evidently this move was to placate the shrill whining of a handful of social justice warriors who believe that a 'vicious racist' like Lovecraft has no business being honored by such an award."

I lost a great deal of respect for S.T. Joshi after reading that piece.

There's no denying Lovecraft's hatred, of women, of African Americans, of pretty much everything and everyone except white Anglo Saxons and Gothic Revival architecture. He has created some very compelling art, worthy of study, worthy of approbation. That does not excuse the rest of it.

Perhaps it's time to admit that having his face on an award is exclusionary. That it sends a message, intentionally or not, and that message is an unpleasant one. 

Having touched on that nerve, however, Ruff lacks follow-through. There are many dark and complex scenes in these stories, but at the same time there's an undercurrent of light-heartedness that is at odds with horror. Frankly, there's more angst and despair in The Hobbit than there is in this book, and the main character of The Hobbit is a jolly little fellow whose sole ambition in life is to eat more dinners.

That's not to say the stories are bad. They're very cleverly done, and as a counterpoint to pure Lovecraft there's pleasure to be had in re imagining those stories with these protagonists. Even so, you have to go into this expecting that it won't be horror, as horror is usually understood. There's the suggestion of shoggoths off in the darkness, and weird things do happen, but these shoggoths have a low-fat label on the side with an encouraging nutritional message from the FDA.

An example, hopefully avoiding as many spoilers as possible: in one story, a character is told to choose whether or not to accept a benefit. That benefit, we discover, comes at someone else's expense, and that someone else is kept inside a large machine, apparently unconscious. We're told by the antagonist that this person is in a permanent coma thanks to a head injury, and feels no pain. What would make this really work would be if we didn't know whether the antagonist is telling the truth. Perhaps there is no coma, no head injury. Except as the reader we know that the antagonist is telling the truth. We saw that head injury in a previous episode, and from that we can infer the coma. Trouble is, knowing that undercuts the horror by removing the uncertainty. 

So would I recommend Lovecraft Country to Lovecraft fans, when it finally debuts? Yes. Just bear in mind, as I've said, that this is not a frightening collection. It has horrific scenes, and its depiction of historical events is all the more shocking because we know the truth of the matter. We also know that it didn't happen very long ago, in the grand scheme of things. For that alone it's worth reading. 

Even if it doesn't keep you awake at night, captivated by existential bleakness and despair.