October 2017

Don’t go near the overpass on Old I-21. Don’t do it. There’s nothing out there but the gatherer.

You might think that, just because the gatherer only gathers junk, it might be fine. You might even want a gander at its junk lair.

Don’t. It guards those busted TVs and burnt-out stereos with its life. People have died to see that mishmash of junk.

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“Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please,” said the maitre’d. “It has come to our attention that the most recent shipment of wine may have inadvertently been tainted with rogue mana enzymes. We strongly urge anyone who feels sleepy or has a strong taste of lemon in their mouths to seek magical attention immediately.”

“It tasted fine to me,” said a chimpanzee in a loose pile of clothes.

“Stop being such an alarmist!” said the occupants of Table 3 who had merged into a single being. “We’re just fine!”

“Maybe we should get checked,” said the bride at the bachelorette party, now metamorphosed into a newt and lounging in her wine glass. “Just to be safe. You never can be sure when the supernatural will invade the everyday.”

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You can only see it from Breedman’s Hill outside of town. Anywhere else, and it’ll be nothingness. Certainly, there’s no seeing it in town. Even when it passes through you, you feel nothing.

But up there, on a clear day when the sun is at the right angle–dawn or dusk, usually, magic hour–you can see it. The Colossus of Daleharbor.

Vaguely humanoid. A hundred feet high. And slowly wandering about within the city limits. Yeah, I was scared when I found out about it, too. But that’s not even the really freaky thing.

It knows when you’re watching.

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When the mob retreated, they left Hungerford Morrow’s studio in ruins and the artist himself torn to pieces. The only things that were not destroyed were his hundreds and hundreds of clay model studies for more “immoral” statues. In their rush to smash the finished pieces, the clay studies held little interest, after all, and there were still dozens more completed statues throughout the county to haul down and smash.

Morrow gave all of his studies the same placeholder face, a benign and simple smile with two dots for eyes. He’d then rework them as he saw fit. But as fire overtook what was left of his studio, something curious happened. Rather than hardening, the clay models instead melted and ran together, forming a voluminous mass amid the flames.

Even more curiously, it soon began to move.

The sum of all the unfinished clays in Morrow’s home stood taller than eight feet, and placid, smiling faces continuously bubbled up and sank down in its form like flotsam from a bog. It rose from the flames and strode off into the night, in the direction of town.

Over the next six months, a third of the mob’s members would be found bludgeoned to death, surprisingly placid smiles on their faces.

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In 1897, the McKennitt family climbed Mt. Hobs for a day of picnicking, taking with them a heavy quilt to serve as a picnic blanket. The father, Sean McKennitt, billowed out the quilt in preparation for laying it flat. Instead, the quilt settled over something in midair–something man-sized yet invisible. Thinking he had snagged a hidden branch, McKennit removed the quilt and tried again, this time clearly noting that nothing occupied the space. Again, the quilt draped itself over something unseen.

When it began to move, the McKennitt family fled in a panic.

After hearing his wild stories in the valley, a group of curious locals, including Sean McKennitt himself, located the picnic site but were unable to find the quilt. Though the site’s disarray and the unfinished, still-packed picnic basket lent some credence to his claim, the prevailing opinion was that McKennitt had simply been seeing things and mistaken a gust of wind for some kind of phantom.

But over the years that followed, the McKennitt quilt was seen all over Mt. Hobs, often from a distance but nearly always apparently draped over something unseen. The quilt became bleached, and patchy, but it never fell apart. And whatever sort of thing Sean McKennitt had stumbled upon that day, it never deigned to remove the blanket that made it visible to a fearful world.

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Named after the French mercenary who first saw it, Ratez’s Glow manifests as an orb not unlike a will o’ the wisp. It can be found in the darkest and most dismal parts of the L’Enfant bog in groups of 2-12.

The Glow seems to ignore those who happen upon it, unless they bring attention to themselves by approaching too closely. Within ten feet, the Glow will begin to seek and follow those it encounters. If it catches them, it vanishes, and the victim will immediately die of a massive heart attack. Travelers report that, when the body is allowed to remain where it fell will sprout strange glowing mushrooms with the same unearthly hue.

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The Ancients of the Wharton Wilds are, according to those few who have seen them, a head taller than all but the most mountainous of men. They look like they have been badly burned, with skin that has the smooth but spiderwebbed sense of scar tissue.

Witnesses say the most striking thing about them is their lack of eyes.

If you should encounter one, the Ancient will ignore you until you are within a stone’s throw. Then it will approach you and hold out its hand. If you place a gift upon its upturned palm, and the gift is accepted, the Ancient will leave you be. Each Ancient is festooned with the gifts of its previous encounters, from bearskins to polyester. They seem to prefer gifts of clothing or small pieces of jewelry with sentimental value.

A gift that the Ancient does not like, such as food or technology, will cause it to lash out and strike the offending party with a powerful backhand motion. The force is enough to snap the neck instantly, though some have reportedly survived with critical injuries. The offended Ancient will then leave, depositing the unwanted gift elsewhere. Food will usually be left in clearings, while technology is often hurled into rivers.

As many as a dozen Ancients are speculated to exist, judging by the different items they wear. Smaller ones occasionally appear, as do those with the suggestion of childbearing hips and mammaries, giving rise to speculation that they form a small breeding population.

Nevertheless, no photographic evidence of their existence has ever been recovered. Shy creatures, easily angered by technology, they are elusive subjects. Still more curiously, those few who say they have seen an Ancient in the digital age report that their photographs–film or digital–show only black.

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