Eric Woolfe was born the bastard child of an itinerant sideshow contortionist, and a door-to-door alienist. He began his career at the age of eight and three quarters, when a national famine forced him to follow his mother’s twisted feet into show business. Following failed careers as a learned pig tamer, flea circus promoter, and gaffed armless calligrapher, he formed Eldritch Theatre after losing a bar bet. He is now an actor, writer and puppeteer, as well as being a noted spiritualist huckster. He is often visited by the ghost of his beloved miniature schnauzer, Schubert, who offers Mister Woolfe valuable career advice, such as “You should chase more squirrels,” and “You better hide in the basement when there is thunder outside.” Mr Woolfe has my credits, projects and award nominations, but his favourite by far is George A Romero’s maritime western zombie masterpiece, Survival of the Dead. @EricWoolfe

Listen to his Stageworthy Podcast Interview
Read his interview with J. Gordon Shillingford Publishing
Read his interview with Our Theatre Voice

There are dark, dusty rooms lined with cobweb covered shelves, that hold row upon row of dry, ancient tomes, whose pages are filled with abominated blasphemies and arcane, forbidden secrets that no human mind was ever meant to know. The words in these books were never meant to be uttered by the human tongue, and the glyphs, runic markings, and strange symbols scrawled on their worm chewed pages should never be seen, let alone studied. Yet, Emma Mackenzie Hillier knows them all. She has folded dog ears to mark her favourite passages of the Al Assif. She’s doodled in the margins of Unaussprechlichen Kulten and underlined the dirty bits of Die Wurmis Mysterious in light blue ink. You wanna talk about necromantic incantations? Oh, she knows necromantic incantations. And she knows every dark star they need to be uttered under to make them come true.

There is a twisted, gnarled wood, deep in the heart of Bosfordia, a wood so old and feared, none alive remember its name. It is said, that if you stray into that ancient forest, and are foolish enough to stray from the path, you may come across a strange cottage in the shape of a giant meat pie. A moat of gravy surrounds this meat pie hut. And a plume of savoury steam puffs out from its pastry chimney. Inside, if you are stupid enough to go inside, you will be greeted by a strange old hag, called Auntie Kathleen. She may appear to be young and fair. But that is not her true face. That is a glamour she’s cast to lure you into her cauldron, so she may eat you alive. Her teeth are iron. Her single eye is yellow. And her hands end in horrible talons that can tear your raw flesh from your bones. She travels through the air on a strange bird, that is half dodo, and half cast iron pot. To see her is to lose your way, to despair, and to die.

Melanie is a set and costume designer who created the non-Euclidian, mad-blasted, architecturally anomalous, temple of unholy abomination, known to the students at Miskatonic University as the Pit with a Thousand Steps. Her efforts on this project won her two Dora Mavor Moore Awards, a pickled Siamese twin in a mayonnaise jar, and a thirty-year stint in a padded room at Ravenscrag Asylum for the Mentally Deranged. It is said that her fingernails are made of needles, and to look into her eyes is to see one’s darkest, most secret fears writ large across the sky, in words penned in streaks of lightning. I have feared many dark things in my life. But I fear Melanie most of all.

Sandi Becker strikes fear into the hearts of the weak and foolish. She has retractable fangs. And, due to a recurring battle with Early Onslaught Lycanthropy, has become a passionate advocate for promoting tolerance to Werewolfism in school age children. She can kill you with a look, and if you are not in bed by 9 o’clock, she’ll come to you in the darkness, slip you into a bag made from cat skin, and take you to her moldy, mildewed lair. What will happen there? No one has lived to tell the tale.

Listen to her Stageworthy Podcast Interview

Mairi became the Head Witch of the Dread Coven of Danforth Avenue at the tender age of 13 when she shoved Prickled Gertie Rumplehump into a wood burning stove, baked her into a tortiere,and stole her broomstick and crown. Mairi’s voice can hit notes so high, that only creatures of the night can hear them. She has danced with the Mi-Go on Signal Hill, had tea with the Black Goat of the Forest, and painted her own kitchen with the Colours out of Space. Small children fear her. It is said that on nights when the moon is gibbous, she sneaks through your bedroom window as you sleep, and sits on your chest, and when your nightmares begin, she smiles and inhales the life from your body as your panicked, yet slumbering, breath ebbs from your dying body. As you drift into death, her red, red eyes are the last things you see. And you yearn for them. Dear gods! You yearn for them!