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 many credits, projects and award nominations, but his favourite by far is George A Romero’s maritime western zombie masterpiece, Survival of the Dead

Dylan Trowbridge is the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, and so his guardian knew he would never come to no good. When he turned 13, his guardian saw that the change was a gunna come, and locked Dylan deep down in the earthen cellar of the family domicile to prevent the boy from a doing harm to the other kith and kin. Well, that young Dylan, he cried piteously for the first night or two, but once that gibbous moon turned to full, all that weeping and a wailing started to sound more like a growling and a howling, and that’s when the Trowbridge family knew the youngest of their clan could never be let out of the hole. 

Last night, around midnight, I saw JB NELLES in a shadow cast by the light of the moon, and in that silver, pallid effulgence, I witnessed a horror that I shall render me sleepless till my dying day. JB Nelles may look human; she is not. Her true face, a face of indescribable horror, can only be glimpsed when the moon is gibbous and the stars are right. For I beheld her gaping maw grow cavernous, and vast, with a multiplicity of razor sharp teeth, dripping with viscous drool and steaming blood. She ate small children in that strange lunar glow, and kittens, and an old hobo the neighbours called Stew Sock Jim. She even swallowed a sewer rat hole. When I see JB by daylight, I will smile and say hello. But if ever I meet her again by moonlight, I’ll run. Dear lord, how I will run!

Adrianna is a dead, red-headed girl who lurks in the bottom of an old, dry well. And if you throw a penny in, and whisper a little wish, she scoops your words up, in her cracked, grey hands, and swallows them, chewing your dreams into tiny, broken little pieces, so they can never come true. That’s why, some nights, when you can’t sleep and you are all alone in the darkness, you almost hear the empty susurrus of distant cackling. That is Red Dead Adrianna, at the bottom of the well, giggling maniacally over your masticated dreams.

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.