Copyright 1995 by Rich Staats
The Hideous Horrifying Whole or Gaming Horror Stories
as recounted by Rich Staats aided ably by Phillip Hume
Greetings after a break!
This month's topic lends itself to more of a personal narrative style
than past installments. Gaming horror stories naturally divide into two
major categories, experiences as a player and experiences as a GM. I'll
touch on them in that order. I'm also adding one humorous anecdote on
convention attendance at the end.
My experiences as a player only a couple of months, but that was
sufficient time to learn many lessons about how to run a campaign and do's
and don'ts of GMing.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was the late
seventies and early eighties. The gaming products were not as polished as
today's fare, but the hobby was booming. There were fly by night gaming
companies in abundance run from devoted gamers' basements. It was a time
when gaming companies like Judge's Guild produced entire campaigns on
colored newsprint for less than $5! _White Dwarf_ was still a gaming
magazine (before being assimilated by Games Workshop's advertising
section). Sure, the typos were rampant, and there were frequent
references to nonexistent tables and sections. The graphics were mostly
quick colorized pencil sketches as opposed to the beautiful glossy oil
prints of today's products. Still, the hobby was alive and vital, and if
you could dream of it, there was probably a supplement or game somewhere
that covered it. (Fantasy Games Unlimited must have had fifteen to twenty
gaming *systems* active at any given time.) It was a time when a whole
campaign could take place in a single expansive dungeon and an inn, and if
the GM was really ambitious he or she might add a temple or general store.
I had acquired and read a number of gaming systems including the
original Traveller, the D&D boxed set and RuneQuest (all of which I later
gave away to aspiring players --- DOH!), and I was just waiting for the
chance to really play in an RPG campaign. The chance arrived, and I
jumped on it like a rabid raccoon! There are many things which could be
said about the initial experience, but perhaps the most positive is that
it led me to start my own campaign (now running some fifteen plus years).
I just figured ``there has to be a better way!'', and there was. I laugh
at the events now, but it was very annoying at the time.
*** Fasten your seat belts --- heavy sarcasm follows ***
The original GM (call him Jon) committed about as many of the faux pas
of GMing as are humanly possible. (By the by, he is still active in the
gaming world; I just saw a press release indicating he took a technical
editing job for one of the few remaining gaming firms.) There were three
main players, myself, a long term friend of Jon's (call him Keith) and a
mutual friend of shorter acquaintance (call him Dave). Keith's
characters showed an extreme form of divine protection. While Dave and I
spent nearly as much time rolling up new characters between sessions as
actually playing, Keith's PCs were blessed with immunity to all manner of
negative effects. He did occasionally roll up new characters, but only
when malaise overtook him. (``Send the character away --- he no longer
amuses me!'')
On one occasion Keith's character was holding a grenade which
detonated. Dave's and my PCs were felled by the explosion while Keith's
character was merely grazed. Keith blithely indicated his character was
stripping his colleagues of any funds or usable equipment. When Jon
indicated that Keith's character's ``friends'' were still breathing, Keith
quickly scribbled a note to Jon. Jon indicated that, after Keith's PC was
done, Dave's and my PCs were no longer stirring.
Although the most glaring and irksome, favoritism was not Jon's only
talent. He was equally capable at being arbitrary and capricious. You
never really had any idea of what was possible and what wasn't. During
one session, it might be reasonable for your character to get up, walk
over to the faucet and get a drink without much difficulty, and during
the next session, you might have to roll on a drowning table!
Jon also did some of the worst NPC portrayals I have ever seen. To
describe these characters as cardboard would be to do a disservice to
paper products everywhere. If there were ever more than one NPC
interacting with the party at a time, it was nearly impossible to tell
with whom any particular party member was speaking. Jon usually reached
his frustration point after a minute or two of character interaction and
declared a general melee. (An interesting society to say the least!
Imagine the following scene. You walk into a department store, and you
ask a clerk where to find the toilet paper. You suddenly realize that
you are talking to the manager, and the clerk was either an illusion or
teleported away. The manager answers a different question entirely than
you asked, but undaunted, you try to follow-up on his cryptic comments.
Enraged, the manager, who has inexplicably transformed back into the
clerk, pulls out a hitherto unseen great sword and begins hacking at
you.)
One would associate some lack of care for the fate of the NPCs under
such circumstances, but alas, nothing was further from the truth. Each
of Jon's NPCs or monsters was sacred. Nothing enraged Jon more than
harming one of his antagonistic NPCs. Frequently rolls would be visibly
fudged. NPCs teleported around the encounter area seemingly at random.
Weapons' effects changed without warning or cause, and the NPCs commonly
evolved abilities as the melees turned against them. Imagine the
following scene (these items did not all occur in the same session in
this close of proximity, but all of them did occur at one time or
another).
Jon: the Kobold blasts you with his staff of fireballs and flies away
with his wings,
Rich: But Jon, you said he was badly wounded and that we already
stripped him. When did he grow the wings? OK, I'll roll for my
character to hit. Wow! A natural 20! Cool! What should I roll for
damage?
Jon: None! He has a cube of force!
Dave: Jon, you said I was able to tie him up; plus, you said it was an
earthworm!
Jon: The fireballs home in on your two characters. Luckily Keith's
character does a triple backflip and avoids all damage.
Keith: Jon, while I'm flipping through the air, I take careful aim with
my crossbow and shoot at the Kobold; you know just like I used to do
back home.
Jon: [Rolls a one in front of the party, puts the DM screen in front of
the dice and states] Nice job! You hit the Kobold through the neck
*and* are able to catch the cube of force before hitting the ground.
Dave and Rich: How much damage did the fireball do?
Jon: It doesn't matter; you're characters are dead again.
Keith: Jon, I go over to the Kobold and cut off the wings. Can I graft
them onto my own back and fly?
Jon: Great idea! Sure, now you have wings!
Needless to say, Dave and I quickly figured out another means of
role-playing.
*** Sarcasm ends ***
Dave suggested that I start a new campaign (he indicated he would
rather play than GM), and I, who had done some one-ups prior to this,
agreed.
What followed were some truly enjoyable years as a GM which continue
to this day. I will relate some generic ``interesting'' situations
which have arisen as a GM, but none of them came anywhere near rivaling
the ``horror'' experiences as a player.
The gaming world changed. Production values improved, and
background became the name of the game. Role-playing expanded from
underground hack and slash to city and court intrigue and the great
outdoors. The hobby went from a few settings and many companies and
systems to a few high quality publishers and a plethora of prepackaged
and expensive campaign settings. The players became used to better
presentation, and with the increased expectations of products came a
(reasonable) demand for a better level of GMing. In the early days,
anyone who put out a shingle saying he or she was a GM would be
inundated with players while more recently players have the opportunity
to shop around.
One of the situations which occasionally arises is that a player is
pulled too deeply into the gaming world. I like to give out lots of
handouts in terms of documents, pictures, mockups of items, etc. I
also use sound effects on occasion. The handouts are very useful in
that they give the players a chance to look at something and plan
between sessions. I try to be extremely vivid in my descriptions of
situations in the campaign and involve as many senses as possible in
elucidating the scene (e.g. indicating the smells, the sounds, and any
sensations of touch the characters are perceiving).
By and large, these techniques only result in positive outcomes such
as the players truly visualizing the campaign world and thinking up
unique and innovative solutions to the problems confronting them in the
campaign. Still, there have been those times when a player entered that
world a bit too deeply. (As a GM, I had to take some large measure of
the blame when this happened.) There are two general cases. A player
can devote more time to the campaign than is prudent, or a player can
allow the lines between real world and fantasy conflict to become
blurred. This is not just the demesne of the deranged, estranged
teenager forging chainmail in a steam tunnel somewhere either; these
have been highly productive, social members of society.
In general, gaming tends to foster interpersonal interactions,
problem solving and offer a form of stress reduction through recreation
which fosters other activities players are involved in. In particular,
the trend has been for student players is to actually improve in their
studies over time as they delved more into history, calligraphy,
biology, statistics, etc. as adjuncts to the game, there have been
exceptions where the player began to spend time on the campaign to the
detriment of his or her studies, job, marriage, etc. I know of at
least three cases where a player got in significant trouble with a
spouse, work or academic pursuits. In two of these cases, I was able
to intervene and salvage the situation, but in both cases, this
involved having the players leave the campaign and then taking
extraordinary efforts on all parts outside the context of the gaming
group. (There are many examples where the academic standing of the
players greatly improved, and I have been personally thanked by
numerous parents for being supportive of their children. So, I don't
want to paint too bleak a picture here.)
Even more disturbing is where the line between gaming and non-gaming
conflict becomes blurred. This can run the range from inappropriate
actions or comments during gaming to physical actions outside the
context of the gaming table. In one case, I had three party members
start to gang up in a gaming sense on a fourth party member who was the
elected ``party leader'' or caller. There is always occasional tension
between the leader and other party members; so, I just assumed that the
jibes and repartee were par for the course, ``part of the job'' for the
party leader. But, things got a bit out of hand. I found out later
that several of the party members had stopped talking to each other
outside of the gaming sessions. The most serious event occurred when
one of the gamers (not the character, the player) *burned* the party
contract. (The party contract was a gaming document signed in situ by
the party members, PCs and NPCs, which addressed such issues as
division of party treasure, promisors of healing, etc.) The party
members joke about it now, but it was serious (too serious) stuff at
the time.
We can differentiate these issues from strictly gaming conflicts.
In one campaign, a PC staked another PC out on the beach to attract a
monster! Still, the *players* were best of friends! I keep in contact
with most of the old players, and we still do belly laughs when we
discuss some of the crazy things they had their characters do.
Let me add a funny aside here; sometimes it is not only the gamers
who get sucked unknowingly into the gaming world. Two of my early
gamers and dearest friends, Steve and Mike Kunkel, were up visiting me
in Washington DC. We were all walking toward the Washington monument
when Steve remarked that the Washington monument reminded him of a
temple the party had assaulted when they had played twelve years
before. Mike and Steve recounted fond stories of legions of monsters
their characters had fought and valorous deeds done. My youngest
daughter, Beth, stopped cold, whirled around, and wagged a disparaging
finger at me as she stated ``Daddy! That's not very nice! You put
your friends in a dungeon and then you sent monsters after them! Tell
them you are sorry!'' Mike, Steve and I nearly fell in the grass
laughing. I was finally able to convince my three children that this
was just all ``pretend'' stuff.
I've been blessed with only one truly antisocial player in all the
years of GMing. We'll call him Michael. The gaming group has always
done more than just role-playing. We have always stuck together and
played other types of games, done trips, attended movies, etc.
Michael's mother came up to me and asked if her son could join the
gaming group. Two of the other players' mothers had told her about
the group. In both cases, the players, call them Todd and Chuck, had
had some minor scrapes with school officials and the law. After
playing in the campaign for a bit Todd became an honor student, and
Chuck was elected to the student body government. (Todd went on to
study history in college, and Chuck became a police officer.)
Michael's mother explained that Michael was a good boy, he just needed
a positive peer group and some role models. (Yeah, right!) I didn't
really have the option of turning her son down without good reason
since I was running the group through the auspices of the community
youth center. The horror, the horror.
Michael immediately turned the gaming group against him. He took
utter glee in having his imaginary friend backstab (literally) the
other characters. Michael continually made inappropriate and
embittering comments to the other players. I took Michael aside on
several occasions and explained ``things'' to him. I spoke with
Michael's mother and told her that her son was just not appropriate to
the group. Soon afterward the head of the community youth center told
me I *had* to keep Michael as part of the group or else we gave up our
meeting place. Eventually Michael came around somewhat at the gaming
table. One day though Michael just stopped showing up. When I queried
what had happened to him, I found out he had been taken into protective
custody for assault with a deadly weapon.
There have been unpleasant situations where players have turned to
the ``dark side.'' In the Palladium role-playing game (tm) there is a
class known as Summoners (tm). The rulebook explains that most
summoners eventually take on an evil disposition as time goes on. I
stole the class for my own campaign, and I have had several Summoner
PCs over the years. The most recent of these followed a classic
example of corruption. Let us call the character Reamer. Reamer
started off claiming to summon only faeries and other fey folk, but as
time went on, Reamer began to dabble more and more with summoning dark
forces. Slowly Reamer's motivations became less and less honorable.
I knew that the PC had slipped irrevocably to evil when Reamer's
controlling player told me that Reamer was going to summon the most
powerful demon he could and the instructions would be to ravage the
land! Shortly thereafter Reamer summoned an eldritch fiend he was
unable to control and sold out the remainder of this party in exchange
for seven years of power. Reamer *immediately* became an NPC.
I had another player whose character became more and more involved
with vile chaos magics. The trouble began when the party first found
the dire manuscript. Almost to the last member, the party advocated
burning the tome, but this character, call him Pee-Wee, said he would
hang on to the dark book. Pee-Wee began reading the book, and it was
only a matter of time before one of the spells in the book proved
useful to the party. It was not long before Pee-Wee began casting
truly horrific spells. (In one case, he inserted an undead cuttlefish
into his own abdomen for an extended life span. Yuck!) The last the
party saw of Pee-Wee was when the party was captured and Pee-Wee cast
a blindness spell on the remainder of the party to improve his chances
of escape. Pee-Wee too joined the ranks of NPCs.
This portion is entitled ``The Convention''
The last couple of tidbits are from a gaming convention I attended
several years ago. it was truly an adventure, and it was one of the
only times I've executed a bootlegger reverse since leaving the test
track in Heidenheim, Germany. Eric Zylstra, Joe Wyzorek and I headed
out for a gaming convention. I had gone up the year before, had a
great time and found rooms in abundance at all the local motels, but
when Joey, Eric and I showed up, nothing was available. (It turned out
that there was a big boating extravaganza the same weekend.)
Undaunted, we started calling around. The typical conversation
with a motel attendant went something like this.
Attendant: We haven't got any rooms, but you might try blah-X and
blah-Z. They're probably filled up too, but it doesn't hurt to try.
Then, there is always the Spar-tan Inn. It is sure to have rooms, but
-- well, er -- you don't *want* to stay there.
Rich: Tell me about this ``Spar-tan Inn.''
Attendant: Look, if you go there, I didn't tell you too, OK?
Rich and Joey: [shrug] OK.
Joey: Rich, this Spartan Inn sounds like a *bad* place. Let's call
blah-X and blah-Z.
Invariably these places were filled up, but finally I did find a
cottage that was available for only $30 per night! That is when
disaster struck in my conversation with the owner.
Owner: Great! So that will be a reservation for three. Now, who
exactly will be staying?
Rich: Myself, Rich Staats (S-T-A-A-T-S) -- the mastercard is in my name,
Eric Zylstra (Z-Y-L-S-T-R-A) and Joe Wyzorek ---
Owner: What! You want three young men from *Boston* staying in my
cabin together? There is only one bed!
Rich: That is OK, we brought along sleepin ---
Owner: NOT IN MY HOTEL! (*click*) Bzzzzzzzzz.....
After that, ``not in my hotel'' became a common catch phrase in the
gaming group for ``no way, no how!'' :-)
Unfortunately, at the time it was less humorous (though still
funny), because we still needed to find a room. As one would expect
for any doughty adventuring party, we ended up at the dread ---
Spar-tan Inn!
The sky became overcast, and streams of rain fell from leaden
clouds as we rode into the sleepy hamlet. We parked the car in an
overgrown, public lot. A fish eyed attendant asked us where we were
bound for. When I replied ``the Spartan Inn,'' he croaked ``no
charge!'' The attendant smiled with a grin too wide for a normal,
healthy human countenance and showed more teeth than I had ever seen
in one mouth at one time. I shuddered and longed for the warm sun of
Boston as Eric, Joey and I shuffled slowly ever closer to the Spar-tan
Inn. The villagers regarded us with suspicious glances as we walked
up the street. When we turned toward the Spar-tan Inn though, those
few on the streets quickly darted into doorways and the dark warrens
lining this section of town. An old cripple, who had made his nest for
the night in the doorway of the Inn, grabbed my arm with his retched,
knotted hand as I reached out for the latch. ``Don't go in there
sonny! You'll be sorry!'' he warned.
I patted his hand and thanked him kindly for his advice as I used
my sinister hand to open the latch and swing back the door. Portions of
the worm eaten lintel crumbled and fell as the door swung into the yawning
darkness. A fetid odor, an unholy combination of peppermint and burned
liver and onions, assailed Eric, Joey and myself as our collective eyes
attempted to penetrate the eldritch, unlit gloom beyond. The cripple
moaned and hobbled away, dragging himself with his arms.
The silence stretched for several heartbeats before a horrid keening
sound chilled us to the marrow. The sound came again, a hideous mockery
of human speech. Every instinct in my body told me to dart away and
escape the terror that lay within, but from somewhere deep inside me, at
the very core of my being, a voice said ``Rich, it will be *cheap* I
bet!'' With resolute step, I entered. Eric and Joey huddled together
outside the confines of the Inn glancing suspiciously in the doorway and
back toward the car.
My gaze met the source of the keening sound. It was bipedal. The
``body'' was draped in a greasy cloth. Spatters of blood, syrup and
mustard covered the cloth in a pattern my mind could not decipher.
The body was topped by a misshapen spheroid. The surface of the
spheroid or ``head'' was pale and translucent. Blue veins bulged from
the surface and looked like the river system of some alien world not
meant to be seen by mortal eyes. A tuft of stringy white fur adorned
the crown of the head. Two large, veined flaps of skin or cartilage
projected from the sides of the head, not quite symmetric and
disturbing. Small tufts of white fur grew from these flaps at random
points. The eyes, my God, the eyes. They were completely white,
cataract and ulcerated. Yet, they focused on me immediately as I
entered. My heart froze in my chest, and I didn't realize I was
holding my breath until I nearly fainted.
Sound issued again from the thing. The smell of peppermint mixed
with decay wafted through the air. I was nearly unhinged by the
encounter, and my intellect sought to grasp onto any thread of sanity
or hint of pattern or form. I clung to the sounds and thought there
was some sense to them. Was it my imagination or did the thing say
``room?''
I averted my gaze from the hideous monstrosity and said ``three for
two nights.'' A chill ran up my spine and covered my body in
goosepimples as the thing chortled and screeched ``that will be grand!
Don't get many visitors here. Not a superstitious fellar are yea?''
I did not answer, but the thing went on ``give yea the best room in
the house I will. You shall live like kings.'' A grizzled ``hand''
stretched toward me though the arm or tentacle behind the hand was
hidden under the sinuous folds of grimy cloth. With some trepidation
I reached out and took the heavy skeleton key.
The key was composed of some silvery metal. It was heavier than
pewter and shown with some type of inner illumination. Inscribed in
blackface on the key was the number ``13.'' I longed to look back on
my companions for support, but I dared not turn my back on the
creature here in its very lair, the center of its strength. I asked
``should we pay now?'' Before the words had fully left my mouth, a
claw darted forth from the dark fabric and scratched my wrist. A
trickle of blood ran down my hand as the thing replied ``pay when you
leave in what form suits you.'' I ran outside. The cold, clammy air
of that village seemed like a wholesome tonic to my gasping lungs.
Eric asked ``Rich, did we get a room?''
''Yes,'' I replied ``We have room thirteen.''
Joey said ``You're kidding, right? Rich, this place gives me the
creeps. Was this some type of setup? I bet that's it Eric. Rich
came up here last week and set this whole thing up.''
I said ``let's put the bags up'' without answering Joey's query.
Eric noticed the cut on my wrist and added ``Rich, did you cut
yourself?''
I said ``Yeah, watch the door, it has some rough spots around the
edges.''
We made our way up the rickety steps of the Spar-tan Inn and came
to the door. We opened the door, and true to its word, the thing had
given us a truly magnificent room. The heady smells of cedar and
pine greeted us as we entered the pristine, well lit room. There
were two beds and a cot. The room had air conditioning, a king sized
bath and its own sauna. There was a microwave and a refrigerator.
Internally I wondered how much it would cost us and what the form of
payment would be.
I did not ponder for very long as the tendrils of lethe reached up
to us, and we passed into comatose slumber.
The next morning we made our way to the convention. There was no
sign of the guardian of the inn as we made our way out to the
vehicle, and the door to the parking attendants shack blew in the
wind as we left the parking lot.
Eric and I stuck together while Joey went his own way at the
convention. Eric and I had signed up to do a ``Call of Cthulhu''
adventure with one of the premier module authors. The assembled
players were an interesting lot.
The topic of discussion when Eric and I entered was ``what is
the worst thing that has happened to you in your life?'' The first
lad volunteered ``I had to strangle my pet cat one time. It was
rabid. You would be surprised how long a cat will last when you are
choking the shit out of it.'' Eric and I glanced at each other as
the next youth chimed in ``once I saw greater Cthulhu --- I lost all
my sanity on that one! Man, that was the scariest thing that ever
happened to me.'' He sat down and the vapid look in his eyes
confirmed every detail of his tale.
I was roused from my reverie as a perfect bound edition of the
CoC rules whizzed by my head, striking the wall behind me and
leaving the twisted gore of a squashed bot fly as the rules slid to
the floor. I cast a questioning eye at the ``missileer''. He
answered my questioning gaze by saying ``hey, it's perfectly safe.
I do that shit all the time at my house. I kill hornets there for
fun. I open up the screen door a little bit and let a couple in.
Then, I get a couple of books and sit back and nail the f*ckers.''
Eric remarked what a good shot he was and slapped me on the
shoulder adding ``Rich doesn't mind that kind of thing.'' As I
glared back at Eric, the keeper entered the room.
The session began well enough. I acted as the caller for the
group. We seemed to be making decent progress when the keeper
announced ``well, this is the half way point, and boy have you guys
boned this one up!'' The group glanced around each other with
questioning looks, and I asked ``what do you mean?'' The keeper
tilted back in his chair and said ``you're never going to finish;
that's what I mean. Are you guys stupid or did it not occur to you
to talk to the ski patrol as the very first thing?'' I said ``OK,
well that is a good hint, and we'll do that as the first thing after
the break.'' I noticed that another hapless fly had entered the room
eager to avoid any wounds due to friendly fire.
The whole module appeared to be linear in fashion without room for
deviation of any kind. The trail led from the ski patrol to an
obscure member of the ski resort staff and onward without any obvious
means of connection that our group could fathom, and at last the
keeper said ``well hell, I'll just say that somehow you made it to
the final encounter.''
The keeper seemed to have an unhealthy appetite for the subject
matter at hand in that final encounter. The session went something
like this.
Keeper: The cave is filled with rocky pillars, and you will have to
sneak up to the front.
Rich: OK, what does the opposition look like that we can see from our
current position?
Keeper: you see a couple of thugs on either side of the altar and a
crazy priest standing over the altar ``preparing'' a young woman for sacrifice.
Eric: how do we know the priest is crazy?
Keeper: you just can tell! It is the altar that really attracts your
attention!
Rich: Does the girl on the altar match the description of the one we
are supposed to save, and do we have any clear shots at the guards on either
side of the altar?
Keeper: It *could* be the girl, but you notice that she is naked --
Rich: OK, we get the picture. Do we have clear shots at the guards and
what is the floor composition like? Is it something we could sneak along?
Keeper: She is bound to the altar, completely helpless, with straps of
strong, black leather --
Eric and several others: Eeeeewwwww!
Rich: Fine, now we take up positions to have Jim, Bob and Sam put
suppressive fire on the guards while ---
Keeper: She is moaning. She might be enjoying this! The priest is
taking special cares in his ``preparation.'' He is standing *behind* the woman
--
Rich: Yes, we understand. Jim, Bob and Sam lay down suppressive fire
while Tim and Bart rush the altar using the pillars as --
Keeper: The priest is disrobed from the waist down and he is --
The party as a whole: Eeeeewwww!
Rich: FINE! We launch our attack as soon as we are --
Keeper: AND SHE IS FACE DOWN! --
Rich: OK, we understand!
The party: No more! Eeeeewwwwww!
After that ``face down'' became a slang phrase for any overzealous
description or something gross.
The payment at the inn ended up being a few dollars less than we had
anticipated spending at the cabin, and the trip back was uneventful.
As an epilog, I visited the dorm where Eric and Joey lived a couple of
months ago, and people there still say ``not in my hotel'' and ``face down.''
They probably will never know where those phrases came from. :-)
-THE END-