Dunwich: A Creepypasta Panfandom Game

girlsbestfriend
dunwichgame

$10,000 says that there's no more mass amnesia next weekend.

phasing
dunwichgame

I'm having one of those nights. I didn't really want to admit that being on land was getting to me because it's not like I lived on the ocean for years or decades, but the Marauder became my home when Krakoa didn't seem to want me.

And now I'm stuck here in this place without a purpose. Storm and I joined this agency before here. Called the Infinite Agency. They did this whole song and dance about saving dimensions, and I ate that up. They could slip you right back into the time you left so it would be like you never left. Reminded me of the Exiles, and I thought it was a good cause. It was slow to start, but there were some good people on the team. Some of them are still here. Some of them don't remember being there.

Then something breached the dead universe we were in, and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that it reminded me a lot of some of the shit that's come out of that dark universe I phased into, that Illyana portaled into. Same kind of monsters. I heard there were acid web spinning spiders when they were fighting the demogorgon and Vecna on the physical plane. Those spiders attacked us at the old Avengers compound in that universe (among other things).

I wish we had more mutants here. I miss Logan and Illyana. I'd love to see Kurt and Rachel and Betsy. Hell, I'd even be happy to see Magneto — but that's a story for another time.

I don't know what I'm trying to say here. I just thought that writing this in a journal or a diary would be so very teenage me, and maybe I need to open up a little more.

It occurs to me that I don't have a copy of The Rise of the Dragon and I wondered if you had at that Pagemaster. It's by George RR Martin, and it's sort of an encyclopedia about House Targaryen. If not, is there a way to order it? I'd rather not give Amazon anymore of my money unless I have to.

dunwichmod
dunwichgame

ARRIVAL

The thick, ghastly haze of the mist, once practically opaque to the naked eye, fades and opens up to a nostalgic homegrown New England town. A friendly gazebo, freshly painted white sits on a neatly mown lawn at the center of the town square. Vehicles stop at the redlight while locals cross the street, birds chirp in the trees, and a school bus stops to pick up a few children in oversized backpacks. Pedestrians walk by you without a second glance. Did they not see you suddenly appearing out of nowhere? How could they not have noticed that all encompassing fog? And why doesn’t your obviously otherworldly attire catch their attention? This appears to be a small, close knit community. And it’s clear you’re not from around these parts.

But these are simply the first of many mysteries you’re about to discover.

The further you investigate your new surroundings, the more ominous this seemingly quaint and colloquial town becomes. There’s something dark beneath its pleasant guise. You can’t shake the chill at the back of your neck and the sense that someone—or something—is watching you. Then there’s the odd graffiti on the alleyway walls and the way the locals talk about certain locations. And while the mist is gone, there are places in town that make you reminisce about the mist. Places that feel supernaturally thin. Thin enough to let in whispers from the other side. Or maybe even screams.

And don’t worry if you hear laughter or the jingling chimes of carnival coming from the rain gutters in the street. That’s just your imagination. There’s nothing down there.

Nothing that floats.