Carl Cooke

Disgraced Police Officer


Looks older than he appears, due to the toll that stress and anxiety has had upon him. His prematurely graying brown hair is often disheveled and in need of a cut, and his blue eyes dart about nervously. Early-age wrinkles in odd places, poorly trimmed beard, sideburns, and mustache, and an occasional wide-eyed look contribute to his unsettling look. At times he seems normal and calm; but his demeanor can swiftly change to odd twitching, trembling, and nervous finger tapping that can be quite off-putting. He wears only high quality clothing and shoes; however, their dingy and frayed appearance betray their age.

Characteristics & Rolls

STR 11 DEX 11 INT 16 Idea 80
CON 9 APP 7 POW 14 Luck 70
SIZ 11 SAN 70 EDU 13 Know 65
Gender Male Age 23
Income $1500 + rb Assets $7500


Dodge 65
Fast Talk 5
First Aid 30
History 60
Law 50
Library Use 65
Locksmith 38
Occult 55
Psychology 50
Track 60

Combat Skills

Grapple 65

Highly intelligent and well educated, Carl decided to enter the police force at an early age. Although not incredibly strong, fast, or intimidating, his quick wits and determination helped him gain both the admiration of his fellow policemen and recognition from his superiors. Having grown up in the countryside and being no stranger to woodlands, he proved very helpful in analyzing foot prints and other tracks to help determine what had transpired at the scene: how many were involved; was there a fight or scuffle; what direction did people leave in, and were they injured; etc.

He wasn’t necessarily the brightest star among his fellow officers, but he was certainly respected and expected to flourish in his career.

However, things changed suddenly when one day, while investigating a scene, he happened upon tiny footprints in the loose dirt. Surely, these had to be washed out tracks from some animal – such as a squirrel. But this was impossible, since there had been no rain for days, and the tracks were no more than a day old. He followed them to a small pile of casks against the building wall, where they disappeared behind one of the barrels. Peeking behind, the tracks seemed to just stop. Thinking it possible that the creature had leaped onto one of the nearby casks, he started gently moving them aside to look between and around them. Suddenly, one of them fell over, the lid popped off, and a small amount of whisky poured onto his shoulder and ran down his chest. He moved the other casks aside quickly, but found nothing.

He immediately went to the investigating detective to tell him of the “tiny footprints that just vanished behind the casks”. His story was met with criticism and accusation: “Have you been drinking?” the investigator asked, leaning in to smell the whiskey on him. Assuring him that he had definitely not been drinking, he led the investigator over to the tracks. They were gone with absolutely no signs that there had ever been any tracks there before, other than his own boot prints. However, a tin cup wet with whiskey inside sat prominently on top of one of the casks. The detective looked at him, made an unsettling sound, and walked off shaking his head. Carl turned to the casks, looked at the tin cup, and knocked it to the ground, cursing!

From then on, things only got worse. He would often be awakened during the night by the sounds of tiny feet running across the room, and hushed whispers and laughter coming from dark corners. His sleepless nights caused his appearance and attendance to suffer: red and baggy eyed, he would stumble into work, often late by 30 minutes or more. While walking passed the Sergeant’s desk, he stumbled on something unseen on the floor, barely catching himself from falling to the ground. On another occasion, he stood up from his desk, only to fall over because his shoe laces had somehow became tangled together. As he fell, a metal flask fell on the ground and popped open spilling whiskey on the floor.

“What the … " he started, having no idea where the flask had come from. Cursing his bad luck did more harm than good, as the other officers could not help but witness him on the ground with the flask of spilled whiskey next to him … and wonder …

At crime scenes he would often spot something hiding in a shadow and then darting across the room. But when he went to investigate, there was nothing there. The other officers started talking, and his superiors began asking him questions: “Are you having difficulties at home? Have you been drinking again? Do you need some time off?” They stopped taking him to crime scenes, and started giving him mundane bookkeeping type tasks.

One Saturday, while the detectives were out and the Sergeant was at lunch, a young man came running into the station in a panic: “You have to help me,” he shouted at Carl. “They’re destroying the place. Quick!”

“Who’s destroying, what place?”

“The distillery!”

Knowing the distillery was closed, and hoping to finally restore his good name, he ran with the man to see what was happening. When he got to the door, he could hear faint laughing from inside. This was quickly followed by loud smashing sounds of what could only be oak barrels falling and busting open, and bottles shattering against the walls. He quickly picked the lock and opened the door, only to discover a most horrifying scene.

The place was a shambles, with busted barrels along the walls, toppled and busted barrels in the center of the room, and shattered bottles throughout. But even more unsettling was the culprits: small 2’ tall creatures with long pointed ears, cruel large black eyes, and a wide mouth full of razor sharp teeth danced and cavorted atop the busted barrels. Their bodies were frail with gray and black patches of hair, and they laughed and threw bottles as they jumped upon the barrels and tossed them to the ground. He was frozen for a moment, until one turned and threw a bottle at him. He ducked just in time, for the bottle shattered on the door merely inches above his head, showering him with whiskey. He pulled his gun and fired a few shots, but the creatures were too small and nimble and simply laughed and threw more bottles at him. He turned to tell the young man to go get more help, but the man was nowhere in sight.

Carl slammed the door and ran back to the police station where he found the Sergeant freshly back from lunch. The Sergeant looked at him suspiciously as he ran to him in a panic, sniffing the air and softly sighing.

“You have to come, quick. And bring a small patrol!”

“What is it …” the Sergeant started to say, but Carl cut him off quickly.

“No time – Jorge, Peter, Stilt! C’mon, and grab your guns.”

Carl led the Sergeant and other officers to the distillery where he stopped them at the door. All was quiet, but he wasn’t going to take any chances, and wanted to prepare them for the shocking scene they were about to see.

“What is it!” the Sergeant yelled, but Carl shushed him.

“There’s creatures – horrible creatures. And they’re destroying the place.” He went on to describe the horrible beasts, but his descriptions were met with sighs and disbelief. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said finally before throwing open the door.

Inside, the distillery was in perfect order. That is, except for several casks that were spilling whiskey out of bullet holes and two empty bottles of whiskey lying neatly against the wall just next to the door.

The Sergeant reached into Carl’s vest and withdrew his gun, smelling it and looking at the chambers. He looked at the shot-up casks, the empty whiskey bottles on the floor, and the empty bullet chambers, and then turned to Carl with a sorrowful look in his eye.

“I’ll be keeping this,” he said softly. “And I’ll take that badge, too,” he said, reaching out to Carl.

Carl was in shock, and mechanically removed his badge to hand to the Sergeant. “I don’t understand. I saw them. They were here.”

“I understand,” the Sergeant replied. “You need help, Carl. Take whatever time you need. I’ll support you. You were always a good cop, but you need help. There’s places that can help you – you need to get off the drink.”

Carl now works odd jobs to make a living, but having no real skills other than ‘Law’ and his police force training, times are hard for him. He is still plagued by strange shadows, sites, and sounds; and any attempts to prove to others that these are real have always ended in him looking foolish at best, but typically delusional and drunk. So, he has learned, and is now much more careful in sharing the supernatural events that plague him with others.

He still strives to restore his good name and re-enter the police force.

Carl Cooke

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