The Shadow Over Newcrest ~ Revised Story Blog

Hello everyone! I'm 15aewar here and on Origin, and Rendora everywhere else. Welcome! I've been inspired by many of the fabulous writers here to revise the prologue to the Shadow Over Newcrest Challenge. When I started this project, my focus was on building and creating sims for the Progenitor to interact with; they would be toys for him to interact with and dispose of as he saw fit. Over time, I grew more attached to the sims I made. The townies started sprouting stories. Now their roots are inextricably intertwined.

If you're so inclined, the old thread is posted here, along with videos of the builds and my own commentary. Be forewarned, however: the stories there are not representative of what I wish the final project to be. Also, spoilers. You can find the official, current website here:

The stories may (still) be unpolished, but I hope to capture some of what makes the Cthulhu mythos so compelling.

Thank you,



  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member


    Prologue: Chapter I
    I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you.
    ~ H. P. Lovecraft, The Case of Charles Dexter Ward


    I have tried to piece together, to the best of my ability, the events which have conspired to bring about the Shadow over Newcrest. I am but one of the two remaining menfolk in town. The rest have disappeared, and I fear the worst for them.

    My resources are incredibly limited, as I am locked in this tiny room with only the barest of essentials to survive. I am permitted a bed, a sink, a toilet, some books, and a writing desk. Rations are delivered once a day. I have been confined here ever since the destruction of Ophelia Villa, of which I am the primary cause.

    I have gathered the following information through friends’ epistles, my own observations, and inferences. The following tales may seem disconnected at first glance, but they all have contributed, in some fashion, to the current circumstances.


    Alexander Goth
  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member

    Prologue: Chapter II

    DAY 1

    Dearest Wilma,

    Stell’bsna nilgh’ri? I hope the Watcher is treating you well. Yes, I’m still afflicted with those terrible dreams. Life in the cupola is very much the same as it has always has been; same curtains, same sink for washing, same three meals per day. If I did not have the Newcrest Gazette, my books, or your letters, I would have gone completely mad long ago. For the moment, I am only halfway there.

    Katrina and her new husband Don shall be staying with us until the flood passes. Kadishtu? The mayor of Oasis Springs ordered the entire town to evacuate. I cannot imagine a worse way to end a honeymoon. Wait, I see headlights. That’s them! Their motorcar has pulled up to the curb. The engine has stopped. Don is opening the door for his wife. She’s as lovely as ever, although something is troubling her – and it isn’t the flood. Nafl’ah y’stell’bsna y’kadishtumg; Don’t ask me how I know.


  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member
    edited September 2017

    Chapter III

    DAY 2

    Dearest Wilma,

    Do you remember that summer we met? Y’nafilyaa gof’nhupadgh n’ghft chtenff. It was a Wednesday night in the middle of June. I had sneaked out of my bedroom window at half past nine in the evening. I had finished the third entry of my favorite series: The Llama Boys in The Case of the Missing Plumbobs. It had ended on a cliffhanger; the plumbob thief had locked Joe Llama in the janitor’s closet – and it was a Friday afternoon. I could not bear the thought of waiting until morning to find out if Joe made it out in time, let alone until my parents’ schedules permitted. The sun hung low in the sky, but there was just enough light to see by. I rode my bicycle the mile-and-a-half distance that separated Ophelia Villa from the Willow Creek Archives. When I arrived, all the lights were off, save for a single lamp on the first storey. How odd, I thought, maybe the librarian is still here. The door was unlocked, just like I thought it would be. (Funny, that – not a single municipal building is ever locked. I suppose we live in a very trusting society.)

    I quickly found what I was looking for, but how would I face the librarian? I racked my brains for a palatable excuse for why a young boy was out alone at this time of night. Just tell her your mother is powdering her nose, I thought. You can imagine my relief when I saw you. You were sitting in my favorite chair, the one on the first floor that overlooks the little pond. You were reading An Introduction to Reason.


    I must have stared at you for a full minute before you noticed me. “Is there something the matter?” you asked me in a tone that wasn’t of annoyance, but of complete apathy.

    “What are you doing out at this time of night?” I said.

    “I could ask you the same.”

    As Katrina Caliente walked to the front door of her best friends’ home with her new husband. Her mind kept replaying a conversation she had with Don just two days ago. They were on their honeymoon, and natural disasters were the furthest things from her mind…


    “Did you ever notice how there aren’t any cemeteries anymore?” Katrina said to Don. The two were lying on their backs, watching the stars over Granite Falls. “Where do we put the dead people? Not everyone has room for a headstone in the backyard. It’s like the toilet – no one ever thinks about where the poop goes when it’s flushed. Things can’t just disappear.”

    Things can’t just disappear.

    I explained to you my situation, dearest Wilma. I told you how I wanted to know what happened to Joe Llama and if the plumbob thief was caught.

    You spoke in a way that suggested maturity far beyond your eight years. “I often follow my father,” you said. “He’s at the Blue Velvet. I like to hide and watch what he does from the bushes. First, he walks up to the bar. He becomes a different person, then. He’s no longer the man who flits about Newcrest, chittering to himself like a sparrow who has lost the worm. He becomes charming and riotously funny. He begins talking to a woman – usually, it is a woman, but sometimes it is a man.”

    “He asks, ‘What’s your favorite?’ The bartender will make a Wrench, or a Ridgeport, or a Zebra Fizz for Father’s companion. Father, however, always orders the same thing for himself. It’s a drink I’ve only ever seen him order. I’m not sure what it consists of or what it is called, just that it is a vile-looking black concoction. It’s served in a martini glass and garnished with this curious little flower.


    “It is a delicate flower, and an unusual one at that; its petals are slender, blood-red with fuchsia tips. Its sepals, the flower’s outer protective petals, are black tendrils. The most curious part of the specimen, however, is the disk. The florets are positioned in such a fashion as to make this center part resemble a skull. I would not have believed such a flower existed had I not seen it with my own eyes.

    “He drinks his concoction in one gulp. Evidently, it is not the type of juice to be savored or enjoyed with a side of bacon. He buys a few more drinks for his companion. Then they leave. I suppose Father takes her home; that would be the most logical conclusion. He’s never left with the same person twice because those who leave with him don’t come back.”

    Your tale left me in a stunned silence. Even I, the eight year old child whose primary concern had been the Llama Boys not an hour ago, understood the implications. However, one single fact bothered me about your story.

    “You still haven’t said why you’re here. Why not wait outside the Blue Velvet?”

    “Boredom,” you said. “He does this every time there’s a full moon – and every fifth Wednesday.”

    Y’gotha hlirgh’h throd,

  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member
    edited September 2017

    (Just a little audiobook I made to go along with the story.)

    Prologue: Chapter IV
    DAY 3

    Dear Reader,

    A few days after the Goths arrived, I received a letter from one Miss Wollstonecraft, an assistant librarian at the J. Curwen Memorial Library. It was dated August first. Besides the reality that I had received the letter the same day as it was written (the post wasn’t exactly known for its expediency,) the fact that I had gotten a letter from someone other than Wilma Whateley struck me as odd. Those outside my immediate family surely thought I had died in the explosion that destroyed Ophelia Villa; my father and sister acted as if I never existed at all. The letter, in its entirety, read as follows:

    Dear Mr. Goth:

    If, by some miracle, this letter has reached you, please forgive the intrusion. I am not in the habit of writing to those presumed to be deceased, but do so because I have exhausted all other options.

    As you are doubtless well aware, the second and third floors of the J. Curwen Memorial Library function as the repository for the town’s records. It has come to my attention that one of the library’s blueprints have gone missing – specifically, the detailing the ground floor. Reviewing the library records, it appears you were the last one to view them some ten years ago. I have already contacted the construction firm who built the Library, as well as the records department of the Simsonian University; both investigations proved fruitless.

    If you are in possession of those blueprints, I strongly urge you to return them to the library, as they are an irreplaceable part of Newcrest’s history.


    Bliss Wollstonecraft, Assistant Librarian

    Before I had the time to formulate a response, a second letter came.
    Dear Mr. Goth:

    Please forgive this second intrusion, but I feel compelled to write to you once more. I find a strange comfort in writing to one who will likely never read my words; perhaps it is because the head librarian held you in such great esteem. Do you recall Mrs. Prynne, an elder who always wears cat sweaters? Likely not, as you only visited the Newcrest library a handful of times. She remembers you, however. Is it true that you gave her an apple every time you came? Did you really help her reorder the card catalog when Mrs. Petersen tripped over the telephone cord? She says she cannot fathom how a nice boy like you got mixed up with the Whateleys. When I asked her who the Whateleys were, all she said was, “You’ll know them when you see them.” She refused to elaborate further.

    Who are the Whateleys, and what have they done that’s so terrible?



    Lavinia Whateley sat at the kitchen table of the tiny farmhouse. She had wished she had thrown on her tattered house coat when she came down the stairs. It was unseasonably cold for May – or it would be in about an hour. She drew her arms into her sleeves and huddled closer to the flickering gas lamp. Why did he have to start this again? she thought, but that wasn’t what worried her most. What worried her most was the fact that Cicero had taken their daughters along with him.
  • naninani Posts: 5,563 Member
    So much mystery
    A french girl who's been hanging out on the english sims forum for a year now.


  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member

    Another little audiobook to go along with the story :innocent:

    Prologue: Chapter V

    DAY 4


    Dearest Wilma,

    The Calientes have been here two weeks. No word from Oasis Springs yet. Mrs. Caliente is used to being away from home weeks at a time, due to her career as a vaudevillian, but daughters Dina and Tina are clearly homesick. They dull these feelings with work. Dina has taken a job as a bartender at the Wobbly Mizzenmast. She insists on covering half the household’s expenses with her meager salary. My mother makes a show of refusing, but I can tell she is internally grateful. Unfortunately, the house is about to become even more crowded; Katrina brings an uninvited guest with her. Nafl’ah y’stell’bsna kadishtumg.

    The nightmares are getting worse. Every night I am awakened by frenzied chanting in that ancient and forgotten tongue. It says, Iä, Sothoth, Iä! I find myself not in bed, but curled up in a ball beneath my writing desk, nightclothes damp and clammy from perspiration. The chanting grows louder; N‘gha’fhalma ilyaa! I tremble, though I dare not move from the spot. I clamp my hands over my ears, but it grows louder still! Iä, Sothoth, Iä! N’gha’fhalma ilyaa!

    Then, to my horror, I realize where those monstrous utterances were coming from; they were coming from me.

    Iä, Sothoth, Iä! N’gha’fhalma ilyaa! Iä, Sothoth, Iä! N’gha’fhalma ilyaa! Iä, Sothoth, Iä! N’gha’fhalma ilyaa…


    GOTHS’ HOUSE, GUEST BEDROOM Late at night. A tiny room with dainty pink wallpaper. DON is trying to sleep on a bed that is clearly too large for the space. There is a white dresser at the far side of the room. A bottle of champagne sits on top of it, left over from the newlyweds’ interrupted honeymoon.

    KATRINA stands at the window in her bathrobe.

    KATRINA: There’s that howling again.

    DON: What howling?

    Distant chanting in a long-forgotten language can be heard. KATRINA glares at DON.

    KATRINA: Don’t tell me you don’t hear it.

    DON: Oh, that. Sounds like it’s coming from the cupola.

    KATRINA: (scoffs) It’s coming from the Bishops. How many times does Mortimer have to tell you there’s nothing up there?

    DON: I don’t know…that’s what it sounds like to me.

    KATRINA: How is someone going to get up there without a ladder? How would they get inside without a door or someone to open the window?

    DON: Birds can get into the tiniest of places…

    KATRINA: That’s no bird. (sighs) I should give the Bishops a piece of my mind.

    DON sits up in bed and invites KATRINA to sit beside him. She does so.

    DON: What’s wrong, Kat? Tough crowd tonight?

    KATRINA: (relaxing) Yeah. I did that bit about the president and Oasis Springs and everybody looked at me like I was from Sixam. I don’t understand. It killed them last week.

    DON: Maybe the people around here really like President Landgraab?

    KATRINA: Yeah, I thought so, too…until three people came up to me after the show and asked me where Oasis Springs was.

    DON: Well, we are out in the sticks…

    KATRINA: One of them was a professor of geography. At Simsonian U.

    DON: Oh.

    KATRINA: Don, when are we going to go home? This house is too small, I’m stressed out, and I’ve put on ten pounds since we got here.

    Wailing stops.

    DON: They’ll let us know any day now. (He pulls KATRINA in for a kiss.) And you’re more beautiful than ever.

  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member
    edited October 2017
    The latest part is up - along with this little video I made to go along with it. Unfortunately, my allergies were acting up when I recorded it, so I'm a bit snuffly. I thought it would go along well with Bliss's character, anyway. :)
  • simscognitosimscognito Posts: 16,526 Member
    Hi @15aewar just wanted to say that your use of multimedia to communicate your tale is very impressive.
  • 15aewar15aewar Posts: 1,051 Member
    Hi @15aewar just wanted to say that your use of multimedia to communicate your tale is very impressive.

    Hey, thanks! I really appreciate it. :)
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