| George Roland Blackwell |
 |
| Portrayed By: | Johnny Depp circa Secret Window |
| Status: | Dead…ish |
| Age: | 80s |
| Occupation: | Occult magazine reporter |
| Family: | Long deceased |
| Freak Factor: | Zombie Nosy Reporter |
Background
Character background should go here. If you don't want to include your background, that's fine. Just remove this.
Eighty years ago, George was just another schmuck, blind to the Truth. Working as a reporter in an West Texan mining town and barely making ends meet. Still, he was happy in his little life with his little dreams of a rustic track of land a few dozen head of cattle.
That changed the day he was on site when the mining crew broke through the south chamber of Mt. Klarkashton and into…well, that's the thing. George doesn't remember. All he recalls is a darkness that seemed light, and the miners torches throwing out darkness, and the radiance taking him to pieces.
They buried him on Keeper's Hill the next day, and he went to work for Mankind the following Sunday.
He was pretty sure he'd been dead. Night by night, fragments of that long moment of blinding unlight and the subsequent fall through vast, airy spaces crept into his waking hours. A town doctor slumming it in a cathouse confirmed it for him - what he had thought was his pulse was just the tremor in a man's hand when he's too afraid to face up to reality.
George wandered up along the panhandle, chasing scraps and fragments of Spiritualism and folklore. Without food or drink or female company to distract him he dug in with both hands at the frayed edges of reality, and pulled.
By the '40s he matched wits and will the Ahenerbe and Thule Society in the Far East, and afterwards he followed the evil back across the pond to his native shores. In every town, in every shadow, in every human hear there seemed to lurk the spores of an ancient evil, and with time a greater pattern began to emerge, a new Truth knitted together with broken dreams and the secrets the worms tell to the dead and leave where no living man can tread. The ghost of a life he had tried to maintain through the '50s was abandoned that night along the river, when he saw the primal mouth into which all streams feed - water, life, time and history.
The 60s kept George far from the mortal world, deep within the ghoul warrens along the very borderlands of reality. He fed them with his undying flesh, and over time became to dry and wither like his hosts. In exchange, they fed him knowledge and kept him warm with the last embers of their human aspirations and hopes. From a couch of tombstones they opened a window in time and space, and he watched the nameless black planets revolve and burn with envy for the universes of light and matter.
George burst back into the scene in the early 70s, releasing article after article into the alternative and quite frankly untrustworthy press. People yearned for something more out of their world, and he gave it to them square, with a frankness that would have shocked the old men whose decaying works had been his education. The nightmares were getting stronger, and he took it to mean that he was on the right track. Something was trying to come through, something old and cold and hungry. The horizon of knowledge was a whirling mass of knives, but he stuck his arm in time and again, reaching for the unseen.
That fever for knowledge burned on through the 80s and 90s, finally cooling over the last decade. As it cooled, George dropped off the radar, his time turned back to seeking what shouldn't be found. Now he's turned up in Las Vegas, den of sin and mecca for monsters. He's got a Wordpress account and one of those ridiculous pre-paid space phones, and he's ready to bring the vox back to the populi.
Logs
Coming soon.
