Traveling through the Great Depression in the United States in 1932, my wife and children were buried by my own hands.
I woke up with a shovel in my hand, the smell of earth in my mouth, and two fresh graves outside the barn.
My sister-in-law put a shotgun to my head: "You killed my sister."
I looked at the black mark on my palm, and then at the baby's little hand stretched out from the grave.
"I said I don't remember, do you believe me?"
She believed it. Because she wasn't sure - there was no body in the grave.
Later I discovered that what I buried was not a person, but a door.
There are fragments of the Old Ones locked inside the door, and cultists who want to kill me stand outside the door.
And my sister-in-law, while calling me a waste, gave me the last piece of bread.
In this broken world, where the evil god is awakening and the Great Depression is killing her, her bean soup is the only thing that tastes as bad as ever.
But I survived.
Not to save the world, just to still be able to drink that bowl of awful soup tomorrow.
[Cthulhu + Great Depression + Absurdity + Atypical Teammate Articles]
