In this 1950’s-themed telling of Cthulu mythos lore, I was a hard-boiled detective sleuthing in a background of melancholy jazz music, ala Jake Gittes from the movie Chinatown, or the game L.A. Noire. A veteran of WW2, my character experienced witnessed an unnamable horror during the Allies push through the Netherlands toward Germany.

You see, our fine servicemen were equipped with the M1 Garand. General Patton himself called it “the greatest battle implement ever devised”; a semi-automatic rifle with the ability to provide plenty of suppressing fire against the Jerrys. However, it had one quirk; one flaw. The firing of the final bullet would eject the cartridge with a loud ping. While it was a small inconvenience in some cases, in others, it signaled to the enemy that the soldier was out, and in need of reload.

During the Battle of the Bulge, our squad was pinned down under a steep bluff. My squadmate and childhood friend, and myself were left behind during a full retreat, and hunkered down in a foxhole. In a desperate push to cover my friend for their escape, I failed to reload my firearm. 

A final bullet left my barrel, and a loud ping sounded. We were met with a barrage of return fire. Lead riddled my friend and comrade, moments before a mortar shell exploded above us, causing an avalanche that buried us both. 

In the dark buried beneath the snow, I witnessed a ghoulish visage of my comrade, clawing towards me in vengeful range, speaking in an unfathomable tongue. In abject terror, a damning sensation of a dark fate now sealed assaulted the very depths of my mind.

Years later, as this half-drunk detective, working to forget the past, I took to a life of solving heinous crimes. However, in a few moments, an untimely high-pitched ring… a doorbell, a glass shattering, wind blowing chimes,…  would send me into a deep existential panic. 

As my fingers drew towards the block, our game master would speak almost provocatively about how my character’s body shook and went pale. In one case, he became violent, and two people had to hold him down. The DM enjoyed teasing me with the visuals while I strived to focus on the goddamn block, and not topple the whole tower!

Ultimately, in the height of the investigation, within the decrepit manor filled with cultists, an eldritch ritual, and unfathomable horrors, I finally elected for the tower to fall. 

As a result, my character was forever thrown into a psychosis that would have him institutionalized, never being able to escape the memory.