The city of Columbia has a dark magnetism to it. It’s hard to explain, unless the person you’re talking to has lived there. There’s a wrongness to it, amongst all the right. Streets that crack in curious ways, buildings that slump as if exhausted, railroad tracks weighed down with kudzu. Everything is ancient there, even things that have just been built. They accumulate years in days, and the light of the Circle K sign out on Garner’s Ferry flickers with portentous meaning.
It’s a shaggy sort of a city, full of strange and wonderful things, if you know how and where to look. There are wraiths wandering the old paths, stinking of cinders fresh from Sherman’s fire. Devil-dogs loping through empty parking lots, in pursuit of half-glimpsed, hell-fueled cadillacs. Wild shadows that stretch and stumble in unsettling fashion.
And then there’s the Third-Eyed Man. A murderous hobo-ghost who oozes eldritch horror. Is he a cryptid? A sorcerer? An urban legend? Maybe he’s something worse. Or better. Or both.
That thing I’m writing for CRYPTID CLASH! will probably have him in it. He will punch a lizardman. With magic. Because he’s a murderous hobo-ghost who may or may not be a sorcerer.