Arne Harrigan

Arne Harrigan arrived in Arkham under a sky that didn’t move. Clouds hung like rot, unmoving, watching. He stepped off the bus with a duffel full of iron and regret—two Colts, a Thompson, a cracked mirror wrapped in oilcloth, and the Wolf Mask he swore he'd burned in the Ardennes. Sophie’s name still haunted the edge of sleep, stitched into the mirror’s glass. She hadn’t screamed in years. Now she whispered. Arkham had that effect on the dead.

He didn’t come to save the world—just to find a reason not to shoot himself in the mouth. The town gave him plenty. Cults bloomed like ulcers beneath the streets, and something old had begun to stir behind the trees, older than language, older than war. He found it in the ruins of Dunwich: a cathedral made of bone and silence. That’s where the mirror cracked, where the mask clung to his face like skin, and where the Thompson burned dry before the real fight even started. He fought with fists, with teeth. Desperation made for a fine weapon.