Play & Review: Strange Things Come From the Forest of Things That Bleed

Strange Things Come from the Forest of Things that Bleed is a solo journaling game found in the first issue of the d36 zine, which was put together by Chris Bissette of Loot The Room and was kickstarted back in 2021 . This particular edition of the zine focuses on visceral themes, including blood and violence, and honestly isn’t for everyone. The print edition is absolutely stunning, featuring a soft rose petal cover with gorgeous layouts and typography tailored for each game inside.

Strange Things is by designer Sinta Posadas who has designed many TTRPGs, including an entire series about plants (The “PlantVerse”) and magical frogs, and also provides wonderful art packs for other designers to use. The only place I’ve found Strange Things, however, is in d36.

In my first long-term streamed campaign, Saving Feyce, I played a character named Aoife (EE-fuh) Inkblood, who was a swamp witch flavored warlock. I struggled intensely with connecting to her for the longest time, and it really reflected in my storytelling in the game. It took a while, but I worked through a lot of indie games and character development exercises to really bring bring her to life. Strange Things was one of those exercises, and this is the first time I’m sharing the story outside of the campaign. This final version helped to shape some of the world and lore that our characters lived in, which was a really neat experience

Strange Things Come From the Wicked Wood: A Story of Et’ta

I have been wandering in the swamp for nine days. Nights? … Cycles? Nine times the moon in the sky has turned from barely a sliver to full, swollen and shining with a sick red light. Nine times I have watched blood seep from the trees and pollute the waters of the place I call home.

Maybe this is just a vision. Maybe this is all in my head, and I am truly in no danger here… But I cannot be sure. There is no way to tell. My dress is sodden with blood and muck in a way that truly feels real.

It has taken this long for me to remember my name. Aoife. Aoife Inkmaker. It is a good name, and mine, though perhaps not very strong. I seem to remember my nana giving it to me. Hazel, her name is. It comes to me on a wave of memory, the scent of warm beef stew and baking bread.

Gazing up at the slowly swelling moon, a sense of urgency comes upon me. Though there seems to be no real passage of time in this place, the place where lost things go, I know it is time.

I begin walking.

Rains came during the last cycle, the first time I’ve truly felt clean since I found myself here. Puddles still remain, humidity keeping the air thick and wet with no room for more moisture. I gaze dispassionately at my face in the dark, red-tinged water as I walk. Matted orange hair pulled back, trinkets tied into it like a crow’s nest. Green eyes, pale skin, plain face, pointed ears. There is nothing there that is familiar, except the shape of my lips. They remind me of someone else. Someone… softer.

Gathering my skirt, I continue walking on the trail I’ve taken eight times before. The trees feel closer together this time, and I have to wonder if I’m imagining that. How much of this is real, and how much is in my head? And why am I here? I must remember why I’m here. There must be a reason. Why else would I be in this place, over and over again?

The moon continues to swell in the sky, its light growing and casting deeper shadows as it does. At the side of the trail, I spy an old campfire: The charred wood soaked and cold from the rain. No comfort to be found, and I cannot remember building a fire during one of my previous walks down this path. Is someone else here?

As I look down at the ashes, there is the glint of something there and I cannot help but sift my fingers through. I pull my hand back with a hiss, fingertips dripping blood. Pressing the blackened and bleeding fingers inside my mouth, I use my other hand to pull a curved knife from the cold remains. The letters “AI” are engraved on the blade near the white bone handle and it fits perfectly in a loop on my belt, as if it were always meant to be there. Next to it, a bundle of dried flowers hangs by a length of cord. The flowers smell sweet, like lavender sugar, a welcome reminder that even in this place there are good and soft things to be found.

The trail widens a bit here, as it has for every one of the last eight cycles. I’m beginning to keep these little landmarks in my mind, learn the shape of this dark place. Hopefully this effort is not in vain.

As before, small lights dance beside the path. They hover and bounce just beyond the tree line, their warm glow barely illuminating the shadows that live between the massive trunks. The lights do not give me hope any longer… Not after the fourth turn, where I followed them to my doom. Grasping vines twisting around my ankles, dragging me into the thick water, algae clinging to my hair.

Shaking my head, I brush away those thoughts and focus on this cycle. This path before me. Focus on the music that begins to play in the distance, pulling me further along. The sounds of wind chimes, of deep wind instruments coming to me on the breeze, twisting between the boughs and trunks of the red-stained trees.

The tempo picks up and my pace goes with it, until I am nearly flying down the path. It is almost as if the beat of the melody is chasing me, pushing me faster, my hair flying behind. A quick glance over my shoulder this time. The lights follow, bobbing in beat with my footsteps, with my heartbeat. I try to run faster, and as I do so the lights keep pace. The music picks up to a fever pitch… Until I burst into a small clearing.

The silence is deafening.

Here, the white trunks of the trees are ghostly and pristine in the silver light of the nearly-full moon. I do not remember this place, where the roots heave themselves out of the water, seeming to boil up and over their kin in a bid to be dry. The leaves are shaped like those of the mangrove, but ruby red.

Suddenly ravenous, I realize it has been so many days… Cycles. So many cycles since I’ve had anything to eat. The leaves… Nana has used mangrove leaves in her cooking before, I’m certain. The branch nearest to me bends down to meet my outstretched hand, almost as if it is yearning to be touched. Tearing the autumnal leaf in half, it weeps a red sap that looks like blood… But ohh, it smells like the soft sweet cakes I make for breakfast. It tastes just as sweet, with a small hint of spice, as I lick a drop away. A warmth spreads through me as I swallow, and my belly feels almost full as I reach for another, tearing the fragile skin with my teeth while the sap slips down my chin. As I wipe away the liquid, I am somehow shocked at just how much it looks like blood on the back of my hand.

The sound of a branch snapping off to my right causes me to gasp, eyes wide as I wheel around to face whatever adversary the swamp has chosen to throw at me this time. A soft whisper through the trees, words I cannot make out, blown away by a forceful wind. Keeling down, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, hoping to blot out this nightmare.

“Happy thoughts,” I whisper to myself, willing my focus away from the cold air and metallic taste in my mouth. Back to the hut, and mornings with Nana. Waking up early, cold water and peppermint tea together on the porch. Watching the sun glitter over the water through the long moss, the scent of sweet cakes and dew on the breeze. I cannot lay down and die here. I must return. There is still so much left to do.

Feeling the cold air become motionless around me, I rise to my feet only to find the center of the clearing now holds an altar. Unvarnished wood, stained with blood and mud, it stands as if it had been there the whole time. Resting up on the macabre tabletop is a glimmering silver coin, strikingly uncorrupted against the grime. It is surprisingly warm as I pick it up, turning it over between my fingers. One side has the number “100” embossed on it, while the other has beautiful flowers, both with characters in a language I do not recognize. Peace washes over me as I drag in a deep breath, clutching the coin tightly.

The overwhelming scent of fresh coppery blood assails my nose, making me gag and double over. Looking around at the trees, the red liquid is pouring from them. Dripping down the tendrils of hanging moss, weeping from gashes in the tree trunks, bubbling up from the ground as if it were spring water.

My bare feet squelch into the mud that suddenly manifests underneath my skirts, and I am dragged down as the bloody water starts to rise. I clutch the coin even tighter, looking up into the sky at the moon. It is full and deep red and angry.

In response, anger blooms in my chest. I scream, wordless and primal, into this forever night. “You cannot have me!” I call out, defiant in the last moments I will live in this cycle. “You cannot have me!” I scream, my voice breaking from the strain.

The viscous liquid closes over me and I gasp, taking the tainted water into my lungs. From here, the glimmer of the full and bloody moon in the water is almost hauntingly beautiful. As I exhale, the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears is the last thing I hear…

… Until the sound of softly chirping birds reaches me. I blink my eyes open, and hiss against the sunlight I haven’t seen in a week or more. Pushing myself upright, I recognize this place: This path leads to the Wicked Woods. The place where forgotten things go. Where sacrifices to the swamp end up. Where only the witches of the swamp can safely tread, to reclaim what was lost.

Gathering my shaking legs beneath me, I smile into the rising sun. My name is Aoife Inkblood and I am a Witch of the Swamp, like my Nan before me. I have gone into the Wicked Wood, and returned more than I was before. I am now whole, like the swelling blood moon. None can take this new power from me. It is mine and I will fight to defend myself, and this place, and those people I call home.

Play & Review: Wait For Me

Wait For Me is a stunning solo journaling game by Jeeyon Shim and Kevin Kulp that centers around the player character and time traveling through their life. It is a style of game that has you drafting entries over a total of 21 games, and the end result is a beautiful keepsake journal that details your time in the game.

As with all of these solo games, you (the player) don’t have to be the main character: You can create a fictional person whose life you build through these entries, or maybe it’s a way to learn more about your TTRPG character’s backstory before they went on their current adventure; However you choose to play, the results of your entry will be different every time, even though the prompts stay the same.

Below you can see a few of my journal entries from my recent play through of this game:

Overall, I love Wait For Me and its concepts of time travel and keepsake journals. I initially backed this game on Kickstarter and received the prompts via email daily when the campaign was finished. It was so interesting and unique; each day was a surprise, and it made me eager for the next entry. I highly recommend this game if you enjoy journaling and creative writing, and don’t mind getting emotionally invested in your own story.

Play & Review: Whispers in the Walls

Whispers in the Walls is a solo journaling game of the horror variety, created by Andrew Boyd at Pandion Games. The player takes on the role of a private investigator working to solve a mystery, using a standard deck of cards to divine the secrets the walls are trying to tell you. I purchase a copy from Knave of Cups, who hosts a storefront for indie game designer’s physical copies and provide fulfilment of those orders. If you haven’t checked out their offerings, I highly recommend them.

Now, let’s move along to the review and playthrough:

The physical edition of Whispers in the Walls is beautiful, printed in full color. The end papers are covered in scribbled words, leaning into the feeling of soft spoken phrases and secrets barely heard. The game itself only requires the use of a standard deck of playing cards and a place to record your investigation, which makes it quite accessible for most players who don’t have access to full dice sets or tarot decks. The instructions are very clear and concise, and the opening pages include safety notes for the player, as well.

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CONTENT WARNING: Allusions to physical and/or medical abuse, spider-like creatures, eyes, outer space, and drowning. If these topics are a hard line for you, I would not recommend reading further.

Starting Location: An apartment in a high rise downtown.
From the outside of the building and the hallway leading to the apartment, all is well: The building itself is in good repair, the hallways warm and well-lit. The doorknob feels grimy under my hand as twist it and push the door inward, a thick wave of stale cigarette smoke wafting out to meet me. Despite the tarp covering the broken sliding glass door, the scent of tobacco still lingers, baked into the peeling yellowed wallpaper and the thick coating of dust that covers everything. The room is freezing, the tarp fluttering in the midwinter breeze it catches up here on the 22nd floor. I peel away the stained and brittle newspaper taped to the window in the kitchen: It’s a gorgeous view. A shame to cover it up.

Turning back into the room, my gaze is drawn to the ceiling where the popcorn texture seems to move and undulate, shifting into a thick static-like effect, a Magic Eye design that doesn’t stop moving. It’s blurry, but I can make out a man sitting in a wing backed chair, his legs crossed at the ankles as he relaxes, a lit cigarette in one hand and a thick book in the other. After a few seconds he looks up, his face contorting in rage as he throws the book before getting up and marching out of the “frame".” The static settles, and the ceiling returns to its mottled yellow-brown nicotine-stained state. I blink, returning my gaze to the room around me. The wing backed chair from the vision is tucked in the far corner, with a heavy bookshelf behind it. A weighty glass ashtray sits on a table to the right of the armrest and a tea cup rests on a small saucer next to it, loose tea leaves and thick sludge staining the bottom of the white china cup. A standing lamp with a fringed shade is tucked in the corner behind the chair, looming over any who would choose to sit there.

As I approach the chair and table, my eyes feel drawn to the overflowing ashtray. Stubbed cigarette butts are crammed into the the bowl, the dark amber glass of its grooved rim and the surrounding tabletop choked with thick ash. The silence is almost as oppressive as the dust when a loud CRACK causes me to whip my head up to look, stepping back in time to avoid a chunk of plaster falling down onto the chair’s threadbare and holey seat.

For a moment all is quiet again, before the plaster suddenly moves in an arachnid-like way, sprouting segmented legs and skittering over the arm of the chair to the table. I step back again as it crouches over the ashtray, shuddering as its knees (knees?) bend the wrong way to bring its underside flush with the table. The ashtray is nowhere to be seen as the legs of the plaster-spider-thing fold up over its back (back?), curling as if dead, before it continues folding itself over and over, creasing as easily as origami paper. After a few moments, a piece of lined notebook paper sits in a circle, devoid of dust, where the ashtray had previously been.

Taking a pen from my pocket, I poke it - As one does with unknown and potentially hostile creatures. Seeing no movement, I gingerly unfold the page to find the following:

Andromeda - As previously discussed, please ensure the amber ashtray is emptied and washed every day. The doctor becomes very cross if it is not done first thing in the morning.

“Doctor, eh?” I muse out loud, taking in the books on the shelves: Old medical tomes, all of them, with some book about superstitions and ancient occult practices. Many of the spines appear well worn, soft to the touch with faded gilded titles. For a moment, all is silent in this tomb of a home, before the walls begin to shake.

At first, I think it must be an earthquake, but I realize quickly that the only place I feel the tremor is in the shelves. It doesn’t take long before all the years of accumulated dust and ash hang in the air, a fog so thick the weak breeze from the broken door cannot clear it. After a moment, a man made of dust steps up beside me, his hand reaching for a book on the shelf. His fingers slide into an empty space and as he pulls his hand away, a book materializes. As he flips the cover open I lean in, noting old anatomical diagrams and surgery notes. He nods, snaps the book shut, and tucks the book under his arm before walking through the archway into the formal dining room. Turning back to the shelf, I slide my fingers into the space where this book normally resides. “Curious,” I mutter to myself.

As I pause with my fingers on the shelf, a great screeching fills the room as more dust, white dust, plaster dust drifts down from the ceiling and into my face. I blink, then sneeze, opening my eyes to find the ceiling mere inches from the top of my head. Ducking down, then crouching to avoid the ceiling as it continues to descend. The screaming sound fills the room as I find myself laying down on the smoke-scented carpet, the ask floating up in puffs as I move my hands along the short fibers. I turn my face toward the bookcase, the ceiling already pressing against the side of my skull as I see a glimmer of gold under the shelf. Stretching out my fingers, ash gathers under my nails as I pull myself through the swiftly tightening space between the floor and ceiling. As my hand slides into the gap under the bookshelf, brushing the binding of the book, the ceiling halts its progress just shy of the moment when the pressure would become truly unbearable… And I breathe in deep as it recedes, pulling the book into my lap as I sit up and look around the room. The state of the room is barely altered, other than an additional layer of dust.

After a few moments to catch my breath, I scoot across the floor to a patch of sunlight before opening the book. There are some pages made of vellum, full of drawings and annotations swirling on their thin pages. They lay over one another to create a layered image, skin lifting up to reveal muscle to reveal bone and reveal organs…

My gaze tears from the pages as I register the sudden heat in the room. The windows are streaming with light that narrows into tight beams, almost as if they’re turning into magnifying glasses. They continue to contact until the shaft of light begins to singe the carpet next to me, the cream colored fibers first turning the color of honey before caramelizing into black coffee, then charring. Burning dust hangs thick in the air as the beam slides over the carpet before landing on the book in my lap, which erupts into flames.

It seems like an eternity later when I slam the book closed, cutting off the flames, but it can’t have been more than a few seconds. Gazing around, the smoldering book clutched between my fingers, I take in the lines etched into the carpet: They look like a door. A cellar door. In the floor. On the 22nd floor of a downtown high rise.

Scrambling to my feet, I tuck the book under my arm as I slide my fingernails into what looks like the edge of the door and pull. To my surprise, the door swings up and open and it’s just a black void in the cream colored carpet, an inky black velvet that twinkles with stars. Sinking back to my knees, I stick my head into the darkness and gaze around, feeling as though I’m being watched. That feeling lasts just long enough for me to feel the hand in the middle of my back that pushes me into the black before slamming the door behind me.

At first, I’m afraid to breathe in this expanse. But it isn’t a true space: I haven’t frozen, and there’s a quiet humming here. As this registers, I also realize that I’m not floating, as if in zero gravity, but I am instead falling.

As the wind rushes by, the humming intensifies into a melodic song. My gaze roams over the darkness, the small pinpricks of light waver and flutter as if blinking before they reshape themselves into thousands of eyes, staring from vastness of space. As I realize they are, in fact, eyes watching my descent, a square of light opens beneath me and I am thrown back into the living room of this apartment. The velocity of my fall slams me into the ceiling, the book finally slipping from my grasp, before I fall again onto the carpet. My hands break my fall, straining my wrists and my palms heating with a rug burn.

I pause for a moment, laying back on the carpet. The ceiling is bisected by a line I hadn’t previously noticed, a deep red welt across the expanse that almost looks wet. My thoughts drift, and I wonder what the wound would feel like under my fingertips… When it suddenly cracks open all at once. A great, vibrant blue eye peers into the room, its gaze flitting about before locking on me.

The huge pupil contracts, and yet I can still see myself reflected in its dark surface. For a moment, the eye appears to soften, as if sad, before a tear wells up and spills over, immediately soaking me to the bone, filling my throat and nose, burning my own green eyes. Rolling onto my hands and knees, I cough up the water and wipe my streaming eyes, taking care not to get the anatomy book any more wet than it already is. Looking up once more, the water has coated every surface, the teacup and ashtray now overflowing with discolored liquids.

Sitting back on my heels, I push my hands through my hair before standing, sliding the thick tome into the crook of my arm once again. A soft breeze, like a sigh, whispers through the room, ruffling the tarp over the broken glass door. Turning back toward the main entrance, it feels like my time here is finished… Until I see the foxglove sprouting from the keyhole. My fingers reach almost without thought, grazing the purple bells of the flower softly. I pluck the stem but it regrows quickly, as if on a fast forward time lapse track, more purple blooms waving in the soft breeze. I move my hand to the doorknob, only to find the door locks and a sense of needing to complete something in my chest.

Once more, I turn to the room, holding the foxglove in one hand and the anatomy book in the other. I whisper to the gloom: “Your name is Andromeda. And the doctor… He hurt you, didn’t he?” The tarp ruffles, and the fringe on the lampshade sways. I node, lifting the sprig of foxglove. “And you poisoned him. Foxglove tea.” The breeze lifts again, this time hard and fast, pressing me back against the door.

A tight smile crosses my face. “I don’t blame you, Andromeda. He seems to me…” I pause as the wind dies, dropping the heavy tome onto the soaked cushion of the wing backed chair. “He got exactly what he deserved.”

The room fills with a quiet chuckle, a sound that almost masks the click as the door unlocks. Tucking the sprig of foxglove into my lapel, I twist open the doorknob and stop again before crossing the threshold. “Rest well, Andromeda,” I whisper, pulling the door closed tightly behind me. The lock clicks again as I head down the hallway, salt water still dripping from my coat.

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Overall, I enjoyed my time with this game. It took me a couple of days to get through the prompts and figure out what the story was trying to tell me, but I was so intrigued that I had to keep playing and learn how it was all going to turn out. Whispers in the Walls is definitely a game with a lot of replayability; there are so many different opens in locations and possible prompts, all leading to completely unique stories. If you’re looking for a spooky game about haunted rooms, this is a good one.

If the idea of haunted houses intrigues you, and you’re interested in trying out a tarot based game, you can find my game You, and The House available on Itch.io.