Some things slip through the Veil. Others crawl out and never go back. Whatever they are, they ain't natural. They don't think like us, don’t eat like us, and sure as hell don’t die like us. Some skulk through rail tunnels. Others drift in with fog thick enough to choke a bus route. Bullets might stop ’em. But most of the time, your best bet is to stay out of their way, pray to something that don’t listen, and keep salt in your shoes.   You hear stories. Everybody does. The neighbor who vanished from a locked apartment. A kid who followed giggles into the alley and came back wrong. Mist that rolled down 43rd and took a whole block’s sound with it. In Dark Chicago, monsters aren’t under the bed. They’re in the walls, behind the smiles, or squatting in the old slaughterhouses folks pretend ain't cursed.  

Ghosts & Spirits

Ghosts ain’t souls. They’re scars — old, mean ones — burned into the Veil where death hit too hard or too wrong. What’s left behind ain’t Grandpa's spirit saying goodbye. It’s pain, rage, terror — wrapped in cold air and bad luck. In this city, they’re common as potholes. You hear 'em crying in the alley, see 'em flicker in the hallway where that kid went missing in ’48. They’re not here to reason. They’re here ‘cause something won’t let go — and they’ll drag you into it if you’re not careful.   They don’t put on a bed sheet and float around moaning for closure; they relive their worst moment like a needle skipping on a busted record. They haunt where they died, or where someone like them died. The more trauma that sticks to a place — old hospitals, tenement fires, war memorials — the more likely a spook’s gonna crawl out. Want ‘em gone? Either help ‘em move on (good luck) or scrub the whole scene clean with Veil rites, blood, or both.   Residuals – Just bad tape on a loop. Watch it enough, and it watches back.
Poltergeists – Raw nerve ghosts. No face, no plan — just fists and fury.
Banshees – When they scream, someone nearby is gonna die. Count on it.
Shades – Hungry shadows feeding on sorrow. You don’t see ‘em, you feel ‘em.
The Mourner – Attaches to bloodlines, not places. One family, one funeral at a time.
The Echo Man – Talks like your loved ones, walks you right out of yourself.
Hollow Haunts – Places, not people. But still haunted. A room that sobs. A hall that whispers.
 

The Undead

Undead ain’t the gory movie kind. They’re worse. Veil energy sticks to places, people, corpses — and when it festers, sometimes the dead get back up. Most of 'em don’t know why they’re moving. They’re not evil, they’re just empty and driven by needs that don’t make sense anymore. Hungry, cold, twitchy. And dangerous in the way a bear trap is — unthinking, mechanical, and real damn final.   The dead don’t rise ‘cause they’re mad about dying — they rise ‘cause the Veil hiccupped and no one cleaned up the mess. These rot-walkers stick close to where they were buried, dumped, or used — old rail tunnels, plague basements, mass graves under red-line stations. They don’t migrate unless something calls ‘em. Keep the Veil stable and they crumble fast. But if a necro-type or old curse lingers, they dig in like roaches. They’re pack-minded, stupid, but mean. And if one of ‘em remembers your name… run.   Shamblers – Slow rot bags. You hear them before you smell them, and that's saying something.
Ghouls – Fast, twitchy, and way too hungry. Some even talk. Don’t listen.
Wights – Smarter than they should be. That’s the scary part.
Drowned Ones – River-born corpses full of bile, bugs, and death. Real contagious, too.
Revenants (rare) – Driven by hate. They remember what you did. And they remember your face.
 

Blood Suckers

Vampires? Sure. But don’t go picturing capes and castles. These things are closer to a wound that learned to walk. Some are charming, others crawl on ceilings — all of 'em feed on life, not just blood. They're in the tunnels, the tenements, sometimes even the clubs. A pretty face can kill you just as fast as a snarling one, and the worst part? They don’t always know they’re monsters until it’s too late.   These leeches don't sleep in coffins or fear garlic. They move like stray dogs — smart ones — slinking into places with weak rules and weaker people. Sewers, jazz clubs, flop houses, abandoned wards. They pick a territory, feed low and slow, and vanish if the heat rises. Some pose as preachers or landlords. Others are just shadows that never leave the alley. If you smell copper and feel watched, chances are you’re in one’s fridge. Killin’ ‘em’s tough — some need fire, some need Veil rites, and some just need a bullet with hate behind it.   Nosferatu – Sewer creeps. Ugly, fast, and mean.
Leeches – Slick operators. Might buy you a drink before draining you dry.
Strigoi – Eastern European nightmares with a body count to match.
Hollow-Blooded – So far gone they bleed shadow and dream about screams.
 

Werebeasts

Werebeasts ain’t “man by day, wolf by night”, they’re a crack down the middle — a split soul stuffed into too little skin. Some come from bad blood, others from rituals gone wrong or places where the Veil thrums too loud. They don’t just kill. They hunt, they mark, and sometimes they remember your name.   Werebeasts are territory problems. They don’t haunt — they own. Abandoned parks, graveyard edges, factory lots where the grass grows wrong. They mark it, hunt it, sleep in it. They don’t like trespassers, especially Veil-sensitives or people who remind ‘em of who they used to be. Full moons might not change 'em, but resonance spikes sure do. You don’t want to be around when the air starts buzzing and the local stray dogs vanish. Keep eyes out for claw marks where there shouldn’t be any — it means something with teeth is counting down.   Werewolves – Big, pissed-off, and stronger than anything in a zoo.
Skinwalkers – Wears your brother’s face. Don’t believe a word.
Ratmen – Filthy, clever, fast. Chicago’s sewer kings.
Howlers – Half-shifted, half-lost. They scream like they’re still falling.
 

Devils, Demons & Infernal Entities

These ain’t Sunday School devils. They’re not red, they’re not horny (well, maybe), and they sure as hell aren’t fair. Devils cut deals. Demons just burn things. Some wear suits. Some wear skin. All of 'em will gut you in ways the coroner can’t write down. Best case? You owe them. Worst case? You invited them.   People almost always lump 'em together as just "infernal things," but that is ignornacnce that could cost you dearly. Devils come from a place called different things throughout the centuries — Hell, Hades, the Abyss — and they are things of rigid, merciless structure. Their world is built on hierarchy, domination, and cruel deals. They live by strict codes of conduct and get off on binding pacts, getting by not on brute force, but on the slow choke of inevitable betrayal. They don't feel empathy, no regret — only victory and loss measured in souls and broken promises.   Demons, on the other hand, come from a place some bookworms believe the Bible called Gehenna — a place with no order, no hierarchy, no law. Theses things are chaos given form: beasts of endless hunger, destruction, and madness. They don't think, they don't give a shit and you definitely don’t bargain with a demon. You survive it, if you’re lucky.   The good part, if there is one, is that infernal things don't live in our world. They don't even seem to like it all that much. Mostly, they are summoned here by some moron who don't know better. But every now and then one just shows up like some twisted form of their spring break only intent on causing as much pain and damage as they can before they got to get back home. Devils like deals and paperwork; demons just want to see things burn and neither stays long unless you invite ‘em, but once they’re in, they spread like rot. You’ll smell sulfur, hear whispers, feel shame you didn’t earn. Kids cry for no reason. Dogs won’t go near the place. That’s not just haunting — that’s infestation. Burn it, salt it, seal it, or it starts whispering your name too.   Imps – Nasty little shits. Burn your house down and laugh while you watch.
Tempters – They’ll give you everything you want. Then take everything else.
Ruinspawn – Walkin’ symbols of decay. Where they tread, cities rot.
Pitborn – Soldiers of hell. All muscle, no mercy. If one shows up, you’re already too late.
 

Constructs & Abominations

Built wrong. Made wrong. Shouldn’t exist — but do. Some started as protection spells or science experiments. Others are what’s left when a ritual coughs up something it couldn’t swallow. You see a thing with too many arms and no eyes crying in a church basement? That’s what we’re talkin’ about.   Nobody builds a golem for fun. These things get made when someone’s desperate, stupid, or both. They patrol the same path over and over like a broken toy — unless they get a new “purpose.” Abominations are worse — accidents that shouldn’t move, let alone hunt. They nest in labs that smelled too much like burning copper, half-collapsed ritual chambers, or junkyards soaked in Veil juice. If a place feels wrong and you hear grinding, you’re near one. Don’t reason with it. Don’t run. Just pray it’s not still “awake.”   Wicker-Men – Hollow and burning. You hear 'em scream when the wind’s right.
Homunculi – Little things. Made to serve. They don’t always stop.
Sigil-Golems – Animated glyphwork tanks. Built for war. Still waiting for orders.
Broken Things – Failed creations that crawl back to their makers… and ask why.
 

The Fey

The Veil’s a bastard — no doubt about that. But even chaos has its rhythms. Spells get used 'cause they work, more often than not. Veil beasts got patterns, too — places they haunt, habits they follow. You learn the dance, you got a shot at surviving.   Then you’ve got the fey.   The fey don’t dance to music — they set the whole band on fire and hum something that ain't been written yet.   They don’t do logic. They don’t care about cause and effect. They’re older than your bloodline and twice as cruel. As alien as the Elder Ones, but they ain’t out there in the void — they’re right here. They stroll down Cicero in bare feet, peek into your bedroom window, toss coins into puddles just to see who slips on ‘em.   Dealing with the fey? That’s like playing poker with a thunderstorm. There might be a price, sure — or maybe they forget to ask. Maybe they curse you, maybe they kiss you. Hell, maybe it’s both. Their danger ain’t like a vampire’s bite or a ghoul’s claws. Their danger is whim — beautiful, terrible whim. A storm that might water your garden or blow your house into next Tuesday, just ‘cause it felt like it.   Fey don’t live places — they squat. That overgrown lot behind the laundromat? That stairwell that don’t go anywhere but gives you nosebleeds? Might be theirs today- gone tomorrow. They set up in places already cracked: old fairgrounds, drowned parks, apartment rooftops that don’t show up on blueprints. They don’t nest. They don’t fortify. They throw parties — and if you get an invite, you already owe. Stick around too long, and you're either part of the floorboards or the entertainment.   And here’s the kicker: most of ‘em look like dreams. Gorgeous, glimmering, just close enough to human to make your gut twist. Think you’re strong enough to walk away from that naked woman calling your name from the Jackson Park lagoon? Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, she's got the drowned, bloated bodies of a hundred other fools just like you she uses as a bed.   You want a list? Don’t bother. The fey got more faces than Heinz has pickles, and they wear ‘em like costumes at a funeral. Better to tell you what they do than what they look like — 'cause by the time you recognize one, it’s already too late.   Time Distortion: A few minutes spent among the fey can translate into hours, days, or years lost in the real world. Some never fully return — their bodies age normally, but their minds remain trapped.
Memory Theft: Fey bargains often involve stealing memories — names, faces, whole lifetimes stripped away as payment, leaving victims hollowed out or convinced they are someone else.
Compelled Obedience: Those who accept even the smallest favor from a fey risk falling under binding geas-like conditions: forbidden from speaking about the favor, forced to complete impossible tasks, or suffering physical pain if they resist.
Veil Taint ("Fair-Sick"): Prolonged exposure to fey spaces or creatures causes humans to mutate subtly: eye color shifting unnaturally, skin patterns changing, emotional volatility rising. In severe cases, people become "fey-touched" — unpredictable, volatile, half-inhuman.
Debt Without Warning: The fey have no concept of "free gifts." Accepting food, shelter, a coin, or even a favor without explicit refusal creates an invisible debt — one they may call in violently, decades later.
Reality Distortion ("Mirth Zones"): Areas heavily influenced by fey presence warp reality: gravity bends, colors blur, logic frays, and human-made laws break down.  

The Elder Ones

They don’t haunt buildings. They don’t show up in mirrors. They’re deeper than all that. The Elder Ones aren’t just old—they’re outside. Outside of time, outside of logic, outside of what the human brain’s built to handle. Maybe they were gods once, maybe they still are, but in Dark Chicago, they don’t rise from the lake and smash buildings. They whisper. They promise. And every so often, someone listens.   They don’t need armies. They’ve got cults. And curses. And little girls drawing symbols they shouldn’t know in blood and chalk. A union man sees a sigil and forgets his own name. A whole tenement starts dreaming the same nightmare. You don’t see the Elder Ones. You feel them. In the way paint peels wrong. In the way water boils when it shouldn’t. In the way your shadow moves a half-second too late.   People worship these things. Not many, but enough. They don’t use real names—just things like The Endless Eye, The Watcher in the Filth, The Deep Father. They bleed strange. They smile too long. They talk in riddles that sound like bad radio. And when they open a way back, it never closes clean.   You’ll hear folks say, “But what do they look like?” Wrong question. They don’t look like anything. Your brain sees fangs or wings or eyes because it can’t handle the truth. The shape ain’t the danger. The danger is the door you opened to see it.