This world you’re about to step into? It looks a lot like ours. The history’s familiar, the names ring a bell, and you’ll recognize the skyline. But peer a little deeper—into the shadows, into the cracks—and you’ll find there’s more to this place. A lot more. Here's a rundown of what’s the same, what’s different, and what might just kill ya in Dark Chicago.  

Close, But Not Quite

In many ways, Dark Chicago is a mirror of our own Second City. The people, places, culture—all the stuff you’d expect from 1950s Chicago is here. Martin Kennelly’s the mayor (for now), and Daley’s lurking in the wings. The White Sox are still haunted by the '19 scandal, the Cubs are still cursed, and it's been decades since anyone raised a damn pennant. The Stockyards and Armour churn commerce down the rails of the Illinois Central and Burlington Northern, while labor unions snap at their heels. The Gold Coast looks down on anyone not driving the latest model Packard and unless you are a local you don't want to go walking through the Back of the Yards on your own.   Al Capone was real—dead now, sure, allegedly—and so is his Outfit. Just last summer Tony "Joe Batters" Accardo pleaded the Fifth over a hundred times when the Kefauver boys rolled into town on their crusade against organized crime. All those infamous guys you have read and heard about roam the streets in Dark Chicago.   But beneath the soot and steam, there’s somethin’ deeper than politics and profit. Ghosts? Almost everyone’s seen one. And witches? Don’t laugh—there’s a coven on the West Side tryin’ to outmaneuver the Machine in the next election. Sure, your character might not have met a vampire (he’s still breathin’, ain’t he?), but if someone says Richie Black’s got a bloodsucker on payroll? Nobody laughs.   Those nurses torn to pieces a few years back? Could’ve been a maniac like Speck. But coulda just as easily been somethin’ else. Somethin’ with claws.  

Don’t Try to Fight City Hall

Corruption ain’t a bug in the system—it is the system. Bribes, grift, backroom deals—that’s just business. The city’s institutions are run by the elite, the connected, and the criminal—often all at once. Trade organizations and unions scheme like old gods playin’ dice. The Democratic Machine picks the winners before the ballots ever hit the box. The CPD? Best case, they’re lookin’ out for themselves. Worst case, they’re in someone else's pocket.   Chicagoans are tough, not by choice, but by necessity. Nobody’s coming to save you. So you look out for your block, your crew, your family—and maybe they’ll look out for you.  

Crime Is King

Like its real-world cousin, Dark Chicago was built on vice. Bootlegging money paid for half the joints still standin’. Now the Outfit’s more organized than the damn government, and it’s got its hands in everything from rail contracts to burlesque halls.   Street gangs roam the South and West Sides—some claim turf, others sell dope, a few dabble in darker things. Meanwhile, organized crime runs like a shadow government. It's not exaggeration to say it dwarfs most legit enterprises.  

Things Go Bump in the Night

In Dark Chicago, if it’s a tall tale in our world, it’s probably real here.   That jazz club on North Clark? Not just "rumored" to be haunted—the ghosts in the basement tune the piano when no one’s around. Drive past S.M.C. Cartage Company on February 14th and you’ll see the faded outlines of North Side boys walkin’ into their Valentine’s Day slaughter.   The Man on the Water Tower? He’s real. Still seen sometimes, swingin’ his axe at invisible flames before takin’ the long step.   And that’s just the subtle stuff. Bubbly Creek? Yeah, it stinks. But it ain’t just the runoff. Somethin’ in that muck’s alive—and hungry. Julia Buccola-Petta? When they dug up her grave, the coffin was empty. Her old neighborhood’s been losing people ever since.   Out by the Calumet River, even the toughest guys don’t go out alone. Howls in the night, long shadows under the moon, creatures that ain’t ever been in a zoology book. Ships vanish from Lake Michigan like they slipped off the edge of the world.   It ain’t just superstition. It’s survival.  

Magic

Magic exists. Not the fireball-tossin’ kind—this stuff’s slower, older, messier. It’s alchemical, ritualistic, and half belief.   The Stockyards? They hire specialists to ward the banks of Bubbly Creek each year so the filth doesn’t crawl into the rest of the city. Workers pass down family charms said to protect against beasts, spirits, or worse. Outfitters sell specialty ammo promising to stop “unnatural threats” that roam in the wilds past the suburbs. A baker might make a quiet pact to win out over his competition. A midwife might work with more than herbs to ease a birth.   You can find apothecaries on most blocks, and shady alchemists in the alleys. Want something for menstrual cramps? Libido? Luck? There’s a powder or tonic. Might work, might kill you. Snake oil’s still snake oil, even if it glows in the dark. And now it's going mainstream. With the war over, all those propagandists—pardon me, 'marketers'—have turned their sights on capitalism. They’re falling over themselves figuring out how to make a buck off bottled enchantments for the everyday housewife: dish soap that cuts grease and maybe your soul, too.   And then there’s the drugs: not just opium or coke, but arcane blends like black lotus, dream smoke, or arc. Poisons too—standstill, eyeblind, down powder. For when lead ain't elegant enough.   One thing's the same in both our worlds, man is one helluva ingenious creature and if there's a way to exploit magic to his benefit, you better believe someone has thought of if.  

Arcane Energy

Electricity powers the lights. Gas powers the cars. But down in the guts of the city? Arcane energy hums like a second heartbeat.   It powers rituals, enchantments, even strange machines. The stuff’s usually distilled from spirits—but some folks get it from more... creative sources. When a strange illness turned a Near North neighborhood into flesh-hungry ghouls back in the 1890s, the city burned most of 'em. But not all. Some got dissected. The fluids extracted became the base for all sorts of interesting projects.   Science calls it “biothaumaturgy.” The rest of us call it disturbing.  

Teslian & Weird Science

In Dark Chicago, the line between genius and madness isn’t just thin—it’s fraying, sparking, and humming with Veil-static. Ever since arcane resonance got wired into the grid, a certain breed of inventor started crawling out of the woodwork. Fringe minds—ex-Edison techs, disgraced university types, mob-backed tinkerers—now build machines that shouldn’t work, powered by things no one should touch.   These aren’t your slick sci-fi gadgets. This is hardware bolted from scrap and sacrament. Copper coils that spit whispers. Gauges that twitch in the presence of sin. Lighters that burn Veil-bright. Most of it’s illegal. All of it’s unstable.   Weird science in Dark Chicago isn’t progress—it’s desperation. It’s a race to control the future before it swallows the past. Mob bosses fund arcane labs under slaughterhouses. City Hall quietly licenses “resonance maintenance teams.” And somewhere in a storm-drenched alley, someone just flipped the wrong switch on a Veil-powered broadcast tower.   Because in this city, science ain’t salvation—it’s just another hustle.