Solo Tabletop RPG Review & Actual Play – Public Access Part Two

Public Access (The Gauntlet)
Created by Jason Cordova
You can purchase this game here.

Read part one here.

After trying out Public Access as a solo game for a session, this was a lesson in seeing how some games need more work to be good solitary experiences. After this first session, I reasoned that I could keep going, but I wouldn’t really be playing a solo game, but playing the game in the same way you might play a board game against yourself by simulating other players and making their moves. I realized having other characters with different stats made a difference with Public Access, but I didn’t want to play them mechanically just to make the game work. 

That said, I really like Public Access. I can see this being a tremendous amount of fun with the right group of players. I’m a big fan of the “legacy” elements that include a trigger for an ending. It gives the game a slightly TV series structure without being too rigid. I can also see how, while there are structures & triggers in place, each playthrough with different groups could vary wildly based on how they react to things or what the GM chooses to emphasize in one playthrough versus another. In the future, I will check out the solo rules for Brindlewood Bay (the game Public Access is derived from) and Paranormal Inc., a similar game that apparently has solo rules built into it. Here’s my time with Public Access and the beginnings of a story I was able to get from it.

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When I was eleven years old, TV Odyssey disappeared from Deep Lake. The building literally vanished. That’s a vivid memory: looking over my dad’s shoulder as he sat at the kitchen table for breakfast and seeing the photo of the empty lot. The outline of the building’s foundations was still there. The whole channel had felt like a dream, so a part of me thought it made sense something like TV Odyssey would just evaporate without warning. But we all know that’s not what happens in reality. Soon after, I’d hear people talking about the “tragic fire,” but I never saw anything that looked like arson in that photo. I’ve tried finding that copy of the Deep Lake Tribune, but they don’t have a digital archive. That became the “truth,” the local TV station that burnt to the ground and all the tapes of its weird, unsettling shows with it. But the summer of 2004 taught me the truth. The videos were not destroyed. We watched many of them. They find you when they want to be discovered, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading into the mouth of some vicious, nasty thing. 

That summer, I said goodbye to my girlfriend Nicole, wholly enmeshed in her psychology master’s program, and temporarily moved in with two strangers I’d only spoken to through forum posts and one phone call. Amber was from Nashville, the child of Nigerian immigrants who’d moved to America in the mid-80s. She’d explain how she always felt out of place growing up, which led her to spend lots of time online in the early days of AOL. Amber loved scary stories and witchy things. That’s what led her to find the TV Odyssey forum and why she brought a comprehensive herbalist kit to Deep Lake. Amber believed that whatever happened in that local station and why it disappeared were tied to forces on ‘the other side.’ I was skeptical then, thinking it was run by some creeps who’d pissed off the wrong people. Amber was right in the end.

Nathan felt like he had been born on the internet before the current generation of kids who really were. He made his money through online scams, which most people weren’t as savvy about back then. His targets were primarily retirees he’d convinced were the only people to help him move a large sum of offshore funds to a Swiss bank account. In exchange for their help, the marks were promised tens of thousands as a reward. That money never materialized, and instead, the grift spiraled into ever more complicated directions that ultimately drained the retiree’s bank account. I don’t want to say I condone what Nathan did, but I wasn’t going to question his offer to finance most of the trip to Deep Lake. He certainly had the money. 

One more person was supposed to be part of that summer, Meghan Patel. At the last minute, she emailed us that she was backing out. While riding an empty car on the El in Chicago around midnight, Meghan claimed she saw a spirit appear a few meters away. It looked at her and smiled before disappearing. It spooked the hell out of her, and she began posting less and less on the forum. The day before we arrived in Deep Lake, one of the posters shared an article from a Chicago paper about a young Indian-American woman jumping in front of a train and dying. It was Meghan, and the first time I saw her face was in a yearbook photo provided in the article. 

We had been in Deep Lake for about two weeks without getting any leads. I sank into a depressing routine of staying up until 4 a.m. and sleeping in until 1 p.m. All I ate was fast food and the cheap junk filling the pantry. One day, there was a knock at the door. Amber answered and, after ten minutes, called me and Nathan to the kitchen. That was when we met Casey Wilcox. He was around our age, a little younger, about 20 years old. He stood out from the rest of the people here: blonde faux hawk, JNCO jeans with flames stitched up the side of the legs, a lip ring, and a brow ring. I remembered him but not like this. He still had the cleft palate that made him the target of bullying walking home from school. It didn’t get any better in high school when Casey got caught going down on one of the jocks in the boys’ bathroom. Somehow the jock, a popular baseball player, avoided scrutiny, and the town seemed to turn nasty towards Casey alone. I understood his desire to distract people using his fashion sense. 

He started sharing it all, and as he did, I began to remember pieces from my childhood here. In 1994, the Rappaports went missing. Mom, Dad, and both kids. One of those kids was Elliott, Casey’s best friend. 18 Escondido Street had remained vacant for the decade that followed. A for sale sign stood like a perpetual sentinel in the front yard, occasionally replaced by a frustrated real estate agent as their company changed hands or the sign was vandalized by the kids in the street. Casey told us that he would sometimes break in and sleep in Elliott’s bedroom. No one had ever thought to remove the Rappaports’ belongings, so they sat there collecting dust. Casey had great memories of sleepovers at his best friend’s house, a sanctuary from his home on the other side of town where he had to become as invisible as possible to avoid beatings. The sleepover stopped when the Rappaports vanished, but the abuse in Casey’s house never did. 

Gnawing on his thumbnail, foot nervously tapping, Casey explained what he’d seen the last time he’d slept over in Elliiott’s room: 

“You guys are asking about TV Odyssey, right? The station that ‘burnt down’? I think the Rappaports’ vanishing was connected. I slept there one night; I’d gotten too high to go home. My old man would beat the shit out of me. So I crashed on Elliot’s bed, y’know. I always just fell into a really deep sleep there. Better than I ever had in my own bed. Same thing that night. Most times, I wouldn’t even dream or remember them at least. I read somewhere that we dream every time we fall asleep. We just don’t remember them. Like you have to train yourself or something. Well, I was deep asleep, and I can remember my dream. In the dream, I was lying in Elliott’s bed. His closet door opened and Elliott walked out. He wasn’t any older than ten, like when he vanished. But there was something really fucked up about him. Like, he looked like he was decomposing or something? He touched my cheek, and I could suddenly smell how rotten he was. Elliott smiled, and his teeth were black. He leaned down and whispered in my ear: ‘There is a house like this one, but dark. In it live hungry people. You will be their feast.’ I woke up then and was alone in the bed, but everything felt just like it had in the dream. I didn’t stick around, climbed out the window, decided to take my chances at home. But I remember two things: I noticed Elliott’s closet door was open when I was leaving, and I swear I didn’t open that shit. When I was booking it down the street, I looked back, and I know for sure I saw something standing in the front room window watching me go.” 

I exchanged looks with Amber & Nathan. We all knew that this was where the actual investigation would start. Casey had stopped by early in the morning, but his story had given me the adrenaline surge I needed to wake up. We asked if he would wait in the kitchen while the three of us discussed our next move. Nathan immediately started talking about the ghost-hunting equipment he’d brought along, still sitting in their boxes in the garage. Amber insisted that all of us, including Casey, participate in a cleansing ritual before stepping on the property. I humored her then, but now I’m glad I did. 

Around noon, we were standing in the house’s front yard on Escondido Street. The grass was crisp and yellow, crunching slightly as we walked over it. My eyes were drawn to the bed of brown needles that carpeted the ground beneath a copse of ponderosa pines. I still don’t know much about plants, but I remember looking at those trees and knowing they were sick. I should have asked Chuck more questions. This was around the time we met him. Chuck Terrio of Terrio Landscaping & Arboreal Services. He was working on a house across the street. 

Chuck Terrio, 33

Descriptor: Fortunate, Waste

Appearance: Strange

Chuck crossed the street, and we all braced ourselves as he got closer. There was a wild look in his eyes, like he was someone who’d seen something, and it stuck with him, always sitting in the periphery of his mind, no matter the setting or conversation. I noted the large gold bald eagle belt buckle, a sign that Chuck was doing well. Looking around at the yards, I wouldn’t have guessed he was employed that much; they all looked pretty rough, but none as bad as the Rappaports’ yard. 

“Nothing for you kids to see there, catch me?” were the first words he blurted out. Pointing to the name patch on his shirt, he said, “I’m Chuck, by the way.”

Nathan introduced himself first.

“We’re just here with our good pal, Michael. We went to college with him. He invited us to visit his old hometown. You wanted to see the Rappaports’ old house, isn’t that right, Mikey?”

I nodded in agreement. Speaking up for myself, “I sort of remember when they disappeared. I was thirteen. Did they ever solve that case…Chuck?” I pointed towards his chest.

(The Meddling Move using Presence = 4, Miss)

Chuck’s face grows dire. “I think you all need to just leave here. I think that’s a good idea, actually. I’m thinking if you don’t, I’m going to call Ms. Head, and she will not like that you are here.”

“Alright,” I said, everyone much quieter now, unsure who Ms. Head was. We excused ourselves and walked a little further down the street. There was a group of three kids, two girls & a boy. They were kicking around a small, dented metal trash can. I remember the way the heat amplified the stench of the trash that must have rotted away long ago inside it. 

“Hey, kids,” Amber said, her voice delivering an authentic cheer. “You live on this street?”

Casey, 12

Demeanor: Leadership, Loyal

Descriptor: Aromatic

I remember Casey smelled like a wall of sweat. She has a stout build, her hair cut almost in a bowl cut, but not quite. Sleeveless red shirt, basketball shorts. She eyes us with suspicion. 

“Yeah?” she replied to Amber’s question. “I live here. Why you wanna know?”

Amber kicked the trash can back towards the others. “We’re visiting. Michael lived here.” She gestures at me. Casey gives me the once over.

“I don’t remember you.” she snaps.

I nod. “I lived on the other side of town, on Caballo Road. I didn’t come over to Escondido very often.”

Casey nodded back, looking me over now. “You ever seen anything weird at number 18 over there?” I asked.

(The Meddling Move using Presence = 8, Weak Hit. Pay the Price: It causes a delay or puts you at a disadvantage.)

“I seen something, yeah,” Casey starts. “Those pine trees. The needles on the ground. Chuck raked them over something. We saw it once. It was burn marks. They were in the shape of uh…well, I don’t really know how to describe it.” Casey stepped over to one particularly dusty lawn and drew the shape in the dirt with her pointer finger. I reproduced it below.

She went back to play with the rest of her friends after we chatted a bit more. Nothing about the number 18, though. She just thought Deep Lake sucked.

“I don’t think we have a shot of getting a look under those needles until nightfall when Chuck is gone,” Amber suggested. “You know a Ms. Head, Mike?” she asked me. I shook my head. I couldn’t remember anyone with that name. Chuck was staring at us from across the way, and we decided to head back home and come back after dusk. 

Nathan insisted on grabbing some of his ghost-hunting equipment. However, we knew we’d have to park a block or more away, not wanting anyone to see our car outside the property. Before investigating anything else, we decided to see how difficult it would be to get inside the house. We used Casey’s method: climbing in through Elliott’s bedroom window. It looked like a place preserved out of my childhood. There were twin beds with Ninja Turtles comforters and pillowcases. A Bill Nye poster hung on the wall. The Matchbox cars still scattered on the floor struck me as the most unsettling. It looked like someone had been putting down a racetrack but never got to finish.

Before getting caught up too much in one room, Nathan suggested we check the building to get a feel of the layout. That didn’t last too long. In the TV room, something was waiting for us. Sitting on the coffee table was a sight I’d only ever read about on the forum. It was a purple clamshell VHS case. Slipped into the front was a paper insert showing a torii gate. The three of us stood in stunned silence. It was a real TV Odyssey tape. Nathan was the first one to pick it up. I glanced around the room, making note of the front door off to the side in the vestibule. He cracked open the case. “No label.”

Amber was already checking the television. It still worked, and there was a VCR ready to go. “Should we do this, guys?” she asked. I looked at Nathan and him back at me. I nodded. My stomach was churning, but I realized this was the whole reason we’d made this trip. We wanted to know the truth. Maybe something on that tape would help me remember my childhood. The video was slid into the VCR. The screen flickered, and it started.

Title Card: “Static Woman Live Interview”

The screen is cut in half. On the left is a male news reporter conducting a “man on the street interview.” The chiron below him reads, “Lem Walters, Host, Today in Dekalb.” The right half of the screen is lost in complete static. A female form can be glimpsed somewhere in that sea of distortion. There’s a building that can be partially seen behind Lem. The sign is cut off and reads “Kirkwood Fe….Pet Sup…”. 

1. “Ma’m,” begins Lem. “How many hours a day do you estimate you spend watching television?” Her response is muffled. Lem nods along as she speaks. The name “Elijah” comes through within the crackling static and distortion. 
   
2. I got up at this point and went back to Elliott’s room. The story of the Rappaports’ disappearance always said it was the two parents and their two kids. Elliott’s room had twin beds in it. I walked down the hallway to make sure and saw his little sister Abigail’s room. Back in Elliott’s room, I decided to open the closet and braced myself.

(The Night Move with Composure = 6 + 1 = 7, Weak Hit)

3. Lem asks, “Of all the programs you watch in prime time, what are the ones you cannot miss?” He extends the microphone back into the static soup, and the woman’s drone returns. A child steps in from out of frame behind Lem. The child walks forward until a few more details come into view. “You are on the threshold,” the child speaks. “You can remain here or cross over, but you cannot go back. This is not an option. Will you progress forward to meet the one who waits for you?”

4. Amber shivers and gets up, leaving the TV room. She goes into the kitchen, finding a table set for a dinner that was never served. There is an open box of Kirkwood Fishsticks sitting on the counter. Amber lifts it, finding the box weighs almost nothing, but something rattles around inside. Pouring it out, a photograph falls onto the formica countertop, it’s back facing her. A handwritten caption reads, “Family, Xmas 1993.” Amber flips it over and sees the Rappaport family before their decorated tree. What causes her to yelp and cover her mouth is that the child in the video is among them. 

5. While this happened, I stood in Elliott’s room with the closet door open. I could feel a force move through me, like air blowing but different. The static electricity in the room was suddenly palpable; the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Condition: Freaked out

6. Nathan stood, staring transfixed at the screen. The woman’s shape turned, and he could see she was looking at the camera as Lem mechanically nodded, even though she didn’t speak. “Watch…more…television” came crystal clear from the speakers. The static spreads across the screen from the right, swallowing Lem and the strange child who stares. Nathan leaves the room and doesn’t see the woman’s shape begin clawing violently at her own face.

Nathan ends up standing at the door to the basement. The smell of sawdust climbs the stairs like someone had just been woodworking. He feels compelled to walk down and, when he reaches the bottom, pulls a chain that barely illuminates the damp space. U-Haul boxes are peppered across the floor. The pieces of an artificial Christmas tree are piled in a corner. Nathan searches for a clue.

(The Meddling Move with Reason = 1 + 12 = 13)

Amber found me in the opposite corner from the closet, panting and staring at the open door, the darkness beyond. I have no memory of what happened between opening the closet and Amber shaking me to my senses. Nathan would find us there and say it was time to leave. We followed, climbing through the bedroom window again and walking two blocks over where we had parked the car. Nathan started driving but said he didn’t feel like returning to the house on Rodenbecker yet. He found something in the basement. We stopped at Haskins, the all-night diner just on the edge of the city limits. Inside, the waitress looked up from her paperback, a shirtless man embracing a bosomy woman on the painted cover, and pointed to one of many empty booths. 

After we were seated and coffee had been poured, Nathan got out his camcorder and rewound a bit, then turned the screen to face us. We saw his hands pushing away the many branches of a plastic Christmas tree. Once they were all to the side, we saw what they had been hiding. A frighteningly realistic door had been painted onto the basement wall. We watched Nathan reach for the knob, fooled for a moment only to find it was two-dimensional. A scuffing noise came from out of frame, and Nathan pointed the camera lens down to show what his foot had bumped into. Another purple clamshell VHS case. The same purple case he pulled out of his bag and sat on the table between us. 

An old CRT television sits on a black cart with wheels. Instead of a classroom where it belongs, it sits on a piece of land in the blasted desert, far from civilization. The television is on, though there is nothing to plug it into. 

An elderly man, dressed in a light jacket, sitting at a kitchen table in some sunny place. The man is so large that he takes up almost the entire frame, like the television is trying to keep him squeezed inside. He looks up and into the camera.

“They have managed to find themselves at the start of much trouble to come, and it will, no doubt. They fashion themselves explorers, but I wonder if they have an inkling of what they see laid out before them. In time, they will come to understand, in one way or another. There is so much more to see and learn. I will help them the best I can, but…these are unpredictable powers at play. Only so much an old man can do. Something to think about.”

The television shuts off, burning a white hot dot at the center.