Antlers — Roleplayer Guild

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭
A Paranormal Sci-Fi Thriller Interest Check

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Hello and welcome to The Aperture Project, a pulse-pounding paranormal sci-fi thriller set in the shadowy heart of 1989, where Cold War paranoia collides with the terrifying unknown. 

The story dives into the CIA's most dangerous experiment yet—a top-secret initiative fusing quantum physics with psychic phenomena. But when these volatile forces spiral out of control, they threaten to unleash horrors no one can contain.

At its core, the story follows a psychic medium, her career and family in tatters, and a brilliant physicist burdened by his own moral compromises. Drawn into the web of The Aperture Project, the two must confront shadowy government agendas, reality-warping experiments, and the creeping presence of something far more sinister—something waiting just beyond the veil.

The Aperture Project is a character-driven blend of atmospheric horror, taut suspense, and mind-bending science fiction. Think the eerie tension of The Conjuring meets the escalating existential terror of Stranger Things and Annihilation.

I’m Antlers, a 32-year-old writer from the Canadian Prairies (MST), with 17+ years of experience. I primarily write, read, and roleplay within the horror or horror-adjacent genres. I'm coming back to the Guild after a long hiatus, so go easy on me. 

These are my Terms of Service:

▸ You must be 25+ to participate. Darker themes notwithstanding, this is for my comfort and is non-negotiable.

▸ Quality > quantity, but I'm not a word count gatekeeper. Write a lot. Write a little. I just want us to have fun, develop our characters, and push the plot along. 

▸ I write women. I write men. I enjoy populating our world with a cast of interesting and diverse side character, and I'm a sucker for a romantic sub-plot. 

▸ While inspired by real-world events like the CIA’s Stargate Project and Cold War-era parapsychology research, this is a work of fiction first and foremost—you will not be scolded for harmless historical inaccuracies. 

▸ I’m most active on weekends but may reply during the week if time allows. Please don’t expect rapid-fire responses and I'll be equally patient in return. 

▸ I'm open to using PMs or threads for IC and PMs or Discord for OOC. 

▸ Mature themes welcome when and if it fits with the plot.

▸ I like to use actors or for face claims and character sheets for reference, but it's not a dealbreaker if that isn't your thing. 

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞

In 1989, as the Cold War inches toward its uncertain end, the CIA’s launches The Aperture Project, a covert experiment that  seeks to push the boundaries of science and the supernatural. 

Hidden in a government research facility, the program fuses quantum physics with psychic phenomena, attempting to unlock the untapped potential of the human mind. But as the experiments escalate, they begin to unravel the fabric of reality, threatening to unleash horrors beyond comprehension.

At the center of the project are two unlikely partners: a psychic medium whose public fall from grace has left her life in ruins, and a brilliant but conflicted physicist whose groundbreaking devices can amplify her gifts in unimaginable—and uncontrollable—ways. She must grapple with the volatile power of her abilities and the shadow of her tarnished reputation, while he faces the ethical consequences of his inventions. Together, they form a fragile alliance as they navigate government agendas, their own moral boundaries, and the creeping realization that their work may have opened a door humanity was never meant to unlock.

With reality fracturing and shadowy forces pulling the strings, the pair must confront the terrifying unknown—and their increasingly complicated feeling for each other. 

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝

That's it. That's the interest check.

If you're intrigued, please send me a PM!

- 𝐅𝐈𝐍 - 

Spotify Playlist: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭

Father Vincent Castilo

"Carpe Noctem"

Father Vincent Castillo could feel curious eyes following him as he departed the Greyhound bus terminal, shoulders hunched against the cold and wet. A clerical collar and a bruised jaw were an unusual combination – he would probably have stared, too. Still, he could have done without the extra attention. 

"It's a sensitive business, this," Aadavan had informed him over the phone, two days before his arrival in Seattle, "Biblical, she says."

As always, Vincent had his doubts. The world was teeming with diabolical forces, after all, and the unacquainted were often eager to assign disproportionate gravity to lesser beings. Nevertheless, his assignment as the clerical delegate suggested his brethren suspected there may be some weight behind the apothecary's claims – enough weight to bypass established protocol and assign a demonologist to her case, anyway. 

The cafe was, mercifully, only a few blocks from the bus terminal. Despite his itinerate lifestyle, Vincent's Mediterranean heritage made him ill-disposed to colder climates, and he loathed the damp and gloom of Pacific Northwest autumns. Besides this, his vow of poverty offered his wardrobe little in the way of versatility, and so he had donned the same stiff black shirt and slacks, scuffed dress shoes, and heavy wool coat he had worn while attending to an exorcism in Montreal days earlier. The coat was already saturated, absorbing the humidity in the air like a sponge despite the flimsy umbrella the priest had acquired at a kiosk in Vancouver International, and one of his shoes had become a fishbowl for his foot after a misstep landed it in a puddle. 

Yes, it would be a welcome reprieve to escape the outdoors as quickly as possible. 

Waiting at the crosswalk, he had a clear view of the cafe's glass facade nestled beneath a squat office tower. The woman caught his eye immediately, perched at her table just inside the floor-to-ceiling windows, her delicate features still and impassive as though poised for a Renaissance portrait. 

He identified her at once as the apothecary, although he had never laid eyes on her before. She was younger than he and quite striking–

"The light, Padre." A meek child's voice at his side, a small hand tugging sheepishly at Vincent's coat sleeve. 

Startled from his thoughts and embarrassed to have been caught gawking at the opposite sex – by a child, of all people! – Vincent feigned an apologetic smile and turned to thank the youth as he was swept up in the impatient sea of pedestrians propelling him forwards across the street. 

His blood ran cold. 

The diminutive creature that grinned back at him from where it remained on the edge of the sidewalk was no child, its black eyes unblinking from a pale, round face framed by filthy blonde braids. It's head was cocked, one tiny hand raised in an offensive gesture. 

Are you devil or omen?

Vincent collided with someone ahead of him, eliciting a snarled, "Watch where you're going, dumbass," and the disruption was all it took for the being to vanish from sight. 

Reorienting himself on the sidewalk, he found cover against the brick building adjoining the cafe, where he took a moment to steady his breathing and fight with the closure on his umbrella. An imp, nothing more, he reassured himself, tapping the tip of the now mangled umbrella against the concrete to shake away any excess moisture before tucking it beneath his arm.

He crossed himself before entering the cafe, an olfactory wall of roasted Arabica and baked goods triggering a salivary response he had to swallow back. It had been a mistake to skip breakfast. Tearing his attention from the exorbitantly priced menu board, he nodded at the apothecary and approached her table, bending to place his leather valise on the floor beside the empty chair across from her before shedding his coat – oh, what sweet relief that was. – and draping it over the back. 

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, sitting down,  "Father Vincent Castillo. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss–?"

He drew a blank, hand frozen in extended greeting toward her. Who had Aadavan told him the letter was addressed from? Had he told him? He felt himself flush with embarrassment but did not withdraw his proffered handshake, hoping this woman had the grace to take his social faux pas in stride.
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