I'm slowly working my way through the British Library's Tales of the Weird series, as I've picked up a few and kind relatives have sent me others (What can I say? They know me).
While reading through the entire Randalls Round on a long bus journey, it really came to my attention how much these are stories about one person experiencing something strange and disturbing. This isn't a novel observation, even to me - I'm sure we've all heard and/or talked about something along these lines - but it's still salient for trying to write and run scenarios.
Despite running a high-level Pathfinder campaign for over seven years now (gods), my natural mode of gaming is really investigative. I drift towards mysteries and trying to work out what on earth is going on. Occasionally this involves punching or shooting something, but that's generally not what I'm actually going for.
Like most stories I've read on the horror-weird-mystery continuum, and particularly the short stories, those in Randalls Round are not about a group of 3-6 people with shotguns. They are about one person, or perhaps two at most; even then, there is generally some issue of communication or happenstance that prevents them from acting in concert. Maybe they doubt the other will understand them, or feel too ashamed to share their experience and fears, or simply aren't in the same place at the same time. Both Eleanor Scott and MR James have stories where the old pal turns up partway through the story, when our primary narrator is already crumbling; they may or may not be helpful in saving the day, but they certainly aren't immediately on board with everything that narrator already suspects, if they're told it at all.
As Nick remarked to me, even when a creepy story starts out with a larger cast, that normally indicates attrition: either the surplus are background extras who don't really get involved, or they're grist for the mill of a murderous force (see Agatha Christie, Alien, Who Goes There?). Or the party is forced to separate and each experiences their own aspect of the creepy terror, perhaps unique to them. This happens, voluntarily, in The Room in this collection, with each character taking a turn to sleep in the haunted room and reporting their miserable experiences.
I'm sure one of the factors is that it's simply not easy to write a story giving attention to a group of characters as they undergo the same experience. There are practical dynamics, too. One person is liable to pause and pay attention to something mildly curious they notice on a stroll, or get up from their book to investigate an odd noise. A group of a dozen are generally too busy talking to notice it at all, and you feel much less inclined to demand the group stop while you look at a slightly weird tree. There's a kind of whimsical abstraction in solitude that makes "go and observe something that I don't really think is important" a more meaningful pursuit. You're less likely to get lost in contemplation of something when people actively engage you in conversation.
But the psychological aspect is vital. Once you can rely on a good pal to confirm that yes, that did look like a two-headed man following you, or that the lines carved into this mural you've just uncovered are identical to what you heard the beggar muttering last night, it's peculiar rather than eerie. If a couple of mates can watch the door while you're poking around, so you are confident nothing is creeping up on you, the frisson of uncertainty is gone.
And of course, if there are several of you, you can set up watches. Whether you're waiting for a shriek or looking out for a gribbly monster, you can in fact get some rest while somebody else - somebody well-rested - monitors for trouble.
Psychological Impacts
I think the confirmation is the crux here. You are not alone. You are not crazy. Somebody else believes you. Somebody else can second your observations and ideas. Rather than being an outsider with experiences you can't expect anyone to understand, you are part of a group with shared experiences - and that is a position of psychological power rather than weakness. It's a gateway to wainscot fantasy rather than horror.
(Reflecting on this more, mental health difficulties are also often a disturbing and alienating experience because it is something internal to you that other people don't perceive, and it feels like nobody else will comprehend or validate your experience of the world. The overlap between this and the weird events in weird fiction is no coincidence.)
Similarly, the uncertainty of observations is often crucial to horror. Did you really hear that, or are you tired? Was that a dream? Is this statuette really a close likeness of your new brother-in-law? Is the room getting darker? It's no coincidence that protagonists in short weird stories are often depicted as either "sensitive" artists and intellectuals, or recovering from an illness or traumatic experience, or both. These are people in a perfect position to doubt the evidence of their senses and question their own sanity, and solitude intensifies that.
If you think you saw a hand seize and devour your reflection in a mirror, that is immediate cause to get your drink tested and your head examined. If you and the rest of the rugby team think you all saw that, that's immediate cause to think that either there's a cool optical illusion at work, or there's some eldritch force here, or someone's playing an elaborate prank, but no cause at all to doubt yourself. Moreover, you'll know that's the case immediately, because everyone else will be making alarmed noises, and the psychological barrier to saying "Oi, Danny, do you see that?" is very low.
There's also the element of credible threat. For one person - especially in an unfamiliar or isolated location - the range of credible threats is huge, from "huge bear" to "one murderer" to "small viper" to "falling over and not being able to get up". As soon as you have a second person, that range contracts: the second person can go for help, for a start. If a thug or an aggressive dog attacks one of you, the other can help to drag them off (and go for the flank). They might not be much help against a ghost, but what we are actually afraid of is very rarely a ghost until we've already got good reason to expect one. Mostly, when we hear a worrying rustling noise in the bushes, we're worried about a critter or Some Awful Bloke.
(and I think it's worth noting that even then, what we're actually scared of isn't necessarily death or even violence, but can just be exposure to something unpleasant or psychologically difficult, like "really persistent beggar" or "nude weirdo")
Once you get to three or four adults, often with some manner of weaponry to hand, the threat range diminishes even further. One set of footsteps isn't that scary (particularly if you live somewhere where people aren't unaccountably allowed to own firearms), and most animals will run away from a group. Psychological threat from encountering somebody having a mental health episode or enjoying some open-air coitus is much reduced by reassuring strength in numbers: between you, you can probably deal with the awkwardness. Heck, you might even be able to take that bear.
(Do not attempt to take that bear.)
Me and My Five Friends Would Like to Ask You About the Worst Thing That Ever Happened To You
As has been observed, a large group of characters also doesn't work well for investigation. Eight of you can certainly search a house, but either you split up to search different rooms, or you'll all be in each others' way. A witness might be willing to chat with two strangers - perhaps even more easily than two - but very few people want to be questioned by five or six. If nothing else, who has that many chairs?
If you own the Old Rectory, you can have a chat with the nice professor who comes to visit and get a read on her as a decent lass, and perhaps you don't mind her digging around the garden. Six people turning up asking to excavate your garden is frankly intimidating, and you don't have the opportunity to get to know them in the same way.
Obviously, we can and do handwave this for the expedience of a game. Still, it's a factor that can detract from verisimilitude.
Long Slow Walks on the Horrible Beach
It doesn't help that stories are often about quite extended periods of time, whereas games tend to rush. Players want to use their time effectively. They spring up in the morning, and, pausing only for a light six-course breakfast, are at the Sinister Forest by noon. They go to visit potential informants on the first day, explore the old castle on the second, stay up all night to study a diary, and burn down the mill on Sunday. Rarely do you find PCs having a daily walk on the beach for a month, and only then deciding to look at the odd monument they keep seeing. There's an immediacy to roleplaying.
This is also true of written fiction, where one aspect is that largeish groups of people are rarely all going to gather for an extended period while the story plays out. Country houses can get away with it, if they're relatives or a house-party. Individual neighbours aren't likely to all be around at the same time, though stories like The Colour out of Space make much of them passing the word around in twos and threes. Even if you're all together, a group is less likely to have a relatively fixed set of habits; somebody tends to suggest doing something different, or going further afield than you'd bother by yourself. If The Clue is in your house, a group might be more likely to notice it - or to distract each other enough that nobody does.
In contrast, our singular narrators (perhaps with a non-narrating family) can take a sabbatical, or go to stay with a friend (who is rarely actually around), or retire to the country to write, or simply set out from their house to explore the neighbourhood. The story can unfold over the course of their lengthy routine. It's much easier to justify a single character not having a "real" job that requires regular hours and going to an actual place of work, and I am struggling to think of a single horror-ish story where they do. That's important too, because going to the office and having to do routine things and listen to Tom complain about his gutters is a dilution of the isolation and the weirdness. Weird story protagonists always seem to be gentlemen of leisure, women who aren't allowed to work, novelists, artists, academics who mysteriously attend neither classes nor meetings, and so on. I can only think of one featuring a factory worker (Those Above in Steampunk Cthulhu, genuinely enjoyed it).
Of course, part of this is that it's quite difficult to convey the sense of something gradually coming to your attention in a roleplaying game, in a way that doesn't feel pushy. Most people don't want to roleplay through dozens of walks on the beach, each time describing the monument, and see if a player eventually decides to investigate it (rather than the rockpools, hedge, sparrow, large rock, or other features you describe). You can narrate the period, but this is easier to do for general things than specifics, particularly if there are several specific things they should gradually pay attention which appear in different "scenes".
"You arrive at the rectory and are greeted warmly by your friend." [Roleplaying ensues] "Over the course of the next month, you get to know the neighbours. Professor Dubious is a taciturn man, amiable enough but preoccupied with his work revolutionising the future of humanity. The Paniqs are a friendly couple whose rosy-cheeked children enjoy exploring and definitely not getting kidnapped." [give players a chance to discuss, RP, etc.] "It slowly comes to your attention that your friend always looks haggard on Tuesday and Friday mornings."
This is a serviceable bit of narration that outlines the situation in which our PCs find themselves, including a detail the characters would eventually notice, but which it's hard to make come out in roleplay.
"You arrive at the rectory and are greeted warmly by your friend." [Roleplaying ensues] "Over the course of the next month, you get to know the neighbours... During your long walks along the beach, it slowly comes to your attention that there is a monument nearby. Also, you start to suspect that the chef is not actually French. Besides this, you have the feeling that the patterns on the wallpaper are gradually changing when you aren't looking at them. Plus, the parish clock never chimes the hour at 1 p.m., despite ringing reliably through the night."
You can probably get away with this, but it feels awkward and heavy-handed to me. It feels like you're simply dumping four Clues To Investigate onto the players out of nowhere.
What Can Be Done?
I don't have a lot to suggest; I'm sure somebody else has written good advice on the matter. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to locate blogs on any particular point of interest, as the quantity of copied, scraped, or generated blandness with every conceivable set of keywords overwhelms search engines. Suggestions are welcome and I'll incorporate them here.
I think the two basic steps are to discuss this OOC with the players, and to isolate characters.
Isolation is viable: the PCs simply split up to cover more ground (as per the horror trope), or go off to interview different witnesses. Realistically, they might just have actual work to do that precludes getting together to harass a single person or all trooping off the the library for hours. Encouraging PCs to have jobs (flexible, perhaps, but absolutely demanding some actual work, on the premises, during the course of the adventure) will help ensure they can't all cling together.
As part of that, make sure the players understand what you're going for and ask them to play accordingly. If they know you're probably not going to murder their individual character - or that that's the point! - they should be willing to split up more. Making characters who don't automatically share their every experience helps contain each person's weird experiences to themselves, until they hit a point where they're forced to share.
Games often encourage creating characters who have a lot of shared bonds and enough trust to go adventuring together. That's useful, but not necessarily always the right mode for a weird story. You can have immense trust in a friend and still not be comfortable immediately telling them about the peculiar dream you had, or your uncanny feeling that a two-headed man was following you last night (if you're confident it wasn't a two-headed man, it becomes an anecdote, which is very different). Horror stories often feature groups with existing tensions that can be exacerbated and serve to psychologically isolate the characters further. You don't have to go whole hog with this - the PCs are generally meant to work together to resolve the scenario, somehow - but "acquaintances who don't share particularly personal experiences" is a reasonable model.
On the flip side, there's a risk that this slides into PCs not sharing enough information to make any kind of progress. That's a tricky balancing act for both the players and the GM. Working out how much to tell the players and when requires skill (often more than I have), without the extra complication of them not sharing information. I know that I've run into that problem before, but I cannot currently recall what game it was, let alone how (if?) we eventually resolved it.
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