From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 7, 1930.
I came upon the ruins shortly after sunrise. A chill emanated from them and set my teeth to chattering.
I knew the sensation from old when the sepulchers would open in Old Cross Cemetery and spew forth the dead.
My Colts were cleaned and loaded, but I would have no need for them.
Someone had come before me and dispatched the dead with a firm, unyielding hand.
I found the bodies within the ruins, each corpse trussed up and hanged by the neck from the cornices of Corinthian pillars.
Men and women, children and dogs, all long dead and recently destroyed. Their heads were smashed and what little remained of their brains dripped in a nauseating rhythm to the mossy stones beneath their feet.
In the end, I counted forty-seven bodies, and when I reached the last – the corpse of a middle-aged woman with sickly yellow hair – I found a note.
Destroyed this day, April 6, 1930. Duncan Blood.
I did not know whether to be comforted or frightened by the knowledge that another version of myself was wandering Gods’ Hollow.
I put the question from my mind and made certain my pistols were loaded.
The weapons stayed in my hands.
I know how fast I am.
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