From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 8, 1930.
In nearly three centuries of life, I have learned how to listen.
This morning, as the sun rose above the eastern trees, the wind carried the sound of voices to me. They spoke in a language I was unfamiliar with, and that, in and of itself, is saying something. I know nearly all the tongues of this world, and more than a few of others.
This language, though, was secret and dark.
I followed the hidden speakers, traveled down into a valley that soon opened and spread out into a compacted town. Some of the buildings I recognized from Cross, others were far too bizarre in shape and design, their form obscuring any hint as to their function.
I kept to the outskirts of this town and realized that it was nothing less than a necropolis.
Each winding street was lined with homes transformed into crypts, and mausoleums and aboveground graves filled the allies and the yards.
The voices, I realized, weren’t issuing forth from anyone I would see.
Not above ground and in the light of day.
Instead, I could hear laughter and song, the sounds of daily life, escaping the confines of the multitude of graves.
I stood on the outskirts of a town of the dead, and I knew that if I was close by at dusk, I might find myself a permanent member of the town.
As fear rattled my heart, I withdrew from the town and sought out some safer place within Gods’ Hollow to seek out the missing of Cross.
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