April 8, 1930

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.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods


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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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