April 12, 1930

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.

April 12, 1930.

I came upon an old structure today, one that I remember building alongside my father and my uncles.

It had once housed the weapons and foodstuffs of both the Bloods and the Coffins before the New World was ours. We had hidden there, during raids, hunkering down to defend ourselves against the attacks of our Native American neighbors when they grew tired of our company.

And I remember when the building vanished from the strip of land between Blood Farm and Coffin Farm. My father had been in it, putting away the new rifles purchased from a gunsmith in Pennsylvania.

We searched for years, hopeful that the building might reappear, and that my father might still be alive.

Stranger things have occurred, of course, but it was not meant to be. For decades and centuries passed. He and the building remained missing.

Standing near it, I felt a sense of dread. Would it be better to know what happened to my father, rather than continued wishful thinking?

I sat down and stared at the building, wondering where the roof had gone and what had occurred when it had vanished. Did my father fight, or was he slain upon arrival? Did he arrive?

Finally, as the sun slowly began to set, I stood up and walked away.

The boy within me needed the hope that his father was still alive.

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