From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 13, 1930.
I find little joy in this place.
Death is everywhere and in everything. Gods’ Hollow is the crossing point between worlds, realities, and times. None of them pleasant.
I came upon a house today. One I had no memory of. Even here, in this place, the house felt wrong and out of sorts. It was the stuff of nightmares, an ambiguous entity that waited, patiently, for me to enter it.
I nearly did so.
When I came to a low, fieldstone wall, I stopped. Beyond the wall, the house would dictate my movements. I could feel that knowledge deep in my guts, a primal warning screaming in my head. As I peered at the land around the structure, I saw the subtle clues. A cast-off pack, a discarded canteen. Boots and a shirt. The weathered remains of a horse and a broken Winchester beside it.
At the edge of the property, a burnt odor permeated the air, stinging my nostrils and biting the back of my throat with its acidity. My eyes watered, and the tears produced served me well.
I saw the house for what it was. A great, monstrous creature. It waited with an unappeasable hunger for the wary. It watched me, hid as best it could, longing for me to cross the wall and fall beneath its spell.
For a time, I considered whether I should destroy the building. But then I realized I could not. It would devour me long before I accomplish my task.
I backed away from the home slowly, unwilling to be the strange creatures next meal.
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