From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 15, 1930.
I remember the truck, although I do not remember it being for sale when last it passed through Cross.
Today, I came upon a wide field in Gods’ Hollow. A field crisscrossed with barbed-wire and occupied by the abandoned truck. I approached the vehicle cautiously, unsure as to what, if anything, I might find within it.
At first, when I peered in through the windows, I didn’t believe there was anything there. I saw old religious literature, a makeshift bed, and a suitcase. The smell of old cinnamon wafted out from the open windows, the odor informing me that there were remains within. I stared hard at the bedding and saw a desiccated hand exposed. The skin was tanned, weathered, and clinging to the bones, outlining each of them.
As I peered in, the wind shifted, carrying my scent into the vehicle. When it did so, the fingers on the hand twitched. The shape beneath the blankets rustled.
I left the truck burning in the early afternoon light, the harsh screams of the unknown beast rising with the smoke to the clear April sky.
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