From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 20, 1930.
The house nearly killed me.
I was walking along the western edge of the Gods’ Hollow field when the house materialized not a dozen feet from me. It stank of cinders and charred air, roasted flesh, and sadness. Moaning came through the open windows while the entire structure groaned as it settled on its foundation.
The moans quickly changed into cries, which mutated into shrieks of desperation.
Against my better judgment, I entered the home.
The table was set for breakfast. Coffee boiled on the oven. A burnt woman stood by the back window, her hair gone and her flesh a horrific mockery of what it had once been. She turned to face me, her eyes melted within their sockets, her teeth blacked and cracked. With a scream of outraged sadness, she held her arms out to me.
I fired a single shot from each of the Colts and blew her brains out over the wall.
It was all I could do for her.
For a short time, I stood there. Then, I walked to the oven, found a cup and poured myself some coffee. The warmth of it chased the chill horror of Gods’ Hollow out of the pit of my stomach as I left the house to continue my search for the missing.
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