From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.
April 28, 1930.
I did not make it out of the Hollow before nightfall, and I am paying the price.
It was hope which brought me to Blood Lake. Hope that I might follow the curve of the shore to where the Hollow brushes up against my land. Hope.
Hubris would be a better term.
I traveled only a short distance before the first fire caught my eye. The flames were reflected off the waters of the Lake, revealing a large island which I knew did not exist in my own reality. I pitied those upon the island. More specifically, those trapped in the buildings.
I watched as the flames quickly spread from one building to the other, as the fire climbed the sides of each. Windows shattered and timbers exploded in the heat. The screams of the dying rolled across the water, each inarticulate cry of horror magnified by the stillness of the night. Several times I thought I caught a glimpse of a person hurling himself out a window.
There was nothing I could do except sit on the lake shore and bear silent witness to the last, painful moments of the island’s denizens.
I write this by the light of those fires, the screams of the dying still burning in my ears.
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