From, Blood’s History: Graves
I am not a nice man. Fair, at most times, though I am quick to anger. It has taken several hundred years to come to grips with these aspects of myself. A look back at my history and the history of my family reveals these are common traits.
I come by my anger honestly.
Over the decades I have put a great many people in the ground. Each one of them needed killing, although not all deserved to die. The worst of them, the foulest, I have kept with me. They are buried here, on Blood Farm.
In the center of the property, far from prying eyes, there are three tombs. Each contains a person who I could no longer suffer to live. They drew their last breaths in front of me and in their tombs.
I will not name the individuals, nor will I give any hint as to when they vanished from Cross society. And yes, they were all natives. The history of our town is riddled with disappearances over its almost four centuries of existence.
Each came to me of their own volition. One thinking to trick me. The second to wed me. And the third to settle a debt, which I suppose he did, in a way.
We strolled out to the tombs beneath warm, August nights.
They died in the dim light of lanterns while January storms raged above us.
I visit the tombs on occasion, and I wonder when I will need to prepare a fourth.
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