When the Boston & Maine southbound train crashed into some of the cars on a side-rail at the train station, I assumed it was an accident. The next morning, Desmond Hollis showed me the photograph he had taken, and he was confused as to the blurred images. He informed me that the children had held perfectly still during the entire time, so he had no explanation for the poor quality of the image.
I did.
It is rare to photograph a gremlin. Never, however, can one be clearly seen on film. The fact that there were three of them was disheartening. Alone, they are a challenge to kill. In groups, it is a near impossibility to execute them all.
I began my hunt at the railyard, following the curious, glass-like scat the creatures leave behind. From the yard, I tracked them to an old mill, one which had burned down a few years earlier. There, among the iron debris and crumbled masonry, I found them.
They had shed their false skins and lounged about their warren, feasting on bodies pilfered from nearby cemeteries. In the fight which followed, I killed seven of them and wounded a trio more.
When I entered the warren on my hands and knees, I found birthing chambers, where I slew females and cubs alike.
Later, before the sunset, I returned with kerosene and oil. I emptied the contents into the warren’s main opening and put a match to it.
The stench of their flesh, both living and roasted, is foul, and I had to burn the clothes I wore. Before I left the burning warren, I removed the heads of the gremlins I had killed and mounted them on stakes around the building.
It is a reminder for them to stay out of Cross, and for over a century they have listened.
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