From the 1961 Journal of Duncan Blood


I have often considered the nature of Cross as a whole. As a single entity which seems to exist in and of itself. At times it is a part of the natural world as the rest of this country knows it, and at others, it is something else entirely.

Few maps of Massachusetts will acknowledge our existence. There are no records of us in the Massachusetts Historical Society, nor are the very learned in Harvard or Boston College likely to admit that Miskatonic University has a branch in our town. How the rail continues to run from all points known to Cross is a mystery to many in town.

Perhaps it is because our town is and is not.

A curious statement, I know, but think of it this way. Today, I can see the Atlantic Ocean from the top floor of my home. The ships bob at their anchors in the wharf, and the smell of the sea is strong.

Yesterday, I saw only Pepperell. The day before that, I could see the shimmer of smoke rising from the stack in Nashua, New Hampshire.

Cross’ borders are fluid and, at times, frightening. A great many people stop in Cross who never meant to.

Many of them never leave. They are buried on the borders, or in shallow graves. Some are eaten by creatures whose existence is roundly disputed. I load my Colts with silver, and there is a reason for it.

I’m leaving for a walk now, and it is my hope I will see Cross Point and the lighthouse there.

I won’t be surprised, however, if I find only the Berkshires or some other mountain range.

It’s Cross, and it changes from day to day, hour to hour.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghosts #DuncanBlood #asylum #insane #ghoststories

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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