Cross is a strange place, and at times horrific in ways that I cannot abide. Events occur that make me want to put the town to the torch, and to salt the earth.
In May of 1940, the children of the Cross Elementary School went to class per usual in the morning. They played in the yard, they learned their lessons, and when they came out, they waited for their parents. Eighteen children waited for an hour, and yet not a single parent came for them.
The families were sought out, and the children were brought inside, fed snacks and read to, soothed, and sung to while mothers, fathers, aunts, and uncles were searched for.
By six in the evening, there was still no luck, and the teachers stepped out into the hallway to discuss what to do. When they went back into the classroom, they found the parents, but not the children.
The parents were dead and naked, stretched out side by side on the floor. All the desks were gone. All the books and lessons.
Not a single child remained.
We tore the town apart searching for them, and not even I could ferret out where they had been taken to.
Not until 1976, October 30.
They were found where they had last been seen in the classroom. They were dead. Mummified and hung from the ceiling by their feet, still clad in the clothes they had worn.
There was a single note, written in proud, bold script upon the chalkboard.
How my mother did this thing, I do not know. Why is simple enough.
She hates as no one before her did, and no one after her can.
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