In Gods’ Hollow: May 1, 1912

Advertisements

A church stood in Gods’ Hollow, and Jack Coffin’s boy was missing.

Jack came to me this morning a little past eight, his face pale. He was unshaven, and his eyes were bloodshot, and he stank of fear.

“Johnny’s missing,” he told me on the porch.

“Where was he last?” I asked.

“His friends say he chased a dog into the Hollow last night,” Jack replied, his voice tight. “They saw both my boy and the dog go into a church.”

“There’s a church now?”

Jack nodded. In a tight voice, he added, “Saw it myself on my way over. I tried to go in.”

It was then that I noticed he was favoring his right arm, and the hand was hanging the wrong way.

“They didn’t want me there,” Jack said through clenched teeth. “They kept my rifle.”

“How far did you get?” I asked him.

“I opened the door.”

I nodded.

“Duncan,” Jack said. “It’s bigger than it looks.”

“Alright. Go home, Jack,” I told him. “I’ll do what I can.”

Without a word, he left, and I set about preparing for a trip into the Hollow. Soon, I was armed with my Colts and my Bowie knife, and the haversack I had used during the War of the Rebellion. I packed a goodly supply of food and not nearly enough ammunition. I called up to the ravens, and the one-eyed raven, who had gone into the Hollow with me before, and who was, among other things, called Grimnir, came to down to land heavily on my shoulder.

“You’re going in?” he asked me, his voice deep and raw.

“I am.”

“Good.”

I left my property, and Grimnir flew above me. Soon, I was at the stonewall on North Road and looking into Gods’ Hollow.

Less than a hundred feet away, in the ever-shifting landscape of the Hollow, stood an ivy-bedecked church. From it came the faint sounds of revelry and I climbed over the stonewall. Grimnir landed on my shoulder, and soon we entered the church.

I was in the largest room I had ever seen, and I cursed.

Grimnir laughed, and the door closed on its own accord.

It was time to find Jack’s boy.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.