In Gods’ Hollow: May 14, 1912


The silence was oppressive.

When I stepped into the room, and the door sealed itself behind me, there was nothing to hear. Even the sound of my own heartbeat was muted.

I was standing in what could only have been a museum. The raven remained perched on my shoulder, and I could tell by his stillness that he was displeased with what was gathered around us.

Set in glass display cases was a large array of anthropological materials. Clothes, utensils, artwork, and everything else that one might attribute to humans. Before each one was a bronze plate, bearing an inscription which – had I been able to read the strange language – would undoubtedly tell me from where and when the items came.

I moved along the main aisle, searching through the collection for a way out.

My boots were muffled, despite the wooden floor upon which I trod.

The aisle turned to the left, and I came to a stop, looking with growing hate upon the foulest of displays.

In the glass case, seated before a small teepee, was a pair of Indian girls. They were poised in the act of play, dolls in hand. Someone had slain the children, prepared them, and set them up as taxidermied specimens. Beyond them was another display case with another set of children.

As my eyes scanned the other cases, I realized that on either side of the aisle, and spreading as far as I could see, were children.

Hundreds, if not thousands of them, put forever on display.

I had to walk past them all in my quest for the door out, and when I found it, my eyes swam with tears of rage.

For a moment, I stood in front of the door, made certain the Colts were ready in their holsters, and checked the edge on my knife.

“What are you thinking, Duncan Blood?” the raven asked.

“I’m thinking I’m going to kill everyone who had a hand in this,” I answered.

“Good. Open the door.”

I nodded, pushed open the door, and sought my vengeance.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #death

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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