Lost in Cross: 1883

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The house arrived in the morning.

No matter how many odd things happen in the Hollow, there is always something that surprises me.

And the house did just that.

I’d stopped to relight my pipe when there was a distinctive ‘pop.’ A rush of cold air followed, and when I looked into the Hollow, I saw the house. It was roughly built with a rough man standing in the doorway. He was holding onto the barrel of a rifle, there was a dog resting on the ground, and a freshly slain deer hung up.

The man called out to me to by name, an act which caused me to put away my matches and rest my hand on the butt of the Colt.

I gave him a wave with my freehand and waited to see what might occur next.

“Blood,” he called out. “How’s your father?”

“Dead, far as I know,” I answered.

The old man swore and shook his head. “What’s the year?”

I told him, and he swore again.

“And who’s the King?”

“Of what?” I asked.

“Our country, of course,” he snapped.

I shook my head. “Friend, we’ve had no King for almost a hundred years.”

The torrent of curses and profanity, which exited the man’s mouth was, without a doubt, the most impressive I had heard. When he finally finished, he called the dog to him, and the animal stood up wearily. They both entered the house, the old man closed the door, and the sound of rushing water filled the air.

A heartbeat later, the house was gone.

Letting go of the Colt, I lit my pipe, shook my head, and sympathized with the stranger.

There are some days where you just don’t get any of the answers you want.

#horror #fear

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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