Lost in Cross: 1884


They came from Boston, and I couldn’t help them.

The last of the Blacks had died of a fever, and the farm was empty. The livestock had been sold off, and the fields were barren. There was no one to stop the curious from seeking out Honor’s Path or to stop them from seeing what was at the other end.

No one ever found out, of course, but they sure as hell tried.

The ladies of the Church of the Infinite Redeemer arrived on a Saturday morning, their children in the long carriage with them. They never came through town, or else I would have seen them. I had gone in for a meeting at the Historical Society.

It was only around eleven, when I came out, that one of the ravens informed me that there were intruders at Black Farm and that they had entered the path.

When I learned that it had occurred an hour or so earlier, I knew all I could do was search for the bodies.

I arrived at the farm a short time later, and I found the driver of the carriage huddled beneath it, his horse dead in its traces. The man had torn off his own ears and dug out his eyes. Somehow, he had managed to rip his tongue out by the root, and it lay drying in the heat of the early afternoon sun.

I put a bullet through his head and entered the forest. I didn’t get too far along the path, and unfortunately, that was not a good thing.

The creatures which live beneath the damned path had decorated once again.

Small hearts hung by locks of bloody hair, and a ring had been formed by hands laid out, one upon the other, and well over a dozen eyes were piled in the center of it.

I stood there for a short time, trying, desperately, to think of some way I could destroy the path without incinerating the lands around it, and understood that I could not.

I would need to find another way to exact my vengeance on the beasts below Honor’s Path.

Returning toward the relative safety of the farmyard, I paused beside several cloth dolls. They were bloodied and torn, and I picked each of them up.

It took me hours to clean them and to sew them, the needle pricking my thumbs as I struggled to see through my tears.

#horror #fear

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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