War in the Hollow: Dec. 30, ‘36

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Some days, I truly wonder what in the hell is wrong with the Hollow.

Today was one of those days.

I’m less than a day out of where I can slip back into my own version of Cross, and the Hollow has tried to stop me.

I saw a broken building off to my left, the sky seen through its open windows, the roof collapsed, and the foundation sagging. There was something strange and bothersome about the structure, and so I decided it best to not stroll past it.

Had I not steered clear of the house, this would have been far more difficult to write.

I don’t know what it was that caused me to alter my course, to keep myself at a fair enough distance from it, but I did. Good for me, bad for the house.

Because it was the house, or what was passing as a house, that tried to snatch me from this place.

I heard the grind of glass against glass and the howl of wood upon wood, and when I looked, I saw the wreckage of the house pulling itself toward me.

Huge hands, clawed and vicious – attached to timbered arms and a head half-buried in the earth – screamed at me in a voice that shook me to the core. Blood spilled from my ears and burst from my nose, seeped from my eyes and sprang forth in my mouth.

There are times to stand and fight and times to run like hell.

This was one of the latter.

It took me longer than I would have liked to get away, but away I did get.

The creature’s screams of outrage followed me for a good half an hour, and while I stopped bleeding from my ears and nose and eyes, I was still spat blood for the better part of the day.

I hate the Hollow.

#horror #fear #fiction #writing

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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