Strangers in Cross: Jan. 31, ‘38

It was left for me to find.

I had chased the last of the shifting monsters back into the Hollow, leaving a trail of their dead in my wake.

When I reached the stonewall, there at on North Road, and gazed into Gods’ Hollow, I noticed the glint of metal a short distance away. As I focused my attention there, I saw that it was a silver ring, large and heavy. Beside it was a book, and as I drew nearer to them both, a chill raced through my heart and settled in the base of my spine.

My fingers were numb as I lifted the ring, turning the scarred metal over in my hands and seeing the unmistakable crest of my family. The journal, equally battered with age, was far worse.

Without opening the volume, I picked it up, held it close to my chest, and carried it home.

In silence, I brought it down into the dubious sanctity of my private library, sat down in my chair, and poured out a healthy measure of bourbon. As I drank, I stared at the book on my desk.

I put the signet ring beside the journal.

It had been almost two centuries since I had last seen them, and they had been in far better condition.

My father had been carrying them in his satchel when he had gone missing. Toting them along when he had, and the structure he had been in was snatched from Cross.

I finished my drink, reached out, and opened the book, flipping through the entries until I came to the day my father had vanished.

‘This is the journal of Ezekiel Blood.’ My father’s smooth, graceful handwriting flowed effortlessly across the page. ‘I have been taken into Gods’ Hollow. It is my fervent hope to return home.’

 It had been my hope as well.

Pouring myself another drink, I began to read.

#horror #fear #art #writing