July 4, 1938

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My mother’s insane ramblings filled the rooms.

For hours her words pulsed in the air, a constant annoyance.

All I want is to find Turk and bring that damned dog home. If I can get out of the Hollow, that is. I’ve felt the building move several times since I’ve first entered it, and I doubt it’s been still in those few hours I’ve slept.

Occasionally, my mother makes sense. Not much, but a little. Enough to let me know how much control she has over the people in this place. She exhorts them to find me, to kill me in whatever version of Cross they move to.

And they do it.

I saw a younger version of myself this morning. This one had a shaved head and a swagger about him that I’ve never had. Still, it was disappointing when the sound of gunshots rang out, and the younger version stumbled to the ground.

I watched as the hunters sprang out from their hiding spots and raced towards him, several firing again to keep him down. When they reached the young man, they pounced upon him, and a pair of them took out hunting knives.

I could only admire their efficiency, and I imagine that they weren’t going to risk having a pair of us roaming the halls of their home.

I turned away from the window as they dug into his belly and set his innards ablaze.

A few moments after witnessing the assault, I came to a small room. The door to it was closed, and from behind it came the sound of someone muttering.

I drew my Bowie knife from its sheath and opened the door slowly. A man sat near a collection of equipment, a headset on as he gazed absently at the wall.

He must have caught sight of me in the corner of his eye because he chuckled and said, “I think I might have pinpointed another one. Perhaps a day, perhaps two. This will make three for the week. Do you think they’ve caught the loose one yet?”

“No,” I answered, and I slid my knife between his ribs.

He stiffened, tried to stand, and then exhaled painfully as I twisted and pressed down on the blade at the same time. He shuddered once, then slumped over in the seat. I let him fall to the floor and sat down in the chair.

I’d been on my feet long enough.

#horror #fear #paranormal

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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