October 1, 1937

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Something reached out from the Hollow and struck them down.

I wasn’t in Cross, not when it happened.

When I came back from Boston Towne, it was to a great commotion. The fire engine was out, and the writers at the Sentinel were doing their best to keep people away from Olive Street. By the time I arrived, the Cross Militia was out, and they threw up a cordon around the area. They kept the inquisitive out, and they made damned sure that no one from the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University made it in.

My friend, George Butler, escorted me to what was left of the Jordan Orphanage.

There wasn’t much. 

He left me alone, and I stood in front of the orphanage for a short time, letting my eyes roam over the devastation. I could smell the stink of the Hollow and feel the remnants of my something’s hate.

I didn’t bother with the door.

Instead, I climbed through a window and prowled through the house.

I found broken toys and shredded clothes. The food was at the breakfast table was spoiled, and glass shards were spread across the floor.

Blood was drying in fanning arcs up the walls and across the ceilings. Bits of flesh and bone chips were scattered about, a mockery of wind-blown seeds.

When I reached the kitchen, I stiffened, grinding my teeth together. For a moment, I remained standing; then, I collapsed into a chair. My hands trembled as I took out my pipe, packed it, and lit the tobacco.

George found me in the kitchen a few minutes later, averting his eyes from the horror across from me.

“Duncan, the folks from Miskatonic, are demanding to be let in.”

“Who’s making the most noise?”

“Professor Lucas.”

I took a shell from my gun-belt and handed the large .44 round to him. “Give this to him and tell him that’ll be a kindness if anyone in the school was involved.”

George nodded and left the room.

My eyes went back to the travesty assembled on the stove.

Eleven small skulls, still slick with blood and gore.

Some of them were the children Virginia had spared the year before.

None of them deserved their death.

There was a note, written in gore, above the skulls.

‘I never forget.’

That’s fine.

I never forgive.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

2 thoughts on “October 1, 1937”

  1. F(*bleep*)K.

    Also, at the end of paragraph 5, “my *something’s* hate”, is that deliberate? The context feels like it should be “my mother’s hate” or something similar.

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