October 14, 1937


The attack failed.

I was walking along North Road this morning when I was ambushed.

They were rough men, scarred and missing teeth. They smelled of whiskey and the ocean.

The fight was hard, and it was brutal, and they were smart enough to keep my hands occupied and away from the Colts.

But I wasn’t worried about getting hold of the revolvers, just staying away from the edge of the Hollow.

As we fought, I saw the Hollow shift and transform. The cool, mid-October scene was replaced by that of tall, red rocks and bitterly dry air. The air shimmered with heat, and as I slammed my fist into one man’s nose, smashing it across his face, the red rocks opened with the sound of a tear. A noise loud enough to catch the attention of every man there.

While my assailants turned to look at the source of the sound, I took several cautious steps back.

The gods appeared a moment later, and I showed them my open palms.

I had met the trio once before, in 1847, and I knew they were not to be taken lightly.

My assailants, however, didn’t know any such thing, and I wasn’t of a mind to tell them.

The gods came to a stop at the edge of the Hollow and peered with their strange, cold eyes at the gathered men. I averted my eyes and kept my hands up and open. It had saved me once before, and I could only hope it would do so again.

One of the assailants called out a challenge, swearing at the gods in a thick Boston accent. His compatriots laughed, and then the gods struck.

Their movements were fluid, graceful, and devoid of sound. Each touch of their hands caused great wounds to appear on their victims. Intestines spilled out onto the ground, and heads collapsed. Limbs tumbled off and twitched in the dirt.

Some men tried to run, but with the crook of their fingers, the gods tore out spines and tendons.

Screams filled the air, for most of the men were still alive.

Without a glance toward me, the gods gathered up the assailants and deftly plucked out the hearts. They stacked them in a pulsing pile and then left the way they’d come.

As the red rocks vanished, the New England trees returned, and the hearts continued to beat.

#fear #horrorstories #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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