September 10, 1880

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They were angry, and I didn’t care.

I’d spent the night hunkered down in an abandoned fox den. I had a quick bite to eat and set off towards the east with every intention of killing everyone I saw. Perhaps with enough carnage, the residents would understand they needed to ignore the promises of my mother and her ilk.

Or maybe they just enjoyed being obstinate.

Either would work for me. So long as I had enough ammunition.

I had the Berdan, and my Colts, so I was feeling damned comfortable when I stepped out into a small glen and discovered a building that seemed out of character.

Then again, it’s the Hollow, and there really isn’t much that’d be strange.

I was about to pass around the building when a group exited the structure.

The wind shifted, and I could smell them.

Demigods have a peculiar stink.

I shrugged off the Berdan, laid it on the ground beside me, and rested my hands on the butts of the Colts. As I took in the sight of the demigods, I loosened the revolvers in their holsters and cocked the hammers back with my thumbs.

“Blood,” the one in the center spoke, his face an empty void.

“Aye.”

“You are wanted,” he continued.

I spat on the ground and waited.

“Your mother wishes a word with you.”

I raised an eyebrow and tightened my grip on the Colts. “That a fact?”

As one, the demigods nodded.

“Well, she’ll be disappointed. This your place?”

“It is,” the speaker replied.

“Best to leave Cross alone,” I told him. “I’m in no mood for any nonsense.”

The demigods laughed, a harsh and brittle sound reminiscent of breaking glass.

“Who are you to dictate to us?” he asked me.

“I’m Duncan Blood,” I answered, and I drew my Colts.

The guns roared in the early morning air, and the rounds tore into the demigods. To their surprise, the demigods felt them.

Pained shrieks filled the air as they tried to stagger away, but the Colts never stopped. When my guns ran dry, I reloaded, stepped closer, and finished each demigod off.

I saved the speaker for last.

Waves of fear rolled off of him as I aimed both barrels at his head.

“How?” he gasped.

“Iron and hate,” I told him and pulled the triggers.

#horrorstories #paranormal

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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