November 13, 1891


They broke all the windows in the house.

It wasn’t yet dawn when the glass shattered throughout the house, launching me out of bed and sending the ghosts howling through the halls. The sound of horns faded into the distance, and I held my head in my hands, my brains vibrating in my skull from the attack.

I managed to climb out of bed and pull on my clothes, buckling on my gun-belts as I staggered out of the room. Horatio appeared from his, the simian’s teeth red with his own blood and tears of the same laid clotted trails down his cheeks.

“I’ll find the sons of bitches,” he spat and hurried down the hall.

I paused long enough at a mirror to wipe my own blood from my face, and then I went down the stairs, holding tight to the banister as though I was in a small ship on rough seas.

When I reached the first floor, I found the front door open and a cold wind blowing in. I left it the way I found it and went to the kitchen to retrieve my broom. By the time Horatio returned, the blood on his face had the shape and cast of war paint, and he helped himself to the brandy as I cleaned up the last of the glass in the parlor.

He finished his first glass, poured another for himself and then one for me. I nodded my thanks and held it as he proposed a toast.

“To you killing the bastards,” he said, and we drank to it. “You’ll find them on your side of the Hollow, Duncan. ‘Bout half a mile to the east. They’re quite pleased with themselves.”


“They’ve the stink of the Hollow on them,” he replied.

I set the empty glass down, double-checked the loads, and slid my knife into the small of my back. If twelve rounds weren’t enough to take care of whoever they were, then I’d use the knife on ‘em.

I found them exactly where Horatio said they’d be, and they sure as hell weren’t expecting company.

Six of them sat around their camp. When they saw me, the men froze, their eyes flickering to their instruments.

They didn’t have time to reach them or anything else for that matter.

I killed them all.

When I finished, I took their instruments and their hands with me.

I left the bodies as a warning.

#fear #horrorstories #supernatural

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Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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