February 10


So little remains.

In January 1890, I was trapped in the Hollow for the entirety of the month. During that time, I met and then buried Marcus Blood, my son.

Before his death, Marcus told me of his life and what happened to his mother, Elizaveta Krova.

Elizaveta was a Russian who had been my intellectual superior in every way. She was as long-lived as I, and our meeting had been by chance in early 1852 when she was visiting relatives in Boston.  

Our time was unfortunately brief and, it seemed, productive. 

Marcus had been born in Siberia on November 19, 1852, and his aging reflected his parentage. He showed me a photograph he had of her, one taken in 1901. 

I remember how surprise had been evident upon my face and how Marcus had nodded and offered up a stark and bitter explanation to me.  

In 1917, in the midst of the Great War, there had been a revolution in Russia. Groups of soldiers and citizens had risen up against the monarchy and waged a civil war that slaughtered thousands. Marcus and his mother had managed to escape via the port of Archangel, and they had made their way to Cross.  

When they arrived in town, they traveled by way of the North Road, heading towards my farm. She knew they would be safe there despite the fact that I was not in Cross at the time.  

The North Road took them by Gods’ Hollow, and a storm drove them to take refuge within it. They had no sooner done so than they were attacked by a creature with the body of a man and the head of a wolf. While they managed to fend him off, Elizaveta’s throat was torn out at the end, far more than she could heal from. His mother had died in his arms. 

He had been searching for a way out of the Hollow for 37 years. 

I remember walking with my son, and finally, asking the question which was gnawing at my heart. 

“Why didn’t she tell me?” 

“She didn’t want you to think I was a burden,” my son had replied. 

“Family is never a burden.” I had handed the photograph of his mother back to him. I did not wish to stain it with my tears. 

Her picture is with me now, and I remember all of them.

Remember them, for they are far too important to forget.

#love #horrorstories

Published by

Nicholas Efstathiou

Husband, father, and writer.

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