From, Blood’s History: Dogs


I have a great fondness for dogs. Because of my own longevity, I rarely keep them. Their lives are far too short, the heartache too great when I must say goodbye to them.

On occasion, I do welcome one into my home, and once, shortly before the end of the 19th century, I took in an entire pack.

They arrived from Gods’ Hollow, although I do not know from what world or what time they might have originated from. I do know they came into Cross for a purpose, and I did my best to help them carry out their task.

For nearly twenty years, we hunted the damned together. Lycanthropes of various strains – wolves, bears, boars, etc. – often plague Cross, though rarely all at once. The dogs had followed several different breeds through a gate, traveled through Gods’ Hollow and arrived in Cross hot on the heels of their prey.

The nature of lycanthropy, the way in which it travels via the blood and saliva, means the disease can spread quickly. Especially in a community as small as Cross.

The first few years was spent confining the infected to Cross and preventing it from spilling over the border. By the end, we were hunting them down where they hid during the lull between moons.

I have, of course, outlived all the dogs. Even their pups. I cherish the memories of our time together. I think of the dogs often, when I sit and gaze upon the stuffed heads of the lycanthropes we slew together.

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The Library


From, Blood’s History: The Library


My private library lies deep beneath the cellar of Blood farmhouse. For someone as long-lived as myself, books have been a constant friend. I have collected an eclectic selection of works both well-known and obscure, and some which have been both at various times in their existence.

It pleases me to say that I have known genius’ such as John Steinbeck, and veritable devils such as Mather and his kin. While none of Mather’s works soil my shelves, I have everything Steinbeck published, as well as some he sent only to me, tucked away.

Among treasures such as these, however, are books far more dangerous. Works and ideas known to kill with the slightest caress of their pages.

And if you think books are not dangerous, then you are a fool.

Ideas are wicked entities. They can enter your thoughts, wrap themselves around some vital part of your workings and squeeze until you have no concept of what you are doing. Some books, like any object, can become haunted, the dead clinging to the manuscripts, traveling with them and ruining lives.

I keep my most prized possessions, and the most dangerous as well, in my private library, far from the eyes of foolish people. They are kept away from prying eyes. Not only because the books are mine, but because I am tired of hiding bodies.

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From, Blood’s History: Chores


Early in my life I learned an important lesson: killing is a chore.

It is work which needs doing, and rare are the occasions when joy might be taken from it. I took no enjoyment from the death of Mary Olcott. Her killing was merely a chore.

Captain Samuel Olcott, her husband, was a man who felt the need to cheat and swindle his business partners, one of whom was my Uncle Cy. Cy lost most of his farm to Captain Olcott, and my Aunt Faith sought to regain them by pleading the family’s case.

Olcott had his way with her and then she killed herself out of shame. My Uncle Cy soon followed.

Of all my relatives, I am the hardest. We discussed the need to punish Olcott and it was decided that pride cometh before a fall, and he was terribly proud of the beauty and virtue of his wife Mary.

On May 10th, 1766, I entered their new home – which had once been my aunt and uncle’s – and I beat Captain Olcott to the floor.

As he lay there, attempting to get up, I dragged Mary to him, apologized, and cut her throat, dousing him in his wife’s blood.

Killing Mary Olcott was a chore. Castrating her husband was a joy.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: Purification


No one is exempt from justice.

In 1905, the Cross chapter of the American Red Cross learned of this the hard way. I was tired of their foolish games. The Cross chapter was more of a way for those of a social mindset to gather and talk amongst themselves than it was to assist those in need.

During a brutal spring, when many of the poorer members of Cross were dying of fever, the American Red Cross refused to treat them. The death rate among the poor was thirty-six percent. Those who did survive often found themselves being evicted from their homes, for who can pay when they can’t work?

I attempted to speak with the Cross chapter’s board of trustees, to ask for their assistance with the caring of the ill. The board had no desire to listen. All of them, I learned, were concerned with obtaining property on the outskirts of town, property once rented and owned by the recently deceased and diseased poor.

For the board, the fever was a blessing. It freed them of the burden of having to evict the majority of the families.

On May 9, 1905, I traveled into Cross for the monthly meeting of the Cross chapter’s board. A short time later, a large explosion shook the building and killed everyone inside.

No one bothered to ask why each of the board members had been shot once in the back of the head.
Perhaps, no one wanted to know the answer to the question.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary

The Door


From, Blood’s History: The Door


I have not opened the door since 1784 when I last closed it.

The door is in the oldest barn, a relic to centuries past. Rarely do I venture there, for the creature behind the door still lives. Still hungers.

And I cannot bring myself to kill her.

I found her when I was sixteen, long before the nation existed. She was on the edge of Gods’ Hollow, bathing in the waters of a small, vernal pool. Her skin glowed in the sunlight, shined upon her bright, sharp teeth, and drowned in her pure black eyes.

I watched as she washed blood off her mouth and bare chest, her long black hair hanging in damp locks. She saw me, laughed, and licked her full lips with a forked tongue which would later speak the greatest of lies in the sweetest of whispers.

I brought her home with me, and when she slew my uncle Ezekiel and ate him, I bound her in iron and dragged her screaming to the barn. With my own knife, I carve the sigils into the wood, and with my own blood, I sealed them.

I placed her in the unlit room and freed her of the chains. On my back, I bear the scars of her teeth and nails. My ears bled from the rage which spewed from her mouth.

Occasionally, I return to the barn, and I listen and speak with her. Always she asks to be freed. Always I deny her.

She tells me she loves me still, and I say the same.

It is a painful truth we both speak in darkness.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: Graves


I am not a nice man. Fair, at most times, though I am quick to anger. It has taken several hundred years to come to grips with these aspects of myself. A look back at my history and the history of my family reveals these are common traits.

I come by my anger honestly.

Over the decades I have put a great many people in the ground. Each one of them needed killing, although not all deserved to die. The worst of them, the foulest, I have kept with me. They are buried here, on Blood Farm.

In the center of the property, far from prying eyes, there are three tombs. Each contains a person who I could no longer suffer to live. They drew their last breaths in front of me and in their tombs.

I will not name the individuals, nor will I give any hint as to when they vanished from Cross society. And yes, they were all natives. The history of our town is riddled with disappearances over its almost four centuries of existence.

Each came to me of their own volition. One thinking to trick me. The second to wed me. And the third to settle a debt, which I suppose he did, in a way.

We strolled out to the tombs beneath warm, August nights.

They died in the dim light of lanterns while January storms raged above us.

I visit the tombs on occasion, and I wonder when I will need to prepare a fourth.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: Thieves


I have no love for thieves. My family and I worked too hard over generations for what we have, and we do not willingly allow it to be taken from us.

Sometimes, it would have been for the best had the thief left us alone.

In 1933, an unknown young man stopped at my home to beg a cup of coffee and a tank of gas. We were in the grips of the depression, and my heart is always in the best of places, although at times it should not be.

I gave the man his gas and invited him in for coffee. While I prepared it, he waited for me in the parlor. A place where I believed he could do little harm. I was mistaken.

We drank our coffee, added a healthy drop of brandy to cut the chill out of the May air, and then made our goodbyes.

It took me three hours to discover the theft of a book. A slim volume of war notes given to me at the close of the Great War.

I wanted them back.

There are creatures who can travel the darkness, leaping from shadow to shadow. I am friends with many of them, and even more, owe me favors.

One found this young man, crossing a bridge in his car. My book was on the seat beside him.

Now, as I write this, my book is on the desk beside me.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: Another Death


My mother has never truly left my house. After I killed her on the table, we butchered her corpse and buried the pieces at the cardinal points of the compass. Despite these efforts, and others which I choose not to name, she remained in her sewing room. No locks can hold the door shut; no shutters can bar the windows.

In July of 1842, Atticus Coffin and his young niece, Gwen, paid us a visit. The child, only six at the time, went chasing after one of the cats. Before we could stop her, she vanished into my mother’s sewing room. A heartbeat later, the child came staggering back into the hall, clutching her doll to her chest.

When Gwen turned around to race into her father’s open arms, her eyes were those of my mother, and in the child’s free hand was a darning needle.

Atticus twisted away from the death blow, but still, the possessed child slashed and stabbed with wanton glee. She battered Atticus to the floor and would have killed him had I not intervened.

I dragged her off of him, and I bear the scars of the needle still.

It is a terrible thing to kill a man’s child in front of him.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: 1938


There is much truth hidden within the depths of rumors, legends, and gossip. Especially in New England, more so in Cross.

One of the many notable features of my family’s farm is our apple orchard. It is a large and impressive collection of trees, some of which were planted as early as 1635. Rumor has it there is a body beneath each tree. This is false.

There are only bodies beneath trees planted after the 1938 hurricane which tore through Massachusetts. I lost a large number of trees, so many, in fact, that the deaths of the others from sadness was a real and distinct threat. In order to save them, I began to harvest the dead, using them as the foundation for saplings.

It was an excellent decision. Not only did the new trees thrive, but the older trees produced more fruit. Over the years I have had occasion to replace trees as they die. I am well-prepared for these unfortunate eventualities. I have an agreement with several funeral homes in the area, and, should there be a dearth of bodies, I keep a private list of individuals who have, in my opinion, forfeited their right to live.

My trees are far more worthwhile than many I meet. And, in all honesty, the apples simply taste better.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: 1854


Guests have rarely been encouraged to visit Cross Farm. Even those guests who are related to us. An excellent example of what can occur is related in the tale of Captain Phineas Blood, a cousin who visited the familial homestead in April of 1854.

I can remember him sitting in the parlor, chatting with several of the Coffins and two other Bloods who were in town. While the others wisely chose to find lodging elsewhere, Phineas demanded to be put up in the home. My brother and I beseeched him to at least stay with the Coffins for the night, but he would have none of it.

We placed him in the safest room with the admonition to refrain from leaving his chambers during the night. He found this amusing, and stated, “I promise nothing, gentlemen.”

Unfortunately, our cousin seemed to take our warnings as a challenge.

Phineas left his room at some point after I went to bed. How long it was before he was discovered, I do not know. My sleep was broken by the man’s screams, long, pitiful utterances that informed us he was no longer for this world.

Indeed, he was not.

My brother and I found Phineas in the kitchen, splayed and nailed to the table with pieces of his saber. The beast eating him fled at the sight of us, and as I put Phineas out of his misery, my brother hunted the creature down and killed it.

Phineas returns occasionally to bemoan his fate. He is as irritating in death as he was in life.

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