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Lost in Cross: 1870

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Cross is a place of horrors.

I have not yet become inured or deadened to the horrors that slip out of the shadows in Gods’ Hollow, or the fetid creatures lurking on Honor’s Path. Nor, for that matter, have I accepted the fact that my mother – whom I killed at our kitchen table when I was still a boy – lurks as a ghost in my home and as a living and breathing flesh within the confines of the Hollow.

Ennis Hack vanished in the winter of 1867 when he had come into town to write a bit of fiction about New England. He had taken a room with the Hutchinson family off Washington Street, and then, one fine, brisk morning, he had lit his pipe and set off for a stroll.

He never returned.

A soft snowfall hid his tracks, and it was assumed that the town had had its way with him.

The Hutchinson family, being good people, packed up his belongings and set them aside in their attic. They did not know if the man had family of his own and if the man’s kin, at some point, might show up to claim it.

It was not his family who showed up to claim it, but Ennis himself.

I met with him at the house for the family sent for me. He was a careworn man, ragged and wary. His story was plain and brutal.

He had heard a child crying from the Hollow, and not knowing the history of the place, he had gone in to help it.

Ennis never found the child, and he almost didn’t find his way out of the Hollow. He had been walking for the better part of three years, and he refused to speak of what he saw, with whom he spoke, or what he had been forced to do.

When he gathered up his things and finished a cup of hot coffee, he looked at me and shook his head. I raised an eyebrow, and he flashed a smile of broken, black teeth at me.

“Your mother doesn’t like you, Duncan Blood,” he told me.

“That’s fine,” I answered. “I don’t much care for her either.”

He chuckled, nodded, and got to his feet. “She said you killed her once.”

I nodded. “I aim to do so again.”

“Good,” Ennis replied. “She deserves it.”

With his bag in one hand, the man left the house without looking back, and I was amazed my mother had let him live.

Wonders will never cease.

#horror #fear

Lost in Cross: 1869

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I don’t have much when it comes to forgiveness.

Allen Cuthbert learned this, and I only wish I had been able to show him how truly angry I was.

The situation robbed me of that opportunity.

Somehow, Allen Cuthbert got it into his fool head to become a guide for those wishing to explore the mysteries of Honor’s Path. On several occasions, I wanted to brain him and leave him for dead on the tracks.

Danielle, his daughter, was the only person who held me back from this.

She was a delightful child, a sweet young creature who had a magnificent singing voice, and while she rarely smiled after her mother’s death, she still sang. Granted, the songs were a tad mournful, but they were beautiful, nonetheless.

After the publication of Vivian Husker’s book, several people managed to find their way to Cross, and they had even gotten as far as Honor’s Path, where they were promptly slain by whatever hellish creatures thrive beneath the path’s poison soil.

Allen Cuthbert saw there was money to be made by an intrepid fellow, and so he took Danielle with him on his forays into the Black and Coffin farms, always seeking some new route to Honor’s Path.

He found it.

This morning, as I saw with Phineas Black and enjoyed a cup of coffee laced with whiskey, Allen came stumbling and shrieking from the woods. He collapsed before we could reach him, and Phineas wanted to send for a doctor.

I told him, no, and I slapped Allen Cuthbert awake.

The man screamed when he saw me, and then he babbled that his daughter had been taken, that she was gone into a tree. My blood ran cold when I heard that, I knew what it meant. I demanded to see where, and the man refused.

Refused to take me to where his child had gone missing.

I broke his legs, shattered his teeth, and then dragged him by his hair back to the path. Phineas Black caught up with me and handed me a mallet and spikes.

Allen screamed and wept the entire time, and when we arrived at the tree, I searched for any sign of the girl.

There was none.

I nailed him to the tree and blindfolded him.

I didn’t want him to see them coming.

I didn’t want him to know when he was going to die.

#horror #fear

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 25, ‘38

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She was an unwelcome surprise.

I went out to the barn to take care of the animals, much as I’d been doing since I was old enough to walk, and I found Dora Setter standing by the cow.

Except, it wasn’t Dora.

One of the monsters stood there, clad in the shapeless shift Dora preferred and the same muck-raking boots she’d worn every day since her feet had stopped growing.

The monster grinned at me and spoke.

The sound was harsh, brutal, reminiscent of nails on glass and hatred in a broken throat.

How the creature managed to speak English, I neither know nor do I care to. It was a disturbing sound, and one I doubt I’ll ever forget.

“Blood,” the beast greeted.

I nodded, coming to a stop beside some of my tools.

“I would speak with thee.”

I raised an eyebrow at this familiarity and held my tongue to see what the monster might say.

“We are not many,” the creature lied, “and we but do seek a place here. A small farm, perhaps, where we might feed. Did those at Miskatonic not say as much to thee?”

“They did,” I replied.

The monster smiled, its teeth glinting in the pale light of my lamp. “What then is thine response?”

“No.”

The eyelids clicked. “No?”

“No.” I took a scythe down from the wall.

“We want but a taste of this land!” the monster shrieked. “Surely thou can share?!”

I shook my head and swung the scythe.

Whether the monster thought it could out-maneuver me or perhaps believed I could not wield such a tool effectively.

Either way, it was wrong, and it died with a look of surprise on its stolen face.

The worst part about the whole thing, though was that the monster had scared the cow.

The damned milk was spoiled.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 24, ‘38

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His death was a tragedy.

Adam Cuthbert was a man who kept close track of nearly everything that went on in Cross. He was a polite and considerate man, a widower who had buried his wife and their eldest son after the two of them had succumbed to fever ten years ago. While he was considered an eligible bachelor by some of the women in town, they knew better than to approach him.

His devotion to his deceased wife was complete. He could be found, every Sunday morning – regardless of the weather – at the cemetery, tending to the graves of his wife and child.

Adam enjoyed speaking with the other residents of Cross. While his questions were probing, they were never intrusive. He knew exactly what to ask and to who. There wasn’t a single person he spoke with who refused to answer at least one of his questions.

He documented every conversation he had, keeping copious notes and compiling them before sending off a weekly batch to the Cross Historical Society. There, the information was typed up and added to the yearly history printed for the Society’s own reference.

I can only assume that he stopped to speak with one of those whose form had been stolen, and had not the ravens told me of his plight, I never would have known.

Still, I was not quick enough to save him.

When I burst through his back door, Colt in hand, Adam was dead on the floor of his kitchen. His shirt had been torn apart, his stomach ripped open, and the monster had its entire head inside the wound. It was a curious and grotesque sight, the stomach shifting and rippling as the creature fed.

Either the beast didn’t hear me when I threw open the door, or it was too hungry to care.

Furious, I holstered the Colt, snatched a cast-iron skillet off the oven, and brought it down on the monster’s back with both hands.

By the time I was finished, the creature was dead, and I was covered in what passed for the damned thing’s blood.

It took me half the night to get the stink of it out of my skin and half a bottle of whiskey to wash the taste out of my mouth.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 23, ‘38

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He was a happy man who died screaming.

I’d had my suspicions regarding Steve Kirby’s predilections ever since he stopped working as a truck driver and took up manning the fountain at the Woolworths up the road in Pepperell. Each day, he would get in his car, drive to work, and come back into Cross late in the evening.

Any grown man that throws aside a good paying job to work serving ice-cream shakes to teenage girls is suspect, as far as I’m concerned. I was planning on discussing the situation with him at the start of the new year when the sudden arrival of the Hollow’s newest horrors distracted me.

I was moving along North Road, heading back toward the Hollow, when I heard a high-pitched screaming coming from a small cut in the woods opposite the stonewall. When I made my way into it, I saw Steve’s Packard. The back door was open, and the shrieking came from within.

Drawing my Colts, I came at the car from an angle, and when I reached the open door, Steve’s screaming face greeted me.

He was clawing at the seats and the glass, punching at the monster pressed against his chest and feeding on him. The creature was clad in the clothes of a young girl, one who had been no more than perhaps twelve or thirteen.

I could see what he had done.

What he had intended to do.

I lowered the Colts, and I waited.

Steve Kirby saw me, screamed my name and begged for my help.

I watched and enjoyed his suffering.

When the monster had eaten its fill, and Steve was dead in the back of the Packard, I put a pair of slugs into the creature’s chest and watched it slump down onto his corpse. For a heartbeat, it held its form, and then it collapsed upon itself.

It had turned out, I realized, to be a pleasant night.

Two monsters dead, and I’d only had to kill one of them.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 22, ‘38

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His hammer rang out strong and true.

It was a rare day when you couldn’t hear Richard Breton’s hammer striking some piece of iron into shape.

While he was neither particularly creative nor exceptionally imaginative when it came to working with metal, he was a solid workhorse of a man. He was stoic in demeanor, and he was possessed by a strong desire to keep silent.

I did not know the man well, he had been an equally silent and stolid youth, I knew he was a man who minded his business and who would set his work aside when a neighbor needed help.

I suspect that one of the monsters believed Richard would be easy prey. He was, after all, a man who lived alone and on the outskirts of town. A man who would readily help someone who seemed in need of aid.

The ravens led me to Richard’s smithy, and as I walked up to the open door, I found him standing at his anvil, holding up the head of a shovel and examining it. There was a fetid stink in the air, one barely hidden by the powerful scent of iron and hot coals.

Upon my arrival, Richard lowered the shovel and nodded to me. He thrust the head back into the coals for a moment, worked the bellows, and then extracted the head and returning it to the anvil. He lifted his hammer, struck the shovel’s head a few more times, and then dropped it into the vat of water close to his side.

Richard took a bit of cloth and wiped sweat from his brow. His nose wrinkled at the odor in the shop, and then he stepped outside to join me in the cold.

From his breast pocket, he took out a pouch of chewing tobacco. In silence, he fished out a pinch, tucked it between his lip and gum, and then glanced up at the cloud-filled sky.

When he put the tobacco away, I asked, “One?”

He shook his head, spat on the ground and replied, “Two.”

“Are you hurt?”

Again, the man shook his head. “Had my hammer.”

He spat again. “More of ‘em out there, Duncan?”

“A few.”

Richard grunted. “Hate the Hollow.”

I nodded.

Without another word, he returned to his work and I to the hunt.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 21, ‘38

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She should have kept the door closed.

Muriel Forsyth was the wife of Professor Stuart Forsyth, and I doubt there was a more pompous pair on the grounds of the Cross branch of Miskatonic University, which is saying something.

Stuart tended to take long trips down to New York City at least once a month, where he entertained prospective students at the Turkish baths. Muriel did the same from the comfort of her own bed.

I am a firm believer that each is welcome to their own way of living. However, she should have paid a little more attention to who she allowed into her rooms.

The ravens saw her walking arm in arm with a young man, and she seemed rather giddy at the prospect. Was it the novelty of taking a monster into her bed? Did she believe that she was going to engage in nothing more serious than a bit of fun in her boudoir?

She was sorely mistaken.

As was the monster.

When I went into the large, ostentatious house the Forsyths called home, I could smell a fetid odor mingled with blood. I followed my nose up the center stairs and then into the master bedroom.

Neither Muriel nor the monster had wasted any time.

Clothes were scattered from the threshold to the master bed, and there the abomination lay.

I couldn’t tell where the monster ended, and the woman began. Their flesh was entwined, ichor and blood smeared across the headboard and dripping from the sheets and blankets to the hardwood floor. The thing on the bed rippled, but nothing more came of it.

It was nearly dead.

I considered setting fire to the house, of purging the building, but then I thought of the books in the Forsyth library on the first floor, and then I considered Stuart’s expression when he found the remains of his wife.

Humming, I closed the bedroom door, locked it, and left the house, whistling to myself as I stepped out into the cold, January air.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 20, ‘38

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All he wanted was a little quiet.

Duke Iverson retired after fifty-eight years working on the railroad and after giving all the fingers on his right hand. He lived in a single room, easy prey for the monsters seeking to settle themselves in Cross.

Had the ravens not observed one of the creatures slipping into the boarding house where Duke resided, then it would have taken me much longer to track them all down. And, more than likely, I would not have found them all.

As it was, I went to the boarding house and spoke with Philomena Whyte, the widow who ran home, and asked her if she was letting out rooms to anyone other than Duke. She replied that she was not, and when she saw my face, she asked, “What’s in my home, Duncan?”

“Something that’s probably done for Duke,” I answered. “You best go out for a bit, Philomena. It’s liable to get messy.”

She raised an eyebrow at the last comment, but she didn’t argue as she pulled on her coat and wrapped a thick kerchief around her head. “Make sure it’s gone,” she said as she walked to the door. “I’ll be certain to give Duke a fair funeral, should it be needed.”

“Aye,” I called after her.

As the door clicked shut, I climbed the stairs to the third floor, made my way to Duke’s room, and rapped on the door with the butt of a Colt. There was a grunt of a response, which was a far cry from the bellowing invitation Duke usually issued, and I let myself in.

The creature, in the form of Duke Iverson, lay on the man’s bed, one of his railroad magazines clutched in his good hand and balanced with the remnants of the other. It was disturbing, the way the creature’s eyelids clicked and fluttered behind Duke’s glasses, and for a moment, I believe it thought that I might have been fooled.

That moment was short-lived, as was the monster’s time in Duke’s body.

As he began to rise from the bed, I pulled the trigger, putting all six rounds in the center of the monster’s chest.

It imploded upon itself, and before my ears stopped ringing, I was reloading the Colt.

There were still monsters for me to hunt.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 19, ‘38

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He drove his car like a bat out of hell, and he deserved to die.

Clint Banks was a man who had a fast car, and he drove it as though the devil was on his trail.

He killed more than one animal that way, and this evening, his reckless driving cost him his life.

I heard the crash around seven, and by the time I reached the site of the accident twenty minutes later, Clint had already gasped out his last.

He had been racing along North Road, chasing his own headlights and following the curve of the stonewall, the thin divider between Cross and Gods’ Hollow.

I sat down on the wall, lit my pipe, and contemplated the scene before me.

Clint was twisted in his machine, pinned in place by the steering column. He hung limply from his seat, goggles knocked askew and blood dripping in ever-slowing drops from his mouth. One eye was missing, and most of his teeth were embedded in the steering wheel, which lay at the base of the wall.

It seemed, from what I could gather, that one of the creatures had attempted to cross North Road back into the Hollow and that it had done so at the most inopportune of moments for both itself and Clink Banks.

That it was one of the monsters he had struck, and not some animal, was undeniable.

A man’s suit, gore-splattered and sopping wet with the creature’s black ichor, was spread out around the front end of the ruined machine.

As I enjoyed my pipe, a pleasant thought crossed my mind and brought a smile to my lips.

Clint would have seen a man crossing the road, and his last thoughts would have been mired in the belief that he was dying a murderer.

And all because he liked to drive fast.

Yes, that was a pleasing thought indeed.

Still grinning, I smoked contentedly and made my way home to the farm.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 18, ‘38

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Rose Franken was a kind woman with a sweet disposition.

I suspect that’s what killed her.

Rose was a recent transplant to Cross, a rare breed of person who came to the town and found that it was right for her.

She was a forward-thinking woman, and she lived on her own in a well-kept home on Olive Street. Rose worked at the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, assisting in the library. She was, from what I recall, a woman of encyclopedic knowledge. If you were to ask her where a particular volume was and whether that volume was available, she would be able to put her hands upon it or tell you when it was due back.

Rose was one of the few people I enjoyed speaking with at the university.

I was prowling through Cross, searching for sign and waiting for the ravens to reach out to me to let me know if any of the monsters had been spotted.

As I walked along Washington Street, the ravens landed in the trees and bade me follow. I did so, drawing my weapons as they guided me onto Olive Street, landing on the roof of Rose’s home.

Some of her neighbors saw me and wisely drew their blinds.

When I reached her home, the front door was ajar, and I let myself in. A tea kettle whistled, its high, keening cry filling the air.

I approached the kitchen with caution, the hammers cocked on the Colts, anger growing in my heart.

When I stepped into the kitchen, I found Rose on the floor dead. The monster, in the form of an elderly woman I did not know, sat gasping in a chair, flickering in and out of the old woman’s shape. A pair of knitting needles had been driven through the thing’s left eye, and its black blood trickled down the cheek.

It was dying, and I had no intention of helping it along.

With its remaining eye, the creature watched me take the kettle off the burner and pour myself the tea Rose had readied. I carried the cup to the table, pulled a chair out, and sat down.

It took the monster nearly an hour to die, and I enjoyed the tea.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 16, ‘38

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Robert Bligh could make the violin sing.

Each night, regardless of the weather or the time of year, you could pass by his little shanty and hear him playing. He was, without a doubt, one of the finest musicians ever to be born in Cross.

The monsters took that from us.

I’d spent the day searching for the creatures, and I had come up empty. None of the ravens had spotted any of the thrice-damned things either.

No, it wasn’t until I was passing by Robert’s home, where the light was spilling out of his only window, that I saw him sitting in his chair.

He wasn’t playing.

Now, I’ve seen Robert sick with fever, and still, he’d be picking out a song on that violin. Even when he only had a few strings and a bow where half the horsehair was gone, he’d cause the glass in the window to vibrate with music.

Seeing him sitting there, not making a sound, told me everything I needed to know.

I went up to the door, forced the lock, and went into the single room house. Robert looked at me without surprise. The violin lay on the bed, as did a pile of clothes that had belonged to a woman.

Robert was an avowed bachelor, and he wasn’t in the habit of keeping company.

He smiled at me with the needle-teeth I had come to know so well and shrugged his shoulders.

As he rose up from his chair, I drew a Colt and put two rounds in his chest, knocking him back and down.

The creature screamed, squirmed, and collapsed upon itself, black bile seeping through the clothes and onto the floor.

I reloaded my weapon, snatched the violin and the bow from the bed, and set fire to the shanty.

When I reached home, I went down to my secret library, sat down in my chair, and played the violin as best I could.

I was a poor substitute for Robert Bligh.

#horror #fear #art #writing

Strangers in Cross: Jan. 16, ‘38

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I was too late.

We tracked a pair of the creatures to the Windsor Farm to the west of town. Fred and Margaret Windsor were active in Cross’ Congregationalist Church. On more than one night during the week, you could find at least a handful of churchgoers at the Windsor residence, planning out dinners and trying to quietly reach out to those who might need a helping hand.

With the ravens perched in the trees around the farm, I entered the main house.

The Windsors and their company had been butchered.

They’d been flayed, their hides tacked to the walls, and the heads, fifteen of them, were stacked in a bloody, grinning pyramid in the center of the living room.

Throughout the house, I found piles of body parts. Hands in an armoire, feet in the commode. Genitals were piled high on the Windsors’ bed. Entrails were in looped in great coils from the banister’s newel post to the second floor and back again. In the root cellar, I found nearly all the remaining bones, and even those had been sorted.

All save the finger bones, that is.

Those were in the parlor and in front of the fireplace, where the ashes were cold and gray, I saw my name spelled out, over and over again.

I suspect it was meant to frighten me, to instill some sense of fear. The message I was to take away from it was simple enough.

Leave them alone and let them eat.

It was the same message they had tried to pass along through the learned fools at Miskatonic.

Well, if violence is their language, it was time I showed them that I spoke it too.

And I was a hell of a lot more fluent in it than they were.  

#horror #fear #art #writing