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January 31, 1941

And in the storm, the dead went missing.

On January 31st, 1941, Cross prepared to bury all three members of the Southington family. An unknown disease had carried the father, mother, and son away the previous evening. Per custom, the dead were rapidly prepared for burial, and their graves were dug laboriously.

The service was quick, and the dead were soon at the graveyard. The graves had been carved from the frozen earth with fire and tools and the sweat of the gravediggers’ backs.

There would be no long-winded speeches, nor would there be any heartfelt recollections.

Not at the graveside.

Father John Argin was there as the representative of the Catholic Church, for the Southingtons had practiced Catholicism. He would pray over the graves, and then the dead would be laid to rest.

As the caskets were brought to each painstakingly prepared hole, a sudden and terrible wind sprang up. Snow followed within a minute, and while the rest of the attendees raced for whatever safety and shelter they could find, Father John remained with the bodies of the recently deceased.

White-out conditions soon prevailed, and over the howling wind, the strong, steady voice of Father John could be heard singing the hymns by himself.

When the wind stopped, so too did the priest’s singing.

A few minutes later, when everyone was once more gathered by the coffins, it was noticed that Father John was missing.

The bodies of the Southingtons were missing as well.

Any information regarding the current whereabouts of Father John Argin can be forwarded to the Diocese of Boston.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #scary #death #killer #fear #writersofinstagram #murder #secrets

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January 30, 1922

Mark Gagnon lay in his bed for years.

Stricken with an unknown illness at 8 years of age, Mark knew little of the outside world. Most of what his knowledge was garnered from books and those who came to visit.

As he grew older, Mark became mentally restless, constantly seeking ways to be entertained or to enhance his knowledge.

By the age of 14, he spoke all of the Romance languages and several Slavic tongues as well.

By 18, his mother hired a Chinese woman, who in turn taught Mark both Mandarin and Cantonese.

In 1920, an uncle purchased a radio, and brought the world into Mark’s bedroom. Initially, Mark received some transmissions from Boston, but as the days and months progressed, he stated that he could hear other noises, other voices.

By 1921, Mark refused to remove his headphones. He listened constantly, often writing down what he heard.

Despite requests from his family, Mark never revealed what he wrote, telling his family that they were better off not knowing.

The few times his mother peered at the journals, she was utterly confused. Each entry was written in multiple foreign languages, often within the same sentence.

Only Mark knew what he wrote, and refused to share.

In January of 1922, Mark no longer slept, and he rarely ate. He grew haggard and thin as he lay in his bed, no longer writing. He refused all food and drink.

On January 30th, Dr. Ethan Dayes visited Mark in his room, behind closed doors, and when he emerged, his face bore a shocked and terrified expression. Behind him, Mark lay in the bed while his journals burned in the fireplace.

When Mark’s parents asked what they should do about their son, Dr. Dayes’ response was plain and direct.

“Let him die,” the man said hoarsely, “he has heard too much.”

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #death #missing #fear #scary #nightmare #newengland #secrets #murder

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January 29, 1910

The storm tore through worlds and ended lives.

On the morning of January 29th, 1910, a nor’easter blew in shortly before dawn. The storm raged from the moment it reached Cross, and soon the residents knew fear as they never had before.

Great beasts, nothing more than shadows in the thick snow fall, moved along the streets. The strange creatures made hardly any noise as they traveled, but their furious hunting cries pierced the dim light of the day, and each cry signaled death and destruction.

Residents were torn from their homes and plucked from the street if they dared to try and escape. Entire structures were crushed and horses were devoured in their stables.

Yet with the monsters came the hunters.

Unknown mechanical contraptions rumbled as they steamed out of dark shadows, and things that were shaped vaguely like men leaped down into the snow to chase down the beasts. Rapid-fire guns could be heard, as could the heavy pounding of artillery.

In the late January snow storm, Cross became a battlefield in a war fought between unknown forces.

When the storm cleared in the evening, the townspeople were faced with horror after horror.

Entire homes were missing. Not even the foundations remained to mark where the structures once stood. Families were gone, streets were destroyed, and inhuman body parts were strewn in the fresh snow.

The 1920 census reports an abnormal drop of 17% in Cross’ population while the records of the town itself show that no forwarding addresses were left for 23 families.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #death #missing #fear #scary #nightmare #newengland #secrets #murder

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January 28, 1941

Zora Heale’s wailing shook the earth and cracked the sky.

The storm smashed into Cross in the early hours of the morning. High winds and driving snow broke windows, stove in doors, and murdered livestock.

When the storm ended at a little past dawn on January 28th, 1941, the townspeople closest to Cross Road heard a high-pitched wailing. The noise continued, rising and falling, for nearly an hour before anyone bothered to seek out its source.

Far on the northern edge of Gods’ Hollow, they tracked the sound to the tar-paper shack of John and Ellen Heale. The itinerant workers lived in the building with their daughter, 7-year-old Zora. From the house’s interior came the wails of the child, and the discordant notes of a piano in much need of tuning.

When several men were able to force the door and gain access to the single room house, they found everything as it should be except for one small detail.

Neither John nor Ellen were in the home.

Zora sat at the piano, banging at the keys and screaming as she did so.

Her father’s shoes were on the floor, and her mother’s clothes were on the rocker where Ellen would sit and do the mending.

But the parents were gone.

When the girl was approached, she turned shocked the men into silence.

Tears of blood trickled down her pale cheeks, and her eyes were gone, the flesh sealed as if the orbs had never been present.

When asked what had occurred, the girl only opened her mouth and wailed again, revealing a mouth barren of a tongue.

The fate of John and Ellen Heale was never discovered, and their daughter continues to scream in her room at the sanitarium.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #scary #death #killer #fear #writersofinstagram #murder #secrets

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January 27, 1940

Miles Ray sold death.

On the southern border, where Cross slipped into Groton, and vice versus, Miles kept a small general store. He was a pleasant man, always with a kind word and the ability to extend credit to someone who needed a helping hand.

Miles started working for Gilbert Happ at the Cross General Store in 1888. When Gilbert retired at the tender age of 83 at the start of the First World War, Miles purchased the business. For 26 years, Miles was a fixture in the store, able to order any item a customer wanted but couldn’t find.

In 1940, on January 27th, Miles’ 70th birthday, the store was raided by members of the Boston Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Several townsfolk were present for the raid, and the battle they observed was horrific.

According to witness statements, law enforcement didn’t stand a chance.

When the lead FBI agent announced that they were there to seize any weapons or dangerous items. They were there in response to information that Miles had been providing weapons, poisons, and various instruments of death and torture to professional killers for over 20 years. Upon hearing this, the 70-year-old Miles attacked.

From beneath the counter, Miles drew a pair of .45 caliber Colts, the heavy, semi-automatic pistols filling the close confines of the store with the sound of thunder. The slugs from the weapons tore into police and agents and left men dead and dying on the well-polished wooden floor.

As the surviving members of law enforcement returned fire, Miles spoke a single word that seemed to make the air thick and fetid. Moments later a darkness spilled down from the ceiling, and black shapes mingled among the men.

The screams of the agents and officers were brutal and short-lived.

Miles vanished out the back door, and none of the members of the raiders survived the exchange.

Duncan Blood, who was present at the time, remarked, “I suppose they should have left Miles alone.”

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #scary #death #killer #fear #writersofinstagram #murder #secrets

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January 26, 1900

Ezra Totenkopf lived in fear of the water.

At one time in his life, Ezra was a fisherman, a crew member aboard Norwich out of Cross. The ship plied the coastal waters of Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine, pulling in what fish they could and bringing home a modest income for the captain and crew.

On January 3rd, 1900, Norwich weighed anchor and left her berth at the small marina. She was due back on the 10th, but a storm sprang up, and the ship was last seen with the crew reefing her sails.

By January 14th, coast watchers were on the lookout for signs of Norwich.

Occasional bits of wreckage were found on York Beach in Maine, but little else of the ship was discovered, and it was believed that Norwich went down with all hands.

On January 26th, the Cross Lighthouse spotted a lifeboat, and the lifesaving station’s crew was activated.

Soon, the only surviving member of the crew of Norwich was recovered.

Ezra Totenkopf was found suffering from hypothermia and surviving on the last remaining supplies in the lifeboat. When questioned as to the fate of Norwich and the other men, he told a twisted tale of an attack from creatures within the water.

They were shaped much like men, but their teeth were sharp and set within rows like a shark’s. Their eyes were the same, black until they attacked when the eyes would roll back to reveal the whites.

As the crew used boathooks and belaying pins to battle the creatures, something broke the back of the ship and began to drag her down.

Ezra and the captain freed the lifeboat from its davits, but as they climbed into it, the captain was pulled over the side and vanished beneath the waves.

Ezra spent the rest of his life near the lighthouse, watching the Atlantic for signs of the creatures, and afraid of even the rain.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #scary #death #killer #fear #writersofinstagram #murder #secrets

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Where are you with your writing goals?

We’re almost done with the first month of 2019, and I’m curious, did you make a resolution about how much you were going to write this year? And, if you did, how did you break it down? Is it by day? Week? Month?

My own personal goal is to write at least 250 – 500 words a day of my own material. This is on top of the 3,000 – 4,000 I produce as a ghostwriter.

I’m happy to say that thus far, I have managed to achieve my daily goal. Some days I exceed it, but, overall, I’m right in the range that I chose.

It hasn’t been easy.

Not for lack of desire, but because of time constraints.

I work a full-time job on top of my ghost-writing. And I work a part-time job as well. This is in addition to being a husband, father, and a homeowner. Tack on a couple of cars that keep threatening to die and life is extremely busy. The last thing I want to do at 11:30 PM is prep a piece of flash-fiction, but, then again, it really is something I want to do.

I love the feedback that I get, and I’m always thrilled when the posts are shared.

Which brings me back to the initial question: where are you with your writing goals?

I hope you don’t think you’re working on something unachievable because you aren’t. You may have to adjust the number you want to reach or the amount of time that you need, but you can reach your goals.

The biggest hurdle to overcome in writing isn’t time or numbers, it’s our own feelings of inadequacy. When we start to lose focus, when we believe that we can’t do something, we lose the drive to complete the task. When that drive is gone, so too is the belief that we can accomplish what we’ve set out to do.

We don’t feel that we’re up to the challenge.

That’s why we create goals, so we can recognize that we are fully capable of doing what we love.

And what we love is writing.

For me, writing isn’t a choice. It’s a compulsion, and I suspect that it’s much the same for most of you as well. Some of you found it early in life, and you’ve been honing your craft for years. Others found it later, by accident.

Regardless as to how you came to your passion, the fact remains that it’s yours.

So, stick with it. Don’t let go.

And don’t be afraid to adapt your goals to what you need.

Remember, they’re your goals, so keep writing!

Help Support Cross, Massachusetts!

Hello! I hope you enjoyed this post. If you did, please consider putting a dollar in the pot. 🙂 Every little bit helps, and each dollar allows me to spend more time creating posts and stories for you to read. Thank you for your support!

$1.00