July 3, 1920

At a little past midnight, I took a canoe out to King George’s Island, the largest of my islands in the lake. When I reached a small cove, I tucked the canoe away, slipped my pistols into their holsters, and made my way further inland. I sat and waited until dawn broke over the horizon, and then I hunted my prey.

I found him encamped on the lee side of the island, where the old fence remained from when the Bloods and the Coffins kept our sheep during hard summers long before the colonies rebelled.

He had radio equipment and a tent, and I found him busy at his work. The stranger moved as if nothing in the world could touch him, and I was pleased to correct this error in his thinking.

I hobbled him with a single shot through his left ankle, then sealed his fate with a second shot to his right. For a short time, he held his tongue.

For a short time.

By mid-morning, once I’d amputated both feet and was slowly roasting them over his fire along with a pot of his coffee, he spoke. He told me of an organization, a group of soldiers and sailors inspired by the recent revolutions in Germany and Russia. The bombing of the Boston to Cross train had been a test run for more ambitious goals.

I asked him the name of the man who was his contact, and at first, the stranger refused. After I force fed him his toes, he told me he spoke with a man named Derrick Wright, in Boston.

Armed with the information I needed, I undid the tourniquets on his ankles and drank my coffee while he bled out.

I would celebrate the fourth in Boston, looking for Mister Derrick Wright.

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July 2, 1920

Warren Ellis raised the finest bloodhounds east of the Mississippi, and he owed me more favors than he cared to admit.

At sunrise on July 2, I was at his door, banging on it hard enough to set the dogs to howling, which was always a, sure enough, way to get Warren to the door. It did, of course, and I wasn’t surprised or bothered when the door swung open, and Warren was there in his nightshirt, with a sawed-off twelve-gauge aimed at my belly.

Inside the house, we drank a good deal of coffee laced with whiskey and set about deciding which dog to take with us. Her name was Queen, and she was the finest bloodhound I’d ever set my eyes on. With the dog on a lead, Warren and I rode into town in his buckboard. At the train station, the Cross Police distracted the Federal agents long enough for Queen to get a scent.

She tracked for nearly two miles before coming the long way to the North Road. Once there, she moved back toward Gods’ Hollow, then she led us down a cut to where the land met with Blood Lake. It was there she lost the scent, but the three of us looked out across the water for a long time. Finally, Warren said, “I suspect they’re on one of your islands, Duncan.”

I agreed with him, and I added they were most likely going to die on one of them as well.


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July 1, 1920

I returned home on the morning train from Boston. Several friends with whom I had served in the British Army accompanied me to Cross, where they would take the next train down to Worcester. Unfortunately for all concerned, someone blew up the train.

I was injured, as were two of my friends. Three more were slain. As I lay on the siding, with a member of the Red Cross tending to me, I listened to my friend Charles breathe his last. He had survived nearly four years of combat, and he had been killed in my town, visiting me.

Inspectors from as far away as Washington, DC would travel to go over the damage and to question the survivors.

Beneath the blankets though, as the cool morning transformed into the first day of July, my body healed as only it could. Bones knitted themselves and sinew stitched. Blood sealed holes and skin crept back into place. By evening, I was bloody and battered, but ready to do what was necessary.

Over the course of July, I would hunt down those who had killed my friends, and I would exact no small measure of vengeance.


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Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: Speed

My hands are quick and trained to war. I have killed men, women, and children. I have slain creatures deemed unkillable and put the torch to entire towns. I will not deny that I have, at times, taken pleasure in these acts, especially when I am afforded some small modicum of revenge.

Other instances, I kill for the sake of necessity, and for that reason alone.

Today, June 30, the killing was done out of necessity and nothing more.

Who he was, he did not say. He refused to speak when he stumbled off the train, his eyes wild and his mouth open in a silent scream. Terror was stamped upon his face, and when we looked in the car behind him, we saw why. The car was filled with the dead. Men and women and children, their bodies butchered and strewn about the seats.

Evers Mattis stepped forward to speak with the man and had his neck snapped for his troubles. Evers’ fresh corpse hadn’t even hit the platform before the stranger was lurching toward a family of four.

It was then that I drew my Colts. In a matter of seconds, I put all twelve rounds in the man’s chest, knocking him back several feet. The stranger collapsed to his knees, blood gushing from his wounds and his mouth. Yet still, he tried to reach the living, grasping and clawing for them.

I stepped behind him, holstered my weapons, and clamped one hand over his mouth while I pinched his nostrils shut. He fought me, of course, but I held tightly to him.

It takes a long time to die that way. But I didn’t mind.

If there’s one thing I have, it’s time.

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Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: Home

It stands as I left it: burnt and bereft of life.

I hated those who lived in it, and when I was done killing them all, I made certain no one could live in their home.

In 1764, I swept through the home with nothing more than a warclub crafted for me by the Iroquois. With it, I brained the father and mother, and I dragged their corpses through the house for their grown son and daughter to see. I killed the son and the daughter, the servants, and the relatives living in other parts of the home.

The only living thing in the house to survive my rage was their dog, and I kept him with me for another decade before he passed.

Over the next century, whenever I would travel, I would hunt down and butcher whatever relatives of theirs I might find. All were slain with the warclub.

What, some may ask, did they do to offend me so, and why the warclub?

The father beat my sister to death when they were both seventeen. Why do I mention this now, on the 29th of June, 1911? Because some foolish prat came into town and bragged about how he was going to claim the familial estate.

It’s been close to a century since I killed any of that line. So tonight, I took my time.

It felt good to swing my warclub again.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghosts #DuncanBlood

Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: Vätte

She was, as far as I could tell, a Vätte, a female spirit who had migrated from Sweden. Her Swedish was old, far older than my own, and it took me some time to understand everything she was telling me. She spoke to me with the patience of a loving parent speaking to a particularly foolish child. Her cat, or whatever he was, cared for me not at all.

Her name, she informed me, was Lucy, although it was apt to change depending upon her mood. The cat was called Tom, and this was accompanied by a great deal of purring upon the part of the feline. When I asked what she wanted, she told me she only wanted company. In her travels, Lucy had learned of a member of the Blood clan who still lived, and since she had always enjoyed dealings with my kin, she thought she might enjoy mine as well.

We had an excellent time, and Lucy drank most of my good brandy, all my rum, and two of my finest kegs of beer.

It was well worth the experience. Rarely have I enjoyed the company of a spirit so much as I did Lucy’s. When she and Tom left, I was saddened to see them go, and I told them as much.

Lucy patted me on the cheek, smiled, and said, “You’re a good boy, if a bit slow. Keep the guns oiled, Duncan Blood, and always loaded.”

To this day, it is advice I live by.


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Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: Bwbacod

The Faery Folk do not suffer fools lightly, and neither do I.

In September, a middle-aged couple moved from Boston down to Cross and brought with them a number of servants, all of whom were Welsh. The couple, I later learned, was less than pleasant to their hired help and were, more often than not, apt to treat them as indentured servants. One of the young maids wrote home about their treatment, but the letter was never sent. The mistress of the house, unable to read Gaelic, suspected the letter and set it aside in her chamber.

The house Bwbacod, or brownie, found the letter and read it. Furious at what it viewed as a breach of contract, the Bwbacod reached out to me through my own brownie.

I went to the home of these Boston folk and told them plainly it was time to set their servants free, to allow them to return to Boston and their kin. The Boston folk, whose names I refuse to allow posterity to remember, attempted to force me out of the house.

They attempted to force me, of all people.

I had the servants leave and offered the Bwbacod residence in one of my homes, which it gladly accepted. When all those I was concerned with left, I dealt with the Boston folk.

Neither they nor their house survived my wrath intact. The bones of the building still stand, surprisingly. Those of the Boston folk, well, those I gave to the giants, who ground them up to make their bread.


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