Duncan Blood’s Journal: 1866

Some men get a taste for killing.

Major Roberts Mahone was possibly the finest sharpshooter I had ever had the pleasure of working alongside during the War of the Rebellion. He had a steady hand, and his men always fought well. I suspect that had he not been wounded near the end of the war, he would have continued on into the Territories and fought there as well.

As it was, the Major was wounded.

I almost didn’t recognize the man when he stepped out of the Cross Train Station, a long bag in hand and his cane in the other. He walked as though he had a purpose, but I could not recall the Major ever having mentioned relatives in town.

Curious, I followed him as he made his way along Main Street, pausing every so often to take out a small piece of paper from his pocket and consult it. I soon gathered that he was headed toward Hollis Road, one of the higher points of land in town.

A cold understanding crept over me, and I took a shorter route to the Hollis Road, and Hollis Hill.

I reached it only a few minutes before the Major did, and I stood off behind an elm as he squatted down and opened his long bag. From it, he removed a Sharpe’s rifle, whistling as he inspected his weapon. He next withdrew a blanket, which he rolled out before laying down upon it and sighting down the barrel. With a nod of satisfaction, he reached into his bag and took out a single round.

It was then that I stepped forward and put the barrel of my Colt against the base of his skull.

The Major became perfectly still, one hand on his weapon and the other holding the round.

“You seem to have the better of me, sir,” he said without attempting to move. “I assure you, this is not what it seems to be.”

“I know what this is, and it is exactly what it seems to be,” I replied.

His shoulders twitched, and his tone was remarkably composed.

“Duncan Blood,” he stated.

“Aye.”

“Do I have time to pray?”

My Colt answered for me.

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Duncan Blood’s Journal: 1859

The advertisement rang false.

“Mature woman seeks the companionship of a young, unattached female.”

Such advertisements might be found in Boston and New York City, but to find one in the Cross Sentinel made little sense.

Additional information regarding where to apply was included, and this, too, seemed odd. According to the advertisement, the mature woman had taken up residence on Gordon Road.

There are only a handful of homes on Gordon Road, and they are all too close to Gods’ Hollow to make it desirable for any but the strongest of Cross natives. Whomever this mature woman was, she was not someone I knew.

With this in mind, I decided it was best to pay her a visit.

I had no sooner left my home and was traveling across country towards Gordon Road than I ran into Caleb Moor. He was distressed and distraught. His eldest daughter, Elsbeth, had left the night before after a fight with her mother. Caleb had suspected Elsbeth to have gone to a cousin who resided with the Coffins.

But the Coffins had seen neither hide nor hair of the girl, and Caleb had been on his way to meet me to see if I had heard anything.

I had not, but I told him I would let him know when I did.

Leaving Caleb to continue his search, I hurried to Gordon Road.

I found the house, which had been abandoned for several years. There were a horse and buggy on one side, and there was a mature woman climbing into it, a look of joy and satisfaction on her face.

It wasn’t there for long.

Ms. Charlotte Alcott of Concord had a taste for the blood of young girls. A taste she had sated with Elsbeth Moor’s death.

I brought Ms. Alcott back into the house, and in the kitchen, I found Elsbeth’s pale and naked corpse.

Under my less than gentle hand, Ms. Alcott dressed Elsbeth and carried her to the buggy. Once this was done, I forced Ms. Alcott to strip down, and then I bound her legs at the ankles and tied a length of rope to the buggy.

I put the horse at a good trot and brought Elsbeth home.

I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of Ms. Alcott when we arrived.

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Duncan Blood’s Journal: 1851

They came into town on a crank handcar, checking the lines and, as I was to learn later that evening, looking for some ‘sport.’

For most men, looking for sport meant finding an agreeable female.

Not for these men. Their tastes ran to something a little viler.

They found me sitting at the train station, smoking and waiting for the summer sun to set. There was a fair chance of a lycanthrope in the area, and I was anxious to get my hunt underway. My pensive attitude, youthful appearance, and distant expression must have made these men think that I was a simpleton and that as such, I might be fine to speak with regarding the satisfying of their base desires.

They introduced themselves to me, and they inquired as to whether there might not be any Irishmen about.

When I responded no, not of late, that most of them resided in Lowell and Boston, they then asked if there were any men of African descent, though they did not use such a politick term.

I confess, I feigned idiocy at that point and asked in a none too bright manner what they might want such men for.

“To hunt,” was the answer I received.

I nodded with a simpering smile and told them yes, there were several on my father’s farm.

The men were all too eager to follow me home.

They chatted amongst themselves as we went, and when we arrived, I invited them inside. I sat them down in the parlor and told them I would inform my father that we had guests.

My father was missing, and presumed dead, and had been for some time.

While they helped themselves to some bourbon, I found my garrote and brought it back with me. I waited until they were well in their cups, and then I called them one at a time into the kitchen, ostensibly to speak with my father.

Instead, I garroted each in turn.

In the morning, after I dined with the corpses, I brought them out to the center of my land and left the bodies to rot.

Not a one of them deserved a burial.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #paranormal

Duncan Blood’s Journal: Hunting

Over the centuries, hunters have come to Cross.

These are not hunters in what we might consider the conventional sense or even those who hunt the supernatural or paranormal.

No, these are hunters who have come under the false belief that the people in my town are fair game. They come to satisfy a base instinct that needs to be crushed rather than fed, and on most occasions, it is up to me to show them the error of their ways.

Samuel Worthington, late of Hartford, Connecticut, arrived in town on the first of April 1845. He took up lodgings in the Black Inn and, according to Mr. Black, the keeper, was due to press on to Boston in the morning.

At some point after his evening meal, Mr. Worthington vanished from the inn. His belongings were held for him until 1846, but he never claimed them or sent anyone to claim them.

The reason for this is simple and straightforward: Mr. Samuel Worthington trespassed on my land.

It was not an innocent mistake. He had passed by Blood Road and decided he liked the name. After eating, he had slipped out of the inn and made his way back to my farm. According to Mr. Worthington, he believed he would find some easy prey. Either a farmhand or some maid, someone foolish enough to speak with him.

I had, in fact, caught him prowling around the kitchen, as though hoping to see a scullery maid or some such finishing up the preparations for my evening meal.

He found me instead, and I learned that Mr. Worthington had a penchant for killing.

Several times a year, he confessed, he traveled to Boston, always taking a different route and invariably finding someone to murder.

He told all this to me as we stood outside my home, his hands raised in the air, and my Colt Paterson carbine aimed as his belly. Mr. Worthington assured me that he would leave Cross without molesting any of the residents.

I thanked him for his assurance, and then I shot him twice in the stomach.

My damned supper was cold before he was.

#horror #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #paranormal

Duncan Blood’s Journal: March 31, 1934

I cannot bring myself to write any more of the War of the Rebellion, and the reason for this is simple: I buried the last of my comrades from that fight today.

Zeke Chambers was 89 years old, and he blew his brains out with his grandson’s pistol this morning.

The ghosts of our brethren who fell during that war found him at last, and they have called him home to Hell.

They have come for me as well, and as I sit here, in my private library, down in the lowest section of my home, they wait for me. I’ve had a bit to drink. Perhaps more than my usual, and – to be honest – more than I should.

For hours, the dead have been whispering for me to follow them, and I’ve had about enough of it.

They’re watching me as I write this. I suspect they are foolish enough to believe it is some half-hearted suicide note.

No, I’m far too vain for suicide.

When I finish this bourbon, I’m going to stand up, and I am going to remind them why I am nearly 300 years old.

I am loathed to suffer fools, and anyone – living or dead – who believes they can convince me to do something I have no desire to do, well, that person’s a fool.

I have a book at hand, bound in human skin, and written in the Danish runes. In this fine work, there are a plethora of spells, many of which will help me bind the dead in this room. I merely need to pick an item to bind them.

They’ve raised their voices now, and they’re complaining. One of them, Custer, is going on about the dog I stole.

Well, there’s the last of the bourbon.

The bottle is empty. Shame to let it go to waste.

I wonder, how many ghosts could I fit inside the damned thing?

Heh. I suppose it would be good to find out.

 

Duncan Blood, March 31st, 1934

#horror #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #paranormal

The War of the Rebellion: Virginia, 1865

The war is over, but I believe the killing isn’t done.

The Secesh graveyard is small, the markers made of wood rather than stone. At some point, someone will come and make these markers permanent.

I am not that person.

Tonight, while the rest of the nation celebrates, I wait.

My Colts are loaded and beside me. The Spencer rests across my knees, a round in the breech and waiting. My Bowie knife is still in its scabbard, but it is within easy reach. Henry, the dog I liberated from George Custer, sits beside me. He waits, as do I, for this one last act of killing.

Something has been rising from this graveyard, though I am not certain as to what it is. Word has been passed down to me, reports of the dead leaving.

As the sun sets, I light a lantern and wait.

My wait is not long.

The dead do rise. They climb up from their graves, and they bear their wounds. Yet these men do not seek the flesh of the living, they do not turn on me or Henry. Instead, they walk.

There are perhaps thirty of them, and they fall into formation easily, as old soldiers are often want to do. They travel perhaps twenty feet before they stop and face me.

It is clear they want me to follow.

I holster my Colts, shoulder my Spencer, and Henry, and I follow them.

We walk for a short time, to a field of battle that has since been passed over. An old sergeant stops, and so to do I. In silence, we watch his detail spread out across the field. Singly and in pairs, they stop, and when they do, they are joined by others. Men and boys steal up from the undergrowth, tired and worn and as dead as the men who found them.

I look at the sergeant and nod.

Without a word, Henry and I leave the field.

I must find some living Secesh who will help me bury the forgotten dead.

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The War of the Rebellion: Georgia, 1865

Hell can be found in the strangest of places.

The cabin was small and tucked away off a long, narrow country road. From what I could see, the home was well kept and well cared for. Smoke rose from the fieldstone chimney, and there was a good supply of wood off to one side. A summer kitchen was set up to the left of the home, but unlike the rest of the property, it looked unused.

The windows on the building’s front were closed, as were the draperies, and the front door as well.

There was a fine breeze blowing, and Georgians, by and large, rarely kept their doors and windows closed on such an occasion. The smoke from the chimney confused me as well. It was too early for a mid-day meal and too late for breakfast.

I’d heard no rumors and word of any sort of beast operating in the area, no vanishing bodies or missing pickets. Still, stranger things had happened and were bound to happen again.

I approached the cabin with caution, the Spencer in my hands as I walked in the grass along the edge of the road. At less than thirty feet from the cabin, I heard a woman’s laughter, joined a moment later by a second, then a third. What followed next caused me to grit my teeth and move quicker.

I heard a man beg, in a voice near breaking, for them to leave him be.

A part of me hoped I was coming upon some reckless scene of young love, but I doubted it.

When I reached the door, I heard a long, low groan, and there was no pleasure associated with it.

I kicked the door in and shocked the inhabitants, three old women crouched over the emaciated form of a Federal soldier. The eyes of the women were wild, their gray and white hair lashing about their faces as they launched themselves at me. I killed two with shots from the Spencer, and I beat the third to death with the stock.

With her brains splashed across my face, I stepped over to the Federal, lay on his back, eyes wide and filled with tears.

“Three months,” he whispered. “They’ve been feeding on me for three months.”

I bashed in the brains of the other two as well.

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The War of the Rebellion: South Carolina, 1865

I had sat down to my evening meal, deep in some Secesh forest, when I heard the unmistakable call to rally on the battalion.

There was a sense of urgency and fear to the beat that I had heard upon battlefields, yet there was no gunfire or accompanying musketry. No yelling or haranguing by officers and sergeants.

Only the drumming.

Leaving my food and kit behind, I raced towards the sound of the drum, and when I reached it, I came to a halt, Spencer in hand and surprise on my face.

A lone drummer boy stood among a field of corpses. The bodies, clad in Federal blue, were the remnants of a colored troop, their white officers dead alongside them.

Across the field, a group of Secesh approached, their rifles shouldered and their laughter ringing out. I heard them calling out to the drummer, asking him who he thought he was calling. I brought the Spencer up to my shoulder and I was about to answer for him when the dead stirred.

Slowly, as though the boy and his drum were pulling each and every one of them back from the grave, the bodies of his dead comrades shook and trembled. Those that could got to their feet, and those that could not, rolled to face their enemy.

As I lowered my rifle, the Secesh raised theirs. They took aim not at the living dead shambling towards them, but at the drummer.

Yet the white officers gathered in front of him, protecting shielding him from the bullets that Johnny Reb sent screaming towards him.

The enlisted men, led by their sergeants, continued their advance upon the Secesh, and it was only then that the living focused on the dead.

A few of the Secesh stood their ground, reloading and firing upon the corpses.

I picked off those that tried to run.

The battle was over in a few moments, and when the last of the Secesh had fallen, the drummer boy ceased his rallying beat. With the silence, the corpses of his comrades collapsed, and only the boy and I remained.

When I walked to him, he looked at me with sad and tired eyes, then down at his colonel, saying softly, “Colonel always said I could raise the dead.”

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The War of the Rebellion: Virginia, 1865

Sometimes, the only monsters I find are men.

I came upon the encampment shortly after noon and found no enlisted men, only officers, a lady, and a dog.

When I had first entered the encampment, I had heard laughter and raised conversation. As I passed along the center road, glancing at the various structures, I had seen a great deal of fresh supplies. Meat, fruit, casks of wine, and a healthy selection of liquors. There were even barrels of beer and kegs of tobacco.

Yet there were no soldiers that I could see.

I suppose that is why the officers and their guest fell silent when they saw me approach. When I reached them, I came to a stop. When I did not salute, an officer in a ridiculous hat demanded to know my business.

“I’m passing through,” I explained.

“Then you best continue, sergeant,” the man ordered.

“Where are the men?” I asked.

The officers snickered, and the lady let out a pleasant laugh.

I didn’t smile.

“There are no men here,” the man replied, patting his dog. “We are the only ones.”

“You’ve enough supplies for a brigade, at least,” I remarked.

“For the right buyer, yes,” the man stated. “However, no one has been willing to meet our price yet, so the food will sit where it is and rot.”

“There’s an artillery unit back a ways that needs fresh food,” I told him, lowering my hands to my Colts.

None of them noticed my movements, and the woman pointedly yawned.

“Yes, we’re well aware of that,” the officer in charge replied. “Their colonel refuses to pay the price, so his men and his horses will starve.”

“No. They won’t,” I told him and drew both Colts.

The group burst out laughing and only stopped when I blew the woman’s brains out. The men went for their weapons, and I put them all down as their dog ran away. When the echoes of my Colts faded, only the officer in charge was still breathing. I had shot him in the groin and he knew he was dying.

“Do you me to end it?” I asked.

He nodded, sweat standing out on his forehead from the pain.

“Hm. Those boys wanted to eat, too.”

I cleaned my Colts and watched him bleed out.

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The War of the Rebellion: South Carolina, 1865

He screamed as he came rushing up from the depths of the trench.

It was not the rebel yell, nor any other sort of war cry which issued forth from his blood-flecked and foaming mouth.

No, this was a scream of pure terror and agony, his eyes wide with a fear few men have ever survived, and one he was certain not to.

I had both Colts drawn and leveled on him as he came to a halt, his bare feet skidding on the dirt. He looked past me, through me, as though I wasn’t there. Perhaps, at this point in his life, nothing existed save the pain. I watched as he ripped up his shirt and clawed at his belly, and it was then that I saw his stomach. It writhed and undulated as if there was something sinister beneath the skin, and in a moment, the Secesh in front of me proved there was.

Blood exploded from his mouth as he gouged out a space in his stomach, reaching in and pulling out a handful of his own entrails. He collapsed backward as an unknown creature snapped and howled within the confines of his belly. There was a brief expression of relief on the Secesh’s face, and then he was dead.

But his stomach did not cease.

In fact, the unseen creature redoubled its efforts, and I knew it would be a matter of moments before it chewed through the dead man’s entrails.

I stepped forward and unloaded one of the Colt’s into the dead man’s belly, only to see the creature’s head appear.

It had more eyes than a spider, and it had legs reminiscent of a crab. The damned thing shrieked when it saw me and tore itself a wider hole in its attempt to escape its now rotting prison.

With the other Colt, I blew it to pieces. Then, as it lay twitching half in and half out of the dead man, I stepped forward and crushed it beneath my bootheel.

A foul stench escaped from its carapace, and as a last act, I set man and beast afire.

Standing upwind from them, I loaded a pipe, lit the tobacco, and wondered how the in hell I would clean my boot.

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