Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: A Ghost

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Some fights, you cannot win.

More often than not, this is the case regarding ghosts. It was certainly a plain fact with Mary Elizabeth Daniels.

Mary was 101 years old when she died on January 1, 1911, and it took me until August of that same year to remove her from her family home on Main Street Cross. According to her grandson, Kell, Mary appeared as a ghost three days after her burial. At first, the family attempted to appease her. They spoke with her, brought her favorite books to her, and proceeded with life as though she too was still alive.

Mary was having none of it. During the first week, she remained in her chair, neither speaking nor responding to her family’s gestures. On the eighth day, however, Mary chased them all from the room, locking them out. Each day became a struggle to keep the parlor available to the rest of the family. Finally, Mary began to battle her relatives. It was only then that I was asked to intervene.

Mary and I had been friends for almost thirty years, and when she was still alive, she had valued my opinion. When I saw her in the chair, I knew that it was no longer the case.

Rather than try and convince her I was right and that she should stay, or try and force her out, I made an attempt to convince her to remain. I told her about how all her relatives and well-wishers would flock to the house, and how they would constantly seek to speak with her.

Mary had hated company when she was alive, and it was exacerbated in death.

She vanished after two months of constant reassurances of how popular she was.

I understood her dismay perfectly. Relatives and company both are overrated.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghost

Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: The Dwarf

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Near the foothills of Gods’ Hollow, along the North Road, the Tucker family complained of noises emanating from the ground, and of several sheep disappearing. After nearly two weeks, thirteen sheep had vanished, as well as their twelve-year-old son, Henry.

It was then the Tuckers contacted me and asked if I would try and find him. Samuel Tucker was laid up with a leg injury from a kick received by a particularly disgruntled mule. I readily agreed and went into Gods’ Hollow armed with a shotgun and little else. The Hollow had been quiet for nearly a year, and I trusted in my ability to get back to safety with the boy if he could be found.

I found the boy’s tracks almost immediately and followed them to a narrow opening in a small mountain, around which were a great many hoofprints. Like the boy, I was able to slip into the opening. Unlike the boy, I was not taken by surprise.

Ahead of me, in a chamber barely lit by a single candle’s flame, was a dwarf. Around him lay the bones and innards of the Tucker family’s missing sheep, and the freshly slain body of Henry Tucker.

I got off a single shot before the dwarf rushed me. The round injured him, but not before he got close enough to try and strike me.

We found for nearly ten minutes, the battle finally ending when I gouged out his eyes and crushed his windpipe with my forearm.

The dwarf took a long time to die, and it was a pity I had to kill him. If he had kept to sheep, he might have lived for years in the safety of the Hollow.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #dwarf

Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: Vampire

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He arrived on the shortest day of the year and established a small practice in the center of Cross under the name of Dr. Robert T. Riley. The esteemed gentleman was a general practitioner and stated he preferred to work with the elderly. It did not take long for me to understand why this was so.

Within a fortnight of his arrival, one of his patients died. An old farmer named Max Harte. I had known Max since his birth, so when Dr. Riley informed the Harte family that Max died of a heart disorder, I disagreed.

Jean D’Arc ran the funeral home Max was brought to, and he allowed me to sit with Max’s corpse. Max Harte rose before the sun did. His body had been drained of blood, and at some point, Dr. Robert T. Riley had decided he needed more of his kind.

It was a chore to put Max down. Mostly because the old farmer’s chest was almost too thick for the ash stake to go through.

The next morning, I went and found Dr. Riley, asleep in a coffin in the back corner of his office. I took both the vampire and his coffin to the farm, and once there, I tied him out in the sun. The smell of a vampire roasting in the sun is a generally unpleasant aroma, but I was surprised at how hungry it made me.

 

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #vampire

1911: Wendigo

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He came into Cross hidden behind the mask of Qagyuhl. It was an hour before I knew he was among the farms, an hour before the wind shifted and I could smell the rot. His stink is not one easily forgotten, nor should it be. The Wendigo are dangerous, especially when one of their number travels into civilization.

It had been a particularly cold winter, which meant there were fewer hunters traveling into the deep stretches of forest where the Wendigo hid and hunted. Why this particular Wendigo was so desperate, I neither new nor did I care.

I brought my dogs with me as well as my Colts, and we tracked the beast for three hours before we came upon it feasting. It had broken into the Dunwiddy’s farm and was eating the last of the three children. Both parents were dead and trussed-up, evidence of the Wendigo’s plans to carry them off to stave off any hunger it might face over the following months.

The fight was difficult and long. It was only after the sun had set that I managed to kill it, finally using both Colts and blowing the damned thing’s brains out all over Mrs. Dunwiddy’s stoneware.

I didn’t return home until the morning after I had incinerated all the bodies and burned the farmhouse to the ground. On my left arm, I still bear the scars of the battle, and in my memories, I still see the bloody bones of the Dunwiddy children.

 

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

From Blood’s History: Conclusions

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The world moves through Cross, though rarely does Cross move through the world.

We are a strange and solitary folk. There are few who concern themselves with the greater happenings of the state, let alone the country.

A prime example of this took place on May 31, 1850, when the children of the Church of the Dead arrived in town. Many who came out to witness this group did so under the mistaken belief that they were greeting Christians from a distant land. In a sense, they were right. These were people from a distant land, but they were not Christians. Nor were they living.

The children of the Church of the Dead were exactly what they’re name declared: dead children.

They were a curious lot, and they spent a significant amount of time traveling from one world to the next. Cross, in 1850, was only one of many, many stops.

While the children were not in town to sever any people from there lives, a few men and women did die. Several died naturally.

The rest made the mistake of attempting to touch one of the dead children. No sooner had the child been touched than the offending individual was dead, crashing lifelessly to the earth.

They stayed for the entire day, and shortly before they moved on to the next world, they came to Blood Farm to eat and make merry.

Death, in all its many forms, is a common visitor in Cross, and the Bloods are always here to welcome it.

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

From Blood’s History: A Temper

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I must admit, there are times when my temper gets the best of me. Often, this results in the death of an individual. Or, if I truly lose control, I have been known to put entire households to death.

Such an event occurred at 11 Berkley Street in April of 1900, when I learned of the actions of the matron of the family. I refuse to name the family, even after more than a century. They are undeserving of remembrance, and I have effectively erased them from the memory of Cross. None of their name still lives in the town, nor are there any records to indicate any of them existed. I have even stripped their bodies from the ground and cast them, grave markers and all, into the Cross River.

You may wonder why I went to extreme measures to eradicate them, and I will tell you.

They killed a friend of mine.

She was a beautiful and brilliant young woman. One who wanted to nothing more than to help others. She did so with the magic she learned and practiced in the privacy of her own home. In April, she was invited to 11 Berkley Street, and there she was put to death. Poisoned with a cup of tea.

Her murderers did not go easily, as their house might attest. I twisted their bodies as I twisted the house. I left little more than grist and bone, blood and sinew, scattered about the interior.

It was not, as far as I am concerned, enough.

If I could kill them again each night and resurrect them like Prometheus, I would.

I hate them.

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

From Blood’s History: Amnesia

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Claudius Blood drifted in and out of New England for as long as I could remember, and far longer than he could.

From what I have gathered over the years, Claudius was born sometime shortly before the fall of Rome. How he made it to England, and then to the colonies is a mystery no one knows the answer to. Most certainly not Claudius.

He knows his name and little else. Upon his body, he bears the scars of thousands of battles, and his eyes look upon the world with a sadness no one can fathom. I have seen him lift up a hurt child and soothe them with a smile, and I have seen him whisper into a man’s ear and convince the man to kill himself.

There is no limit to his kindness or his cruelty.

I last saw Claudius in 1952, when he returned home from the Korean War, more from boredom than anything else. He stayed a short time. Ate and worked, gathered up his clothes, and vanished into Gods’ Hollow with little more than what he carried. When I asked him why the Hollow, he responded, “I’ve a mind to do some more killing.”

Someday, Claudius will return. Or he won’t.

I’ll be here either way.

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

From Blood’s History: Revenge

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In 1901, I had the good fortune to visit China for a short time. This was prior to the great siege of the foreign legations, and the madness that followed. While in the country, I made an enemy of a Protestant missionary, nothing which bothered me at the time. Who was I to care about a man who made his living selling his god?

When it was time for me to leave, I thanked the many men and women who had helped me further my education. Shortly after my return to Cross, I received a stereograph photo in the mail. It was a picture of severed heads. Specifically, the severed heads of some of those who had become my friends.

A short note was included, a note written by the missionary. The man bragged about how he had convinced the local government to put my friends to death.

I traveled through darkness and shadows, leap-frogging my way across the world until I arrived in the man’s bedroom.

While his wife and children watched, I sawed his head from his neck and returned home with it. I have it buried beneath my pig sty, where it shall remain until his god succeeds in finding it.

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

From Blood’s History: The Horn

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Gabriel Mills visited on November 9, 1938, and asked for the key. Never, in my life, have I refused it to him, nor did I do it then.

Regardless of your religion, or lack thereof, there are certain undeniable facts about this life. One of them, and I should know, is that there are beings far more powerful than us who walk this earth.

Gabriel Mills is one of them.

I have heard some people refer to him as an angel, although he has never laid claim to the title (and he has scoffed at such declarations). What I do know is I choose not to be around when he brings out the horn.

Why he keeps it at Blood Farm is another matter entirely.

Early in 1642, he made a deal with my father to keep the instrument with us, and that he would visit us upon occasion. Usually, it was to herald in some horrific event, and November 9 was no different.

He asked me to walk with him to the shed, and there we unlocked the door together. Gabriel took out the horn, sat upon the stairs, and put the instrument’s mouthpiece to his lips. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let out one of the saddest sounds it has been my misfortune to hear.

I shall never forget the sound, nor shall the world forget what it ushered in.

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

From Blood’s History: A Traveler Found

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I found him on May 1st, 1908, on a slight hill overlooking some of the apple orchard. He was tethered to a pole by strips of leather looped through cuts in the flesh of his chest. The man’s eyes were closed in rapture, his face upturned to the sun.

Despite the softness of my step, the man heard me, and he smiled as he greeted me, welcoming me to the morning in a tongue I had not heard in decades. He spoke in the Crow dialect of the Asparoke, a beautiful language I had nearly forgotten.

When I asked him who he was, he laughed and asked in return, “Who do you think I am, Duncan Blood?”

The tone and the voice struck an old memory, one which sent a chill racing along my spine. My hand itched for a pistol, although I knew it would do me no good.

Death chuckled and said, “Still, you would fight me, after all this time?”

“Of course, I would,” I replied.

“Good,” Death said. “It will be a sad day for me, Duncan Blood when you welcome me with open arms.”

We stood in silence for a short time, blood running in rivulets from his wounds. Finally, he sighed and said, “Have you any friends on Myrtle Street, Duncan?”

“None,” I replied.

“Good,” he said after a moment. “I will be burning the street to the ground shortly.”

I considered Death’s statement for a moment, shrugged and asked, “Will you want coffee after?”

His laughter was pure and terrifying, launching the crows from the trees and stealing the warmth from the air.

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