March 13, 1922

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She’s trapped in a dream.

Maggie Brooklyn moved into a small room in Cross in 1915 and found a job with the Boston & Maine Railroad as one of their few, female guards.

She was a quiet woman, and little was known of her. When she spoke, it was with a distinct German accent and when asked she informed people that she was from Switzerland. She would never elaborate.

In 1917, Maggie received several books from Germany, which she read constantly. One of them contained a theory of time travel from a young scientist, a theory illustrated with an analogy which employed a train.

Maggie became obsessed with the idea that she could travel backward in time via the trains she worked on.

She became focused on work, isolating herself from any sort of social events as she gathered money and what she called her equipment: bits and pieces of wireless sets and radios; broken electric lamps and curious bits of steel. Finally, on March 13, 1922, with the help of a friend, she dragged a tremendous steamer trunk to the platform of the Cross train station.

For nearly an hour, she set up her machine, a strange, almost brutal looking contraption. In the center of it there was an opening, along the bottom of which was a web-work of copper and silver wire, interwoven with the occasional strand of gold. From this webbing a single cable of the braided metal stretched out to the tracks, crossing both sets.

When she finished, Maggie stood alone on the web-work, grinning furiously.

As the morning train from Boston rushed toward the station, Maggie cried out joyously, titled her head back, and waited.

Moments later, the train passed over the braids, and Maggie and her device vanished.

Each day, at 9:17 in the morning, the lights in the station flicker, and Maggie can be seen screaming on the platform, if only for the briefest of moments.

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March 12, 1937

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Cross is no gentle place.

In 1937, Robert DeManche and his family were taught that bitter lesson.

From the Spring of 1935 until the Fall of 1936, Robert built a home on the edge of Gods’ Hollow where it joined with Duncan Blood’s land. Robert was a firm believer and supporter of communism, and he felt that no one could hold such a wealth of land.

Duncan, of course, disagreed, warning the DeManche family that while he might be forgiving, Gods’ Hollow would not.

Robert was new to Cross, and they believed the talk to be nothing but bluster.

Robert spoke freely about establishing a collective on the unclaimed land of Gods’ Hollow, and taking what he needed of Duncan’s property.

Duncan, in turn, pronounced the man a fool, and warned the wife to take the children to a place of safety.

Sharon DeManche was as firm a believer as her husband, so she stayed by his side.

On March 12, 1937, eight days after the home was finished and the DeManche family moved into the structure, Gods’ Hollow convulsed and cast the building onto Duncan’s property. Two of the DeManche children were killed and Sharon was paralyzed from the waist down. The DeManches first-born son survived, and he gathered up his two surviving siblings, the three of them seeking refuge with Duncan.

Robert DeManche was found later that day, naked and tied spread-eagle to a large rock a short distance from where his home had so briefly stood.

He tongue was missing, his eyes filled with madness, and he was screaming hoarsely to the sky.

Later, when Sharon recovered enough to speak, she told of a great, earthen hand that had risen up around the house, and hurled it from the land.

She and her husband shared a room at the asylum until she murdered him for whispering while she slept.

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March 11, 1912

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Words can kill.

Floyd and Allen Tibbetts learned this on March 11, 1912.

The father and son knew hard times. They had worked as both detectives and hired guns in all the New England states, and there was little difference between them and the criminal element as far as most law enforcement agencies were concerned.

They arrived in Cross on March 9, staking out the home of Judge Henry Mather. According to information gathered after the fact, the Tibbetts had been hired to execute Mather’s 13-year-old daughter, Erica.

On the morning of March 11, an opportunity presented itself for the killers to do just that. Erica and the maid, Ms. Mary McNernay, were left alone in the home.

Floyd and Allen entered the house through the back door, armed only with knives, certain that they would be able to carry out the task with little fuss.

They succeeded in ascending the stairs to the second floor before they were noticed by Mary, who attempted to lock herself and Erica in the master bedroom.

The men forced the door, sending Mary stumbling back in the process.

Erica sat on her parents’ bed, unfazed by the intrusion. As the men advanced upon her, she began to sing.

Mary could not understand the words, but they were, according to her later testimony, “Sweet and angelic.”

Floyd and Allen would have disagreed.

The men flew into a violent frenzy, turning on one another with their knives.

Their fight was short and brutal; each man eviscerating the other.

As they lay dying on the floor, Erica climbed off the bed, stood between the men and watched them bleed out.

When asked what she had sung to them, Erica smiled and replied, “Their death song.”

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March 10, 1919

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Seven minutes.

Daniel Palmer lasted exactly seven minutes after he was exposed to an unknown substance on March 10, 1919.

Whether he was the target or merely a victim of happenstance, Daniel died nonetheless.

The vial, the report said later, was nearly four inches long and it was believed that there was once a gaseous substance in it.

Daniel Palmer, aged 31 with the occupation of train mechanic, paused on his way home from work when the glistening of the vial – which was green and cylindrical – caught his eye. The vial looked as though it might have come from an expensive store, and perhaps it carried a rare perfume. Daniel Palmer, ever eager to deliver some small gift to his wife, may have been thinking along such lines when he held it in his hand.

Several witnesses observed him as he removed the stopper, and what happened next was hideous.

Leaning over the vial, he seemed to smell the substance. As soon as he did so, he let out a horrific scream that ended as quickly as it began.

Daniel collapsed to the ground, writhing in place and in such agony that none dared to approach him.

Witnesses watched as a foul gas expelled from his mouth and his flesh fell away. His body seemed to explode and push out the fabric of his clothing.

Daniel’s exact cause of death was never determined. No doctor would perform an autopsy.

Instead, he was gathered into a makeshift coffin, and burned on the edge of Gods’ Hollow.

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March 9, 1868

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Vengeance is often a bitter draught.

On March 9, 1868, former Confederate sergeant Antoine de Sainte Beauvoir arrived in Cross. His purpose, as he had told friends and family prior to his departure, was to avenge his three brothers and his father, as well as several uncles and a baker’s dozen worth of cousins.

All this could be done with the slaying of one man: Duncan Blood.

In the heat of battle, during the war between the States, the Sainte Beauvoir Militia (made up of relatives along both the paternal and maternal lines) attempted a raid upon nearby Federal forces.

The militia was foiled in this by Duncan Blood, who had first fought Indians before the United States was a country.

The few survivors, including Sergeant Antoine, were adamant that they had faced at least a company size force of Federals. In all actuality, they ran into Duncan Blood, and no one else.

He had shown the militia no mercy, killing the wounded as he cut a bloody swath through their ranks. In the end, Sergeant Antoine and three others lived because they had fled the battle.

Furious at having been put to flight by a single man, Sergeant Antoine vowed to find Duncan Blood and exact his revenge.

On March 9, he attempted to do just that.

He found Duncan Blood in the street, and he called Duncan out.

Duncan, who had left the general store carrying a new hatchet, killed Antoine where he stood. Then, much to the horror of all, Duncan scalped the man.

When asked why, Duncan replied, “What was good for his father was good enough for him.”

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March 8, 1946

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The image of a mistake.

In the library of the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, there is the Lovecraft Room. It is a small study room, and it has remained unchanged for over seventy years.

On the morning of March 8, 1946, nine students and their professor, entered the room at 8:15. They were learning ancient Arabic, specifically dialects from those regions along the Iraq and Iran border. In an effort to help them gain a better appreciation of the language they were studying, their professor, Dr. Curtis A. Lawson, retrieved a previously unused Arabic text from a nearby locked cabinet.

To ensure that he would not be interrupted, Dr. Lawson closed the door to the room.

What happened next is merely conjecture.

While witnesses stated that they heard him reading aloud in a foreign language, it quickly stopped. A short time later, one of the staff members went to go and check on the room and found the door to be slightly ajar.

The class was perfectly still, students and Dr. Lawson frozen in various positions. Dr. Lawson’s hands were open as if he had been holding the book. His students had been writing down notes or observing their professor as he read to them.

But none of those in the room moved. There was not the slightest hint of breath or the faintest sign of life.

Yet they were not dead.

The flow of time had been stopped.

Nothing in the room could be moved, not the smallest bit of dust would budge.

It has been surmised that the book, of which no information remained, was responsible, and that when Dr. Lawson read from it, he enabled some spell.

As to who might have taken the book, no one knows.

But should you travel to the library, and ask to see the Lovecraft Room, you will bear witness to a moment frozen in time.

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March 7, 1846

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How open are you to the strange and the curious?

Cross, by its very nature, is a town that is not afraid of those things which are out of the ordinary.

Perhaps the finest example of this in the town’s long and bizarre history is that of Alpheus K. Blood, the adopted brother of Duncan Blood.

Alpheus entered the history of Cross in 1763, helping the town to weather a particularly rough winter. He saved several families from starvation and hypothermia by traveling through bitter temperatures and near-blinding storms to bring food and firewood. Both he and Duncan worked tirelessly, and when all was said and done, the young Alpheus was adopted into the Blood family, taking their name as his own.

Alpheus was a quiet individual, one who kept to himself except for in times of great need. When those times came, he served without ever having to be asked.

During the French and Indian Wars, he helped to defend the town from the raiding enemy. He did the same again when the war with Britain broke out in both 1776 and 1812. Whenever the enemy attacked, regardless as to who they were, Alpheus would be in the thick of the fighting, encouraging and leading by example.

As a token of thanks, the town paid to have his portrait taken on March 7, 1846.

To this day, Alpheus K. Blood’s portrait hangs in the town hall, a bronze plaque commemorating his service and selflessness.

People believe that something has happened to the photograph, that somehow, the portrait has turned green with age. Few understand that the background was tinted to match Alpheus’ flesh, that he was a magnificent goblin, and what a benefit it was when he ate the enemy’s dead.

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March 6, 1952

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There are experiences that will break a man.

Had Peter Tatum ever considered the idea of a man breaking, he wouldn’t have thought of himself as a candidate. Nor would any who knew him.

Peter was a hard man.

He had served in the French Foreign Legion before, during, and after the First World War. He was familiar with suffering, and with grief. Peter had seen his friends killed, and killed some of them as well, though he told few people about those parts of his life.

When he returned to Cross in the early 1920s, Peter settled in on the family farm and took up those responsibilities he had fled from as a young man. By 1952, Peter was a staple in the fabric of Cross society, and among his friends, he counted the venerable and stoic Duncan Blood.

On March 6, 1952, a hard wind came down from the north and tore through some of the older stretches of Peter’s land. Trees older than Peter were snapped at their bases, and he decided that they would need to be cleared away.

Duncan advised against it. He told Peter to leave the trees where they lay.

Peter did not.

He trimmed the limbs off and cut the trunks down to manageable sizes, hitching a team to them and dragging them back to his barn to be cut.

Peter set to work as soon as he could, and within half an hour, as the blade cut through the wood, a dark spray of blood exploded into the cold winter air.

As the steaming fluid struck the snow, Peter jerked the saw free, the thick trunk snapping as he did so.

What he found was a human corpse, still warm, nestled within the heart of the tree.

Peter was found sitting in the cold blood, the body before him as he repeated in a hushed whisper a single line.

“I should have listened.”

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March 5, 1924

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Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Rose MacCrae put truth to those words in 1924 when she took the position of cook for Daniel Sawyer and his wife, Emily.

Rose and Daniel had grown up together in Cross, and together they had gone through all their schooling. Her affection for Daniel was made apparent in the second grade, and it never dulled. Yet Daniel never returned her affection, though he often toyed with her, and it is rumored that he had done more than that.

In 1908, Daniel moved from Cross to Boston for a short time, and it was there that he met his future bride. Emily was all those things that Rose was not: elegant, cultured, and well-connected. In 1924, the Sawyers moved back to Cross, and Daniel hired Rose as a cook not only on the merits of her abilities but out of a sense of superiority.

On February 2nd, 1924, Emily Sawyer failed to return home from a shopping trip to Boston, and rumor stated that she had run off with an old friend of Daniel’s.

Daniel was heartbroken at the loss of his wife, and it is to Rose’s credit that she did not prey upon the man in his weakened emotional state.

Instead, she did what she was hired to do, she cooked.

Rose was the very devil in the kitchen, baking, and canning and producing magnificent feasts. While Daniel hardly touched the meals, he still partook of them, if only to ensure his continued existence should his beloved return.

On March 5, 1924, Daniel awoke and was surprised to find that there was no breakfast on the table when he descended. Nor was Rose in the kitchen. A beautiful pastry box was set on the kitchen counter and attached to it was a note.

“You can cook the rest yourself.”

Confused, Daniel opened the box, and found Emily’s severed head within, her heart stuffed in her open mouth.

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March 4, 1947

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Strange events are common in Cross.

On March 4, 1947, Murder’s Creek backed up and flooded the lower field of Quinn Hassel, a bachelor farmer who kept much to himself.

Such flooding was common when the ice melted and froze as it had at the end of February. Quinn, never a man to shirk from any sort of duty, went with his icebreaker and his shovel and settled in for a long, miserable day of backbreaking work.

For nearly two hours, he hacked and cut and removed chunks of ice.

To no avail.

Thinking that the blockage might be coming from further up the creek, he went and saw Duncan Blood, and together the two men examined Murder’s Creek deep into the Blood land. Yet there was nothing amiss on Duncan’s side either.

The two men returned to the lower field, and together they worked farther in under the North Road, following the creek up.

It was then that they found the blockage.

Neither Quinn nor Duncan knew what it was, or what it might have been, for the remains were rotten and stank of filth. Whether it had two or three heads, the men couldn’t tell. But they did count a total of six arms and two sets of legs.

They hooked chains to the corpse and dragged it out, the body half frozen in ice. Great chunks of it were missing, and there were teeth marks upon the bones.

Quinn went to the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University and brought back several professors, and soon the carcass was loaded on a flatbed and taken to the school.

It remains there still, tucked away in a vault beneath the science building. In the library, the most disturbing part of the find is still on display.

A weathered and water stained photograph of Quinn Hassel, upon the back of which was written one word: father.

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