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Cross, Massachusetts

A town where strange and horrible events occur.

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From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 24, 1930. A hanged man is a terrible thing to see. In my travels, I have seen my share of lynchings and executions. The killing I stumbled upon this afternoon took me by surprise. I am amazed the Hollow can continue to shock me. The man was in the uniform of a soldier, his hands bound and his neck stretched. Whether his crime was real or imagined, or whether it even warranted a hanging, I will never know. For a short time, I stood and observed the dead man. In the trees near us, great ravens gathered, eager for their share of the hangman’s price. Finally, I sat down near the dead man, took out some food and ate. When I finished, I cut the man down and dug a shallow grave with my hands. I laid him out as best I could, covered him with dirt and stones, and tried not to think of what his crime had been. Brushing the dirt off my hands, I left the hanged man in his shallow grave and continued on my way, the screaming protests of the ravens ringing in my ears. #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 23, 1930. I came upon them in the early morning, only an hour or so after I had crossed the border into the Hollow. The mother and child stood in the remains of their home without any sense of shock or surprise. When they heard my approach, they turned and nodded to me. In beautiful French, the mother said, “Yes, we will have breakfast with you.” Feeding them had been my intention, but I had not voiced it to them. I did not hide my surprise, yet neither did I comment upon it as I sat down and took out my provisions. Soon, the three of us were eating the slim repast I had prepared. When we finished, the woman, without introducing herself, stated, “We have done this before.” “How many times?” I asked. She sighed, smiling bitterly. “For eight years now.” “Always with me?” I asked. “Always with a version of you,” the woman answered. “There are times when you know French, and others you don’t. Times when you kill us both, and times when you pass us by.” “How did you know I wouldn’t kill you today?” I asked, handing her a slice of bread for the child. “You knew French,” she said, smiling, and spoke no more about it. I left the mother and child as I found them, standing in the ruins of their home, and waiting for me to arrive in the morning. #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 22, 1930. I smelled the smoke before I saw it. A terrible, familiar odor I wished I could forget. With the memory of the woman in the farmhouse fresh in my mind, I followed the trail of smoke with weariness and resolve. I need not have worried. A massive chimney stood alone, wreathed in smoke and stinking of death. No other evidence of the building remained, but I didn’t need any. I knew the chimney. Had, in fact, laid some of the bricks myself when I was younger. In desperation, I wandered around through the smoke, seeking signs of life. Yet there was nothing. Neither clothing nor furniture. Not a cracked cup or a charred book. Nothing remained of the building I remembered. Once, the house had stood on Washington Street in Cross. In 1859, it vanished during an April thunderstorm. The home was torn from its foundations, the family within disappearing with it. For years, I hoped in vain to find some trace of them, and as the decades passed, I tried to forget. But how do you forget the woman you loved and hoped to marry? #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 21, 1930. Who he was and why he shot at me, I will never know. I must confess, however, that I do not care either. The man opened fire at me from a concealed position, his rounds well-placed and close enough to crease the folds of my coat. It took me nearly an hour to work out where he was and then to out-flank him. But I did it. I had no sympathy when I found him. No pity for him either. I emptied the cylinders of each Colt into the man, and had I not needed the rounds for later, I would have reloaded and shot him again. I have no love for sharpshooters. #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 20, 1930. The house nearly killed me. I was walking along the western edge of the Gods’ Hollow field when the house materialized not a dozen feet from me. It stank of cinders and charred air, roasted flesh, and sadness. Moaning came through the open windows while the entire structure groaned as it settled on its foundation. The moans quickly changed into cries, which mutated into shrieks of desperation. Against my better judgment, I entered the home. The table was set for breakfast. Coffee boiled on the oven. A burnt woman stood by the back window, her hair gone and her flesh a horrific mockery of what it had once been. She turned to face me, her eyes melted within their sockets, her teeth blacked and cracked. With a scream of outraged sadness, she held her arms out to me. I fired a single shot from each of the Colts and blew her brains out over the wall. It was all I could do for her. #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood. April 19, 1930. Close to where Gods’ Hollow meets my lands, I discovered an abandoned stretch of road which had not existed the day before. The houses were small, well made, and empty. Near a large totem, I saw a weathered man wrapped in animal skins, and he sat on his haunches, face bathed in the morning light. Through half-open eyes, he watched me approach. When I stopped a short distance away, getting the measure of him as I loosened my Colts in their holsters, he smiled and greeted me by name. When I asked him his, he responded, “Tukutkaa.” The word was old and familiar, one which caused me to drop my hands to my pistols. “No, Duncan,” he said, shaking his head. “You are not for me to claim. But go, you might scare away my prey, and I have waited here a long time for them to arrive.” He gestured with a dark hand, and I looked behind me. In the distance, I caught sight of a woman and a trio of children as they stepped onto the road. Letting go of the pistols, I nodded and passed the old man by. Who am I to argue with Death? #CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

Photos of Cross

A beaver damn on Blood Farm.

The creeping burial ground.

Italian children found off the coast of the Atlantic.

Charles and Eustace Hellas near Coffin Farm.

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Nicholas Efstathiou

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Cross, Massachusetts

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November 11

The creeping burial ground.

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