Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: The Dwarf


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.

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1911: Wendigo


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.


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From Blood’s History: Conclusions


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.

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From Blood’s History: A Traveler Found


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



From Blood’s History: Tragedy


In May of 1903, tragedy struck at the mouth of Cross River. The USS Reinert, a small schooner, was attacked by a large creature beneath the Atlantic’s surface. I was visiting a friend on duty at the lifesaving station when we witnessed the attack. Huge tentacles exploded from the water, snatching at sailors and attempting to pull down the masts. Sails were torn, and the bowsprit snapped clean away. The ship foundered as the unknown creature destroyed the rudder and attempted to pierce the hull.

We launched the boats and pulled hard for the Reinert, reaching her in time to attack the creature’s exposed tentacles with hand-axes and pikes. Black ichor spewed from the wounded flesh and an unholy stink accompanied it. The water boiled where the ichor struck it, and the ocean shuddered with a scream that shattered one of the boats.

After half an hour of vicious battle, we beat the creature back, but not without great loss. Fully two-thirds of the Reinert’s crew, eleven men, were either dead or missing. Six members of the lifesaving crew were dead as well.

We never learned what had attempted to destroy the Reinert, nor did we seek to find out.

We merely continue to watch for it.

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

Cousins (Part 2)


From, Blood’s History: Cousins (Part 2)


Thayer Blood was the ultimate athlete. Regardless of the sport, Thayer excelled at it. His favorite, however, was American football. Only in football, according to my cousin, was he able to unleash his pent-up frustrations, to exact a sort of revenge against the world.

He likened it to gladiatorial combat, where he and his teammates were performing for the benefit of a Caeser and Rome’s finest citizens.

Soon, though, my cousin took this comparison too far.

The violence of football no longer quenched the bloodlust raging within him.

In 1915, eager to sate his need, Thayer joined the Canadian Army and was shipped to the Western Front in Europe.

But there was not enough of the war for him. Too much time, he wrote me, spent doing nothing. He began to raid at night, on his own, questing not only into the German lines but into the defenses of other units on either side of his.

In May of 1916, he vanished completely into the wasteland between the lines, and a letter was sent to me, asking for help in locating Thayer.

I agreed, and with permission from my own officers, I sought my cousin out.

I found him, ecstatic with bloodlust as he reigned supreme between the lines, killing anyone who stumbled upon him, or upon whom he stumbled.

He attempted to collect my head, so I was forced to mail his home to his mother.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary



From, Blood’s History: Hunters


I have done my share of hunting. As a young man, it was necessary. Occasionally, over the years, I have gone afield to hunt game, when the desire for venison or waterfowl has taken hold of me.

In 1927, however, I spent the better part of a summer hunting down the Spahis.

I believe this particular group slipped into Cross via Gods’ Hollow. More than likely, it was done with the help of my dead mother, wretched woman that she was.

The Spahis ranged out from the Hollow and into the neighboring farms, taking wives and daughters, leaving any males dead in the farmyards.

From June 6th to August 15th, I tracked them down. I killed several on the outskirts of their camp, and by the evening of the 15th, I fought my way into their tents. Most of the men were dead. Those who were not fled into the Hollow. While I was victorious at that moment, I would not be free of the Spahis completely for another month.

In among the tents, I found the kidnapped females, all of whom were pregnant with the children of the Spahis dark and foul Gods. The tongue of every prisoner had been torn out in order to silence their agonized screams. Some of the prisoners were mad from the pain. Others knew exactly what was coming.

I killed the prisoners, putting a shot through each head and one through every fetus. Then, I set fire to the tents and went to hunt down those who thought they could escape.

#CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #blood #library #scary

The Library


From, Blood’s History: The Library


My private library lies deep beneath the cellar of Blood farmhouse. For someone as long-lived as myself, books have been a constant friend. I have collected an eclectic selection of works both well-known and obscure, and some which have been both at various times in their existence.

It pleases me to say that I have known genius’ such as John Steinbeck, and veritable devils such as Mather and his kin. While none of Mather’s works soil my shelves, I have everything Steinbeck published, as well as some he sent only to me, tucked away.

Among treasures such as these, however, are books far more dangerous. Works and ideas known to kill with the slightest caress of their pages.

And if you think books are not dangerous, then you are a fool.

Ideas are wicked entities. They can enter your thoughts, wrap themselves around some vital part of your workings and squeeze until you have no concept of what you are doing. Some books, like any object, can become haunted, the dead clinging to the manuscripts, traveling with them and ruining lives.

I keep my most prized possessions, and the most dangerous as well, in my private library, far from the eyes of foolish people. They are kept away from prying eyes. Not only because the books are mine, but because I am tired of hiding bodies.

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From, Blood’s History: Chores


Early in my life I learned an important lesson: killing is a chore.

It is work which needs doing, and rare are the occasions when joy might be taken from it. I took no enjoyment from the death of Mary Olcott. Her killing was merely a chore.

Captain Samuel Olcott, her husband, was a man who felt the need to cheat and swindle his business partners, one of whom was my Uncle Cy. Cy lost most of his farm to Captain Olcott, and my Aunt Faith sought to regain them by pleading the family’s case.

Olcott had his way with her and then she killed herself out of shame. My Uncle Cy soon followed.

Of all my relatives, I am the hardest. We discussed the need to punish Olcott and it was decided that pride cometh before a fall, and he was terribly proud of the beauty and virtue of his wife Mary.

On May 10th, 1766, I entered their new home – which had once been my aunt and uncle’s – and I beat Captain Olcott to the floor.

As he lay there, attempting to get up, I dragged Mary to him, apologized, and cut her throat, dousing him in his wife’s blood.

Killing Mary Olcott was a chore. Castrating her husband was a joy.

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April 30, 1930


April 30, 1930.

The last day of April and I have found most of Cross’ missing. They were gathered in the shelter of a small building, each body in the process of excavation. It seemed as though centuries had passed since each individual vanishing, and perhaps here, in Gods’ Hollow, such a wealth of time has passed by. Who am I to judge in that regard?

I sat down in the building, lit a smoke and cleaned my Colts. An uncomfortable sensation took up residence in the nape of my neck, and I waited for someone, or something, to appear and make some sort of demand upon me.

Nothing happened.

After a short time, I stood, wandered amongst the remains and gathered up what personal possessions I could find.

There were not many.

The Hollow shuddered beneath my feet several times as I made my way through the skeletons, and I knew, without having to be told, that the Hollow would no longer reveal itself come May.

Once again, the Hollow would keep its secrets.

Burdened with the belongings of the dead, I left the house, retraced my footsteps, and hoped I would make it home before the Hollow closed itself to prying eyes.

The sound of my mother singing hurried me on my way.

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