From Blood’s History: Revenge


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.

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From Blood’s History: The Horn


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.

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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



From Blood’s History: Hatred


Once, in 1913, I hated.

It was a true and violent hate. A hatred which consumed me and beat at my thoughts relentlessly. This foul emotion centered on a young man by the name of Edward White, who lived in his parents’ home after he served several years in the Navy. He had returned to Cross with a carnal taste which centered around rape and violence. His parents knew of his predilection and encouraged it.

Their baby boy could do no wrong.

I learned of his habits early in June of 1913, when I received a letter from a young, female friend of mine. She killed herself before I could speak with her in person.

I went and visited Edward and his parents, to talk with them about these accusations. Knowing the woman was dead, Edward happily admitted to the crime, and his parents demanded I leave after confronting their child.

Instead, I chained the three of them to the kitchen stove and set fire to the house.

The fire brigade arrived two hours too late. No one, it seemed, had noticed the fire.

Her letter sits in the drawer beside my bed, a reminder of the monsters who hide among us.

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

The Atlantic


From Blood’s History: The Atlantic


Danforth Brown was the captain of The Errant Lass out of Cross. He and his family had run the ship for nearly thirty years, and she was fine a ship as any coast runner could wish for. His crew, which consisted of family members ranging from sons to distant cousins, were loyal and fierce. And, like the ship they served on, were the envy of many a captain.

I hated them all.

Whether or not it was with just cause, I neither know nor care. I hated them, the reasons for which I shall keep to myself.

Suffice to say, when The Errant Lass berthed in June of 1901, I slipped aboard and hid myself away in the bilge. When the ship eased out of the Cross Marina a few days later, I remained hidden until we left the mouth of the river and found the open sea. As the vessel tacked to windward and made for Boston and points north, I crept from my hiding place and slew my enemies as they slept. The last two I kept alive to help me scuttle the ship, and when I was finished, I cut their throats and dumped them in the Atlantic.

Watching The Errant Lass drown is a memory I cherish still.

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



From Blood’s History: Wolves


Upon occasion, Cross has an issue with wolves. These are not wandering packs which have somehow followed the Berkshires down into northern Massachusetts. They are, instead, lycanthropes. Werewolves.

Like so many other creatures of myth, werewolves have been painted in a delightfully pleasant light. An image which could not possibly be further from the truth.

When a person becomes a werewolf, whether, through the transference of the infection through a bite or by accident of birth, they are no longer in control of their own faculties. They are subject to the whims of the moon, and thus a werewolf is a danger to those around it.

In 1910, a Greek couple arrived in Lowell, Massachusetts and set up a tailor’s shop in that city. Once a month, they would travel to the countryside for the wife’s health, and all would agree that when she returned, both husband and wife looked remarkably refreshed.

Shortly after the turn of the new year, the couple, both of whom were werewolves, decided to hunt in Cross. To be more precise, they came onto my farm in search of easy prey.

They did not find it.

I killed them both, in wolf form, on my front steps. When death transformed them back into human shape, I dragged their carcasses to North Road and left them there, where they were found in the morning.

1911 was a difficult year. I would spend a great deal of it killing creatures of myth. Creatures who should have known better than to hunt in Cross.

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

Along the Cross River


From Blood’s History: Along the Cross River


She appeared in the summer of 1911, a fetching young woman often seen reclining on the sandy portions of the Cross River. I would have ignored her had she not begun to hunt the citizens of Cross and taken my youngest cousin.

Mermaids are far from pleasant creatures, regardless of what you may have seen upon the television. They are foul and hungry creatures, with little regard for the sentient beings they hunt.

And so, I have no pity for them when they make themselves known in Cross.

She, like all her kind, suffered from the belief that humans are still enthralled with the stories written about the beauty and gentleness of the merfolk. While this is true for many, it is not – nor has it ever been – true for me.

Well before dawn on August 12th, I traveled to the portion of the river she favored, and I waited. When the sun broke the horizon, the mermaid broke the surface of the river. She waded out of the water, clad in the most fashionable of swimsuits. When she saw me, she smiled, waved, and took two steps toward me.

I blew her brains out with one of my revolvers, strapped her corpse to a large stone, and pushed her body into the water, a warning to others of her kind.

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



From Blood’s History: Visitors


Not all Cross visitors arrive from Gods’ Hollow. While their points of origin may not be exotic today, they certainly were for their time. Specifically, I refer to the delegates from Japan, a trio of men who arrived in Cross in 1866 when I was recently returned home from the war of the rebellion.

The Japanese men, warriors all, were in search of a small chest which was stolen from their lord’s family early in the middle of the 17th century, and which was reported to be in Cross. With the relaxation of Japan’s strict regulations regarding travel, the men were given permission to carry out the quest to retrieve it.

The chest was indeed in Cross, and it was in the possession of Gilbert Gubar, Esquire, a gentleman of some renown in Boston law circles. He had inherited it from his father, who had purchased the item from one of Cross’ sailing families after they stole it from one of Japan’s smaller islands. Within the chest was a silver heart. Not the shabby, symmetrical heart emblem of Valentine’s Day, but an anatomically correct organ wrought perfectly.

It was the heart of a grand patriarch, and the lord’s family wanted it back.

For several hours we negotiated with Mr. Gubar for the heart. The gentleman saw, however, that the warriors were intent upon obtaining the item at any cost, and so he continued to raise the price. In the end, it was worth far more than he understood.

The warriors returned home with the patriarch’s heart and Mr. Gubar’s head.

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Cousins (Part 3)


From, Blood’s History: Cousins (Part 3)


In the late 1890s, I traveled to Copenhagen in Denmark at the request of my cousin, Magdalena Blod. No one had heard from the Danish line since the early 1750s, and while there was a subdued air about the letter, her name was signed and underlined, an old and subtle message of distress.

The voyage from Cross to Denmark was arduous, undertaken during the worst of the Atlantic storms. Several passengers died along the way, one by my blade before I threw him overboard for lacking a civil tongue.

In Denmark, I found my cousin at the University of Copenhagen, a prisoner to a professor who had discovered her longevity. He had overseen the writing of the letter, making certain there was nothing remotely close to a cry for help within her beautifully crafted sentences.

Magdalena welcomed me in and introduced the professor as a man of foresight and power, both of which were keywords. Only King Richard of England had once been referred to as such, and that was after he had put our great-grandfather to death.

I smiled, nodded, and drove my knife up into his heart.

Magdalena and I spent a pleasant evening in the man’s rooms, enjoying dinner while destroying all evidence he had gathered about our family.

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