Tag: fairytales

January 6, 1930

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Many events which occur in Cross remain a mystery. No one can ever draw a conclusion as to what happened or offer a reasonable explanation for an event.

Such is the case with Gods’ Hollow.

A wide expanse of unoccupied territory, Gods’ Hollow has never been settled. No homes have been built, no fences erected. Cattle are not allowed to graze, nor is hunting permissible.

Not only is there a sacredness about the area, but there is a subtle danger, an almost malignant odor to the air. Something lurks there, between the worlds.

And at times, this unknown entity opens the gateway and thrusts something into Cross that does not belong.

On January 6, 1930, Mr. Erik Carte was traveling along the slim road that cuts through Gods’ Hollow when he saw a disruption to the natural landscape.

The remains of a curious building stood where no building had stood before.

Closer examination of the structure revealed that it bore the date of 1558 Anno Domini and that the foundations were encrusted with small, humanoid skulls. Signs of violence could be seen upon the stone and the plaster, but there was no explanation as to how the ruins had appeared, or why they had done so.

The building was clearly ancient, and the growth around it revealed that it had been its position for centuries.

Yet the question was to which world did the ruins belong.

No one knew.

The ruins, known as Carte’s Castle, remain on the edge of Gods’ Hollow, and people are advised to avoid it.

At any time, the castle could return from whence it came, and it might take the curious onlooker with it.

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January 4, 1927

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Part of our sanitized folklore is the belief that the punishment fits the crime, and that there is – in the end – a sort of rough justice served out.

This has never been the case in Cross.

The town’s ways are the old ways, and the dangers within its borders rarely offer up a rational reason for their occurrences.

So it is with Anne Harper.

In 1927, Anne was a recently married woman of 22, and she and her husband were renting rooms from an elderly couple on Elm Street. The house in which they lived was a quaint, narrow, salt-box Victorian that was pleasant to look upon and to live within.

The elderly couple had inherited the home from the sister’s brother, and they had only been living in the building for three years. As part of the rent agreement, Anne assisted with the basic cleaning of the home. She did this willingly and with genuine joy as she and their landlords got along quite well.

On January 4, 1927, Anne and the landlady discovered a previously unknown hidden door beneath the staircase. The door, cunningly disguised behind a raised piece of paneling, opened onto a dark cupboard. Not surprisingly, the cupboard smelled of dust and slightly of mildew. Since Anne was far younger than her landlady, Anne volunteered to go into the cupboard to see what was within.

No sooner had Anne’s head entered the shadows than she let out a scream of pure terror.

Fear lent strength to the landlady’s old frame, and in less than five seconds she dragged Anne free of the cupboard and kicked the door closed.

A moment later, the door vanished, and Anne neither spoke nor made eye contact with anyone again.

She is currently in the State Sanitarium, looking at the ceiling with same vacant stare her photograph records.

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December 27, 1923

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     Cross is a town of curious events and strange people.

     A charter for the town was awarded in 1628, and the town has thrived ever since. Yet during nearly 400 years in existence, not a day or hour seems to have passed without something odd occurring.

     These events occasionally lead to death or result in the maiming of an individual. At other times, a strangeness makes its way onto the streets, pauses, then vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

     In 1923, the town of Cross suffered a series of suspicious fires. While some livestock was lost, the townspeople considered themselves lucky since no human was slain.

     On October 22 of that same year, the cat of Miss Rose McCullum, aged 16, was burned to death when the McCullum barn was destroyed by the arsonist.

     At the time, the police suspected Mr. Edward R. Berkley, aged 47, of setting the fires. There was no evidence to support the case against the man, and as he was a citizen of some renown and merit within the town, he was not pursued.

     Ms. McCullum did pursue the case, and she went and spoke with Duncan Blood about the issue.

     On the night of November 30, the unknown arsonist set fire to the McCullum home, and the building was a complete loss, although the family escaped unscathed.

     Once more Ms. McCullum was seen in the presence of Duncan, then she and her family went to Rhode Island to stay with relatives.

     On the evening of December 27, 1923, Edward R. Berkley, while walking from his shed to his home, burst into flames, setting part of the house on fire and dying despite repeated efforts to save him.

     No members of his family or their pets were injured in his demise.

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December 26, 1859

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     Murder is nothing new. Nor is the effort some go to hiding the body – or bodies – of the slain.

     Mathias Cooper traveled from England in 1840 and found work on the marina in Cross, repairing the barrels on ships replenishing their stocks.

     One ship, in particular, the Sea King out of Newburyport, Massachusetts, preferred to have its barrels built and repaired by Mathias. His uncle Elbridge, it turned out, was the ship’s master, and after work, the two would drink long into the night.

     In 1859, inspectors from a shipping insurance firm from New Bedford, MA arrived to investigate the repeated loss of life aboard the Sea King. They were unable to ascertain anything from the folk at the marina, but the suspicions of the townspeople were raised.

     Gentle inquiries were made, and soon it was discovered that the Sea King had a habit of losing new sailors in Cross. These losses were chalked up to the wandering nature of most young men, but as the older members of Cross continued their investigation, they discovered a far more sinister practice.

     Mathias Cooper made at least one new, larger than normal barrel for the Sea King every time she put into berth.

     On December 26, 1859, nephew and uncle were questioned directly and with force, and the newest barrel was opened. The fresh corpse of an unknown sailor was removed from the barrel, and the body was given a decent burial in Cross Cemetery.

     Mathias and Elbridge Cooper were placed in the barrel, alive, and they were buried as well.

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December 25, 1940

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     On December 25, 1940, during a heavy snowfall. At Farley Farm on South Road, the entire Farley family – consisting of both parents, all six children, and both sets of grandparents – were ill. Duncan Blood and young Doctor Charlene Williams stopped by the home to administer to the sick. During the day, Dr. Williams left to obtain some fresh soup, and on her return, she saw a horse in the yard. She tried to approach the home, but could not get any closer, no matter how long she walked, nor in which direction she tried to go.

     Finally, frustrated, she returned to town and found a member of the police who agreed to accompany her.

     In the officer’s patrol car, they experienced the same difficulty she had on foot. No matter how fast the car drove, it could not draw any nearer. At last, with his car nearly out of fuel, the officer had been forced to return to Cross.

     Close to midnight, the officer, one of his colleagues, and Dr. Williams again made an attempt. As they traveled along South Road, they passed a small boy, bundled against the snow and riding a horse. He waved cheerfully at them as they steered around him, and Dr. Williams returned the wave.

     When they neared the house, they were surprised to see discover that they could continue directly toward it. It was then that Dr. Williams noticed that the horse was gone and that Duncan Blood stood outside.

     The house burst into flames as the officers and Dr. Williams climbed out of the patrol car. Duncan stopped the three of them from racing into the spreading inferno.

     “They’re dead,” Duncan explained. “They have been since the boy arrived. He gave them the day, you see. One last Christmas.”

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December 24, 1914

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     The holidays, it is said, are a time for miracles.

     For wounded German troops returning from the Eastern Front during the First World War, such a miracle occurred on the morning of December 24, 1914.

     At 7:37 am, immediately after the departure of the northbound Boston & Maine commuter train, a strange locomotive rumbled into the Cross station. As amazed residents watched, the tracks shifted to adjust to the new train’s gauge, and the engine came to a staggering halt.

     When the doors opened, surprised German soldiers and nurses stepped out onto the platform.

     Seeing the desperate need of the troops, the Cross citizenry sprang into action. Homes were opened to the wounded, and operating theaters were set up in the train station, town hall, and in the First Congregationalist Church.

     By the time evening fell, not a single soldier had died.

     As the Germans were being cared for and fed, welcomed into homes to celebrate Christmas, a young German officer stood beside Duncan Blood. Matthew Dube, one of the train station’s porters, paused at the ticket counter, exhausted from the madness of the day. As he leaned against the marble, he heard Duncan murmur something unintelligible, and the German officer nodded.

     “I’m not for either side, despite what they say from their pulpits,” the officer said in perfect English. “I am quite content to let them sort it out by themselves. Everything works out in the end. It always does.”

     Matthew watched as the officer shook Duncan’s hand, turned, and went back to the platform. When the officer stepped onto the train, all its doors closed, and it faded from view.

 

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December 23, 1941

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     This unfortunate picture was taken at 10:14 am on December 23, 1941.

     Mr. Jonathan Rivell and his 12-year-old son, Thomas, were looking for interesting subjects for Mr. Rivell’s new hobby – photography. Thomas, an avid swimmer, was in the water, attempting to see if there might not be a far more enticing picture that could be taken of the shore.

     As the father and son prowled along the edge, one near the water and the other in it, they heard a sweet, beautiful voice raised in song. While they were unable to understand the words, the melody drew them on toward the curve in the shore which marked the end of the public’s access to Duncan Blood’s land. Beyond the protrusion in the photograph, no one, not even the police, dared to cross.

     There were dark creatures in Duncan’s lands, and in the waters of Blood Lake as well.

     Instead of stopping and returning the way they had come, the two Rivells continued toward the outcropping.

     Mr. Rivell felt there was something magnificent approaching them, something wondrous. Thomas felt the same.

     As the boy was treading water, the father readied the camera, and when the singing grew louder, he raised the camera to his eye and prepared for the shot.

     He took the photograph a moment after the singer appeared, his horror forcing his reaction.

     From descriptions Mr. Rivell gave to the police, and later to Duncan, it was decided that Thomas was snatched by a naiad.

     The boy’s body was never recovered, nor was the naiad’s song heard again.

     Mrs. Rivell left Jonathan, and he spent the rest of his life wandering the shores of Blood Lake, searching for some sign of the thief who had stolen his child.

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December 22, 1925

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     In 1920, Frau Issa Gewitter emigrated from Germany to the United States after her husband, a German veteran of the Great War, was slain during the Munich uprising in 1919. By 1921, Issa found her way to Cross, where she became the nanny for the Anderson family on Norwich Road.

     Mr. Paul Anderson and his wife, Ellen, traveled extensively, and on most occasions, they were unable to bring their three daughters with them. During these times, Issa had full run of the home, and she made certain that the children and the structure were well cared for.

     Mr. Anderson was a successful author, writing under several different pseudonyms. One of his passions was collecting rare weapons. His most prized firearm was a Browning Automatic Rifle, gifted to him in 1916 shortly before the United States’ entry into the Great War. Like many collectors, Mr. Anderson had an ample supply of ammunition for his firearms, including the Browning.

     On the morning of December 22, 1925, a heavy snowfall had fallen over Cross, ensuring that there would be little travel on the roads.

     It was at 7:13 am that the first of the goblins attacked the Anderson house.

     Issa Gewitter had survived four years of war, and a devastating battle in her home city of Munich. She was not flustered by the sudden assault, despite the hideous appearance of the assailants.

     Instead, Issa put the Browning to good use. With the children loading magazines and passing them to her, Issa is said to have slain at least 32 of the goblins, and wounding many more.

     When her employer returned and asked where the ammunition for the Browning had gone, his daughters pointed to the pyramid of heads in the backyard.

     To this day the skulls of the goblins are mounted on the corners of the home, and this photo of Frau Issa Gewitter hangs above the fireplace of the Anderson house.

 

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December 21, 1949

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     Josef Wukovits owned a small farm on the eastern side of Cross. He was a diminutive man, who grew enough food to keep himself and his animals fed. Josef was a widower, and he and his wife had not been blessed with children.

     He lived a solitary existence, and he was pleasant with his neighbors. Josef’s childhood was one filled with sadness and hunger, and anyone who needed a meal could sit at his table, often eating the meager food he had prepared for himself.

     On the evening of December 21, 1949, during a snowstorm, there was a knock on his door. When he answered it, he found a young woman, clad in worn clothes and a thin jacket and nearly frozen to death. Without hesitation, Josef took her into his house, sat her by the fire, and wrapped her in warm blankets. He plied her with chicken soup, rubbed the warmth back into her hands and feet, and allowed her to sit in silence.

     Slowly, color returned to the woman’s cheeks, and when she seemed capable of walking, he helped her to his bedroom, where he laid her down and heaped quilts upon her.

     For the remainder of the night, Josef kept the fire burning brightly, and he checked on the young woman repeatedly. Towards dawn, exhaustion overcame him, and he fell asleep.

     Before midday, he awoke and hurried back into his room. The young woman was gone, and the bed was made as though it had never been slept in. On his pillow was a note, which read: Thank you, Josef. Never again shall you be hungry.

     Beneath the note was a single golden coin, and each morning another would be in its place until he died a decade later.

 

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December 20, 1916

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     It is known as Die Feldhausen von Totenbaum, the tree of dead hares.

     The tree can rarely be found for it is hidden somewhere on the vast estate of Duncan Blood, and the only warning that the tree has blossomed is the sound of rifle fire emanating from his land.

     Most years, the tree bears no fruit. It grows and, according to legend, it follows the seasons as any tree will.

     Some years, however, the tree serves as the harbinger of disaster, and the only way this is known is to see if the tree bears its strange and hideous fruit.

     When the field rabbits of Cross can be found hanging from the branches, and the triple guns and the dog of the unknown Hunter are present, Death will visit the town.

     The last known observance of the tree in bloom was December 19, 1916, when Bram Hall was wandering – drunk – and somehow managed to end up in the middle of Duncan Blood’s property. A day later, when he found his way out and back to the center of town, Bram stopped first for a drink, then made his way around Cross, telling everyone he met about what he had witnessed.

     While many people ignored his ramblings, a few of the older residents knew what it meant, and they barricaded themselves in their homes.

     On the night of December 20, 1916, a storm tore through Cross, destroying houses and sweeping livestock and horses into the river.

     While only five people were killed in the storm, the sickness caused by exposure to the elements resulted in 37 hospitalizations, and the property damage prompted two men and one woman to commit suicide.

     Recently, the crack of rifle fire has been heard from Duncan’s land.

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