Disaster and Calamity: Descent

The air was torn, and the street was thrown into disarray.

When the smoke cleared and the debris had settled, there was a large hole in the center of Stiefel Street. Several members of the Gold Star Mothers of America, who were patiently waiting for the next train into Boston due to an issue with their own locomotive, were struck and killed by paving stones. Others were injured, but the majority remained unharmed.

Once the wounded and the dead were evacuated, the hole was examined, and I was one of the party who descended into it. We found bits and pieces of metal, smoothly polished steel, and fragments of copper wrapped in a strange material none of us were familiar with.

It bothered me greatly, though I could not say why, and I did my best to prevent people from taking mementos away from the strange hole. For the most part, I was successful, but there was some stubborn folk who shook their heads and walked away. They, I reasoned, would be dealt with later, before any harm could come to them because of what crashed into Cross.

It took me nearly a month to gather all the pieces back, and I was forced to break into the library of Miskatonic to recover the last few pieces. Now, as I reflect upon that occasion, I am glad I did.

The piece in the library was the only one with a name stamped upon it.

Northrop-Grumman Industries.

How a machine of today tore the fabric of time to plunge into Cross a full eight decades prior to its creation is a mystery, and it is one I hope to soon solve. I can only wonder what other pieces may have been sent back to us, and how many more might be hiding within the various rooms and safes of the Miskatonic.

I suspect I’ll be paying them a visit tonight, just to see what I might find.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghosts #DuncanBlood #halloween #ghoststories #paranormal


Disaster and Calamity: The Sportsman

Theodore Walsh purchased a large amount of property on the western side of Cross, far from prying eyes and curious neighbors. It was, he let people know, to have enough land on which to raise his prize beagles. For most of Cross, this was neither here nor there.

They simply didn’t care.

Theodore liked to be addressed as Esquire, Master Walsh, or Sir Theodore.

I called him ‘Ted’ because he irritated the hell out of me, and I wanted to return the compliment. There was, as the saying goes, something off about him.

After he spent six years among us, I found out why.

A young Irish boy of seven appeared on my porch one morning. He was thin and disheveled. The child spoke only Gaelic, and he informed me that one of the little people of the wood had taken pity on him and sent the child to me.

I learned that he had been purchased, along with a dozen other Irish children, for the entertainment of Theodore Walsh. Evidently, Mr. Walsh’s preferred hobby was the hunting of children. It was how he trained his hounds.

I asked the child how man others were still alive, and he told me none. He was the sole survivor, and not even the Sportsman knew he had escaped.

With the boy safe in one of my protected rooms and watched over by a familial ghost, I set off for Walsh’s property. I found the man at dinner, his dogs gathered around him, and his small and loyal staff enjoying a celebratory drink with their master.

I spoke with Theodore about the skills of his dogs and asked if I could have a private viewing of them, he readily agreed.

His dogs really were well trained. The beagles ran Walsh and his servants to ground in three days, and the dogs had eaten them by the end of four.

When they were finished, I set the beagles loose in Gods’ Hollow.

I couldn’t bring myself to kill them.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghosts #DuncanBlood #halloween #ghoststories #history

Disaster and Calamity: Water

Anne Lemont was not known for holding her tongue. When she was irate, she let you know what she was upset about, and why.

A decade after the death of her first husband, Anne married Richard Lemont, a man known for his stoic nature. What bargain he struck with Anne prior to their nuptials can only be guessed, but after the wedding, Anne held her tongue when something upset her.

She did this for 29 years until one day she could hold back her anger no longer, and Cross suffered from it.

Wells around town exploded, and geysers of water shot into the air. Houses were damaged, and streets were flooded. Six individuals vanished under the waters, and an untold number of household pets and livestock disappeared as well.

It took two weeks for the waters to recede, and during those two weeks, many people – including Anne and Richard – had to be rescued from their homes.

When the streets were once again dry and all the bodies buried, I paid Anne and Richard a visit. During the time there, I listened to the two of them argue incessantly about whether or not the water was hot enough for tea. When I looked askance at the constant bickering, Richard shrugged.

“Better out than in,” Anne told me, pouring me a cup. “I think we’ve all learned that lesson quite well.”

She was, of course, perfectly correct.

#horror #CrossMassachusetts #monsters #supernatural #skulls #death #fear #evil #horrorobsessed #scary #ghosts #DuncanBlood #halloween #ghoststories #history

February 20, 1873

Do you wonder who’s knocking within the walls of your home? 

In February of 1873, Theodore and Alice Cook were more than curious about the knocking they heard in the parlor’s walls. 

They had purchased the home in January of 1872, and there had been no trouble previous to February 1 of 1873.
On February 20, after 19 days of incessant knocking, Theodore – a normally calm and sedate gentleman – lost his temper and began to tear apart the parlor. He began on the southern wall, tearing the horsehair plaster down in his quest to discover the origin of the noise. 

As he moved from one wall to the next, the sound increased in tempo and volume, until it drowned out the sound of the hammer Theodore used. 

Finally, when he reached the eastern wall, Theodore found the source. 

A small door, hidden beneath the plaster. 

From the opposite side of it came the noise. 

Alice entered the room and stood among the debris with her husband, staring at the door. In silence, she reached forward, took hold of the small doorknob, and opened the door. 

Beyond it, in a narrow room, was a small child who was cheerfully banging blocks and toy animals around.  

The room was windowless, and there was neither food nor drink for the child.  

When he looked at the Cooks, he smiled, laughed, and continued to play. 

They named him Alexander, and he lives in the Cook home still. 

Those few who know his story wonder if he will ever die. Some have even been brazen enough to ask. 

Alexander merely smiles, winks, and replies, “I’ll out live you.” 

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #death #missing #fear #scary #nightmare #newengland #secrets 

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February 18, 1927

Books are doorways to new worlds.

But what if they’re doors which should never be opened?

Mary Sebastian was a precocious and intelligent child of 9 when she received a book titled, A Child’s History of Cross from her Aunt Fiona. Mary’s father found the book to be a strange gift since there wasn’t any sort of book written about Cross.

His sister, with whom he had a poor relationship, had included a note to Mary. Simply put, the note told Mary not to share her book with anyone. Especially not her father or mother.

Mary was devoted to her aunt, and always cherished the presents the woman sent. So, when Aunt Fiona said not to do something, Mary’s parents knew better than to attempt to countermand the woman’s statement.

The following morning, Mary packed the book to share with her class at Cross Elementary, despite her father’s wish that she didn’t.

When Mary arrived at school that morning, February 18, 1927, she called her classmates over and showed them the book. Several of the children let out pleased screams, and one little boy burst into tears before running away.

Concerned, Mary’s teacher went to see what the issue was, and she saw that Mary held a pair of snakes in her hands.

According to Mary, the snakes had come from the interior of the book, where they lived.

When her doubting teacher demanded that she show her, Mary opened the book and placed the two snakes upon a page titled, The Snakes of Cross.

The two reptiles curled around one another to form a ring, and Mary closed the book as though there was nothing in the way.

Shocked, her teacher took hold of the book, opened it to the same page, and saw the snakes printed upon there.

A moment later the teacher screamed as the snakes crawled up and out of the book, curling around Mary’s small hands.

#CrossMassachusetts #fear #scary #death #secrets #murder #writersofinstagram #history #bad

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February 16, 1888

No trespassing.

It is a simple statement and one which generally should be followed.

Duncan Blood has been posting signs bearing those two words around his property for decades.

Yet so many people ignore them.

Or, worse still, they believe that they do not have to follow them. This is the case with the surveyors from the Boston and Maine Railroad, who – despite Duncan’s refusal to allow them access to his land – breached his border regardless of his warnings.

On February 16, 1888, ten men of various ages rode up to Duncan’s property where it abuts Gods’ Hollow. With them, they brought their dog, Rex, and they set about the business of planning a new line to pass through Duncan’s land.

Robert Bly, a photographer, accompanied them for a short distance, and when they reached a curious outcropping of rock, he took their picture. Feeling unwell, Robert returned to his horse and rode to his home in nearby Pepperell.

Several days later, members of the police department called upon Robert to ask him if he knew where the men had gone to following their examination of Duncan Blood’s land. He learned, much to his surprise, that none of the men had returned. The dog had shown up at the Cross police department, his paws soaked with blood. Yet the dog was uninjured.

While some witnesses stated they had seen a group of ten or so men riding away from Gods’ Hollow, none of them had returned to their homes in Boston and the surrounding towns. Nor had the horses been seen again.

Duncan, according to the police, hadn’t known the men were on his property.

Years later, Robert Bly bumped into Duncan in Cross. Robert brought up the subject of the still missing men and mentioned how it was curious that it was only the dog that had ever been found.

“Not really,” Duncan had answered. “I’ve never had the desire to kill a dog.”

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February 15, 1931

Imelda Mae was a brilliant artist.

She was one of the few female artists invited to teach at the Cross branch of Miskatonic University.

Her use of colors and space on her canvases was a wonder to behold. There were times when viewers felt as though they could reach out and touch her subjects, whether those subjects happened to be still-lifes or – her preferred – the portraits of children.

While Imelda was unmarried and childless, she was able to draw upon a deep, maternal vein within herself. From there she painted with a poignancy few could match.

Imelda’s private studio was in an old barn off Northwood Road, a road often traveled, but one that had only a few homes upon it.

At all hours of the day and night, she could be found working in her studio, one canvas or another in the process of being completed. Imelda never minded an interruption, nor did she ever turn away a hungry guest or inquisitive student. She always showed any who asked how she went about preparing her paints and cleaning her brushes, the best way to use light to draw out the subtle nuances of a piece of still life.

Imelda Mae was one of the university’s finest acquisitions in the art department, and she blended in seamlessly with the other staff members.

It was shocking to all, then, that Imelda vanished on February 15th, 1931.

Concerned that she might have injured herself, several of her students hurried over to her home and never recovered from what they witnessed there.

In a room over her studio, they found where Imelda mixed her paints, and what she mixed them with.

Ground bones were in a small mortar and pestle while blood was carefully gathered into sealed containers.

The half-finished portrait of a child stood by her work table. On the floor was a pile of bloody children’s clothes, which matched those upon her painted subject.

On the counter was a small index card which read, Nathan, age 5, taken in Boston.

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