March 29, 1971

Meredith Baxter was a happy woman who died a happy death.

At the age of 87, Meredith passed away while cleaning her yard up on a warm and pleasant day in 1934. Her home, an elegant Victorian, was paid in full, and the taxes were paid annually from a trust, as were her other bills.

Meredith’s death went unnoticed due to her lack of social engagements, her generally rectitude regarding others, and the high walls that surrounded her solitary property.

Not until 1957 was her death discovered, and that was purely by accident. A young boy, chasing after his baseball, stumbled upon the woman’s skull.

The town eventually sold her property to pay for back taxes, and the home was purchased by a couple from Boston.

The young husband and wife didn’t report any instances that were out of the ordinary until after they began to tear out the garden.

Later that night, they heard the plaster crack in the spare bedroom, and when they went to investigate, they discovered a small vine had pushed itself through a previously unseen crack.

The following morning, March 29, 1971, they tore out the rest of the garden before going to the spare bedroom to remove the remainder of the vine.

As they entered the room, they saw that the vine had grown and that it was continuing to grow as they watched it.

The tendrils chased the couple out of the room, and later, as they talked about what steps to take next, the plant hounded them from the house.

The vines have spread through the building, and over the years they have replanted the garden.

Cross no longer seeks taxes for the property.

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March 23, 1927

We are not at the top of the food chain.

There are times when this fact is driven home with brutal clarity to the people of Cross.

On March 23, 1927, Dan and Zeke Rawlins vanished while traveling along Gordon Road with a load of lumber. The men were old hands at transporting goods in the snow, and they kept dogs for the purpose of pulling sleds.

When the men left their home, their destination was Duncan Blood’s farm. Duncan had hired the brothers to build him a new shed for the storing of apples.

When the men still hadn’t arrived by the following morning, Duncan and several others started a search, and they found what they believed to be the remains of the Rawlins brothers and their dogs.

Sled tracks from Gordon Road and into Gods’ Hollow led the search party down a short embankment and the blackened remnants of a large fire.

Bones, both human and dog, were scattered about the fire. Many of them were charred; all were broken with the marrow sucked out. Bloody tack and harness, boots and clothes, were tossed into a single pile, and the air around the ashes of the fire stank of something far fouler than any other than Duncan could recall.

The snow was churned and fire, the men realized, had been made from the lumber meant for Duncan.

Curious tracks, which looked as though they were made by giant, three-toed feet, led away from the remains.

Some of those gathered wanted to follow the tracks into the wilds of Gods’ Hollow.

Duncan convinced them with a single sentence.

“Do you want to be tonight’s dinner?”

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March 22, 1899

Ellie Woods loved cats.

At the tender age of five, she was introduced to her first kitten at a neighbor’s house. While she begged and pleaded with her father for a cat of her own, her father would have none of it.

After several weeks, Ellie managed to gain permission from her mother to feed a stray cat. She did this by placing a saucer with milk in the kitchen.

Each day, Ellie would feed the cat.

Soon, the cat was accompanied by a second feline, so Ellie put a dish out for that cat as well.

By the end of February, she had eleven cats coming on a daily basis.

Her mother referred to this as Ellie’s Kitten Parties, and all the mothers in the neighborhood remarked what a wonderfully sweet child she was. Soon, Ellie’s mother and the other women were beseeching Ellie’s father to allow her a cat.

Still, the man refused.

Ellie, he insisted, would not be responsible enough.

On March 22, 1899, as Ellie’s mother and father sat in the parlor, entertaining guests, an ungodly scream tore through the house.

The adults raced toward the sound, which had issued from the kitchen, and there they found Ellie Woods.

Tears of frustration fell from her eyes and saucers were knocked askew, the milk spilled across the floorboards. In her small hands, she held the lifeless body of a large, orange tom cat. Blood splattered her mouth and stained her teeth.

Mr. Woods shook his head, gently removed the cat from her hands and set it on the floor. Then, with surprising tenderness, he picked his daughter up and whispered, “I know. They don’t taste nearly as good as they look.”

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March 8, 1946

The image of a mistake.

In the library of the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University, there is the Lovecraft Room. It is a small study room, and it has remained unchanged for over seventy years.

On the morning of March 8, 1946, nine students and their professor, entered the room at 8:15. They were learning ancient Arabic, specifically dialects from those regions along the Iraq and Iran border. In an effort to help them gain a better appreciation of the language they were studying, their professor, Dr. Curtis A. Lawson, retrieved a previously unused Arabic text from a nearby locked cabinet.

To ensure that he would not be interrupted, Dr. Lawson closed the door to the room.

What happened next is merely conjecture.

While witnesses stated that they heard him reading aloud in a foreign language, it quickly stopped. A short time later, one of the staff members went to go and check on the room and found the door to be slightly ajar.

The class was perfectly still, students and Dr. Lawson frozen in various positions. Dr. Lawson’s hands were open as if he had been holding the book. His students had been writing down notes or observing their professor as he read to them.

But none of those in the room moved. There was not the slightest hint of breath or the faintest sign of life.

Yet they were not dead.

The flow of time had been stopped.

Nothing in the room could be moved, not the smallest bit of dust would budge.

It has been surmised that the book, of which no information remained, was responsible, and that when Dr. Lawson read from it, he enabled some spell.

As to who might have taken the book, no one knows.

But should you travel to the library, and ask to see the Lovecraft Room, you will bear witness to a moment frozen in time.

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March 7, 1846

How open are you to the strange and the curious?

Cross, by its very nature, is a town that is not afraid of those things which are out of the ordinary.

Perhaps the finest example of this in the town’s long and bizarre history is that of Alpheus K. Blood, the adopted brother of Duncan Blood.

Alpheus entered the history of Cross in 1763, helping the town to weather a particularly rough winter. He saved several families from starvation and hypothermia by traveling through bitter temperatures and near-blinding storms to bring food and firewood. Both he and Duncan worked tirelessly, and when all was said and done, the young Alpheus was adopted into the Blood family, taking their name as his own.

Alpheus was a quiet individual, one who kept to himself except for in times of great need. When those times came, he served without ever having to be asked.

During the French and Indian Wars, he helped to defend the town from the raiding enemy. He did the same again when the war with Britain broke out in both 1776 and 1812. Whenever the enemy attacked, regardless as to who they were, Alpheus would be in the thick of the fighting, encouraging and leading by example.

As a token of thanks, the town paid to have his portrait taken on March 7, 1846.

To this day, Alpheus K. Blood’s portrait hangs in the town hall, a bronze plaque commemorating his service and selflessness.

People believe that something has happened to the photograph, that somehow, the portrait has turned green with age. Few understand that the background was tinted to match Alpheus’ flesh, that he was a magnificent goblin, and what a benefit it was when he ate the enemy’s dead.

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March 6, 1952

There are experiences that will break a man.

Had Peter Tatum ever considered the idea of a man breaking, he wouldn’t have thought of himself as a candidate. Nor would any who knew him.

Peter was a hard man.

He had served in the French Foreign Legion before, during, and after the First World War. He was familiar with suffering, and with grief. Peter had seen his friends killed, and killed some of them as well, though he told few people about those parts of his life.

When he returned to Cross in the early 1920s, Peter settled in on the family farm and took up those responsibilities he had fled from as a young man. By 1952, Peter was a staple in the fabric of Cross society, and among his friends, he counted the venerable and stoic Duncan Blood.

On March 6, 1952, a hard wind came down from the north and tore through some of the older stretches of Peter’s land. Trees older than Peter were snapped at their bases, and he decided that they would need to be cleared away.

Duncan advised against it. He told Peter to leave the trees where they lay.

Peter did not.

He trimmed the limbs off and cut the trunks down to manageable sizes, hitching a team to them and dragging them back to his barn to be cut.

Peter set to work as soon as he could, and within half an hour, as the blade cut through the wood, a dark spray of blood exploded into the cold winter air.

As the steaming fluid struck the snow, Peter jerked the saw free, the thick trunk snapping as he did so.

What he found was a human corpse, still warm, nestled within the heart of the tree.

Peter was found sitting in the cold blood, the body before him as he repeated in a hushed whisper a single line.

“I should have listened.”

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March 5, 1924

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Rose MacCrae put truth to those words in 1924 when she took the position of cook for Daniel Sawyer and his wife, Emily.

Rose and Daniel had grown up together in Cross, and together they had gone through all their schooling. Her affection for Daniel was made apparent in the second grade, and it never dulled. Yet Daniel never returned her affection, though he often toyed with her, and it is rumored that he had done more than that.

In 1908, Daniel moved from Cross to Boston for a short time, and it was there that he met his future bride. Emily was all those things that Rose was not: elegant, cultured, and well-connected. In 1924, the Sawyers moved back to Cross, and Daniel hired Rose as a cook not only on the merits of her abilities but out of a sense of superiority.

On February 2nd, 1924, Emily Sawyer failed to return home from a shopping trip to Boston, and rumor stated that she had run off with an old friend of Daniel’s.

Daniel was heartbroken at the loss of his wife, and it is to Rose’s credit that she did not prey upon the man in his weakened emotional state.

Instead, she did what she was hired to do, she cooked.

Rose was the very devil in the kitchen, baking, and canning and producing magnificent feasts. While Daniel hardly touched the meals, he still partook of them, if only to ensure his continued existence should his beloved return.

On March 5, 1924, Daniel awoke and was surprised to find that there was no breakfast on the table when he descended. Nor was Rose in the kitchen. A beautiful pastry box was set on the kitchen counter and attached to it was a note.

“You can cook the rest yourself.”

Confused, Daniel opened the box, and found Emily’s severed head within, her heart stuffed in her open mouth.

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