Duncan Blood, Journal for 1911: The Clurachan

There are times when the world of the Fey has interjected itself painfully into our own. Deaths have occurred, firstborn sons have been snatched, and death has run rampant.

June 12 was not one of those occasions.

A Clurachan arrived in Cross sometime shortly after midnight, though I am not really certain as to how or why. Perhaps it heard of the shipment of whiskey. Maybe it was truly a lucky creature.

Regardless as to the how or why, the Clurachan discovered the large shipment of whiskey, and – true to all its kind – fell upon the liquor with great alacrity.

Within the space of six hours, the damned thing drank over $150,000 dollars-worth of whiskey. No mean feat for any creature, let alone one the size of a toddler.

While the shipping company complained greatly about the damage to their reputation – and bars and hotels around the Boston area were distraught – I have to say it was not done without a sense of humor by the Clurachan.

He left behind a note, written in beautiful Gaelic, about the fine aftertaste of the whiskey and the generally pleasant atmosphere of Cross.

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

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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.

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

April 15, 1930

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.

 

April 15, 1930.

I remember the truck, although I do not remember it being for sale when last it passed through Cross.

Today, I came upon a wide field in Gods’ Hollow. A field crisscrossed with barbed-wire and occupied by the abandoned truck. I approached the vehicle cautiously, unsure as to what, if anything, I might find within it.

At first, when I peered in through the windows, I didn’t believe there was anything there. I saw old religious literature, a makeshift bed, and a suitcase. The smell of old cinnamon wafted out from the open windows, the odor informing me that there were remains within. I stared hard at the bedding and saw a desiccated hand exposed. The skin was tanned, weathered, and clinging to the bones, outlining each of them.

As I peered in, the wind shifted, carrying my scent into the vehicle. When it did so, the fingers on the hand twitched. The shape beneath the blankets rustled.

I left the truck burning in the early afternoon light, the harsh screams of the unknown beast rising with the smoke to the clear April sky.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

April 13, 1930

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.

 

April 13, 1930.

Gods’ Hollow is a peculiar place. It has stolen from the past, the present, and the future. Within its malleable boundaries are people and creatures from this world and others, as well as some I know not where to place.

I came upon such a one this morning when I caught a peculiar scent. It was reminiscent of pork cooked over hickory, and of spices both sweet and bitter. I followed the odor to a small rise, where I found the source.

A man, who spoke a dialect I had not heard in well over two hundred years, crouched in a small shack. Near him, the remains of a hickory fire smoldered, the coals hot and cooling slowly. On a rack above the coals was a body tied tightly in a fetal position. The body, the man explained to me, was that of his father, and he was curing it.

I did not ask the reason why, for that was of no concern to me. It was the man’s business, how he wanted to dispose of his father’s corpse, but the stranger was a chatty fellow, and he gladly told me why.

The smoke served two purposes. The first was to make certain his father could find his way to the next world. For a year, the man would cure his father. On the anniversary of his father’s passing, the man would bring the body home and celebrate by dining upon the hickory flavored flesh.

I bade the stranger farewell, and I hope he enjoys his repast.

I myself have never had a taste for hickory.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

April 7, 1930

From the Gods’ Hollow journal of Duncan Blood.

 

April 7, 1930.

I came upon the ruins shortly after sunrise. A chill emanated from them and set my teeth to chattering.

I knew the sensation from old when the sepulchers would open in Old Cross Cemetery and spew forth the dead.

My Colts were cleaned and loaded, but I would have no need for them.

Someone had come before me and dispatched the dead with a firm, unyielding hand.

I found the bodies within the ruins, each corpse trussed up and hanged by the neck from the cornices of Corinthian pillars.

Men and women, children and dogs, all long dead and recently destroyed. Their heads were smashed and what little remained of their brains dripped in a nauseating rhythm to the mossy stones beneath their feet.

In the end, I counted forty-seven bodies, and when I reached the last – the corpse of a middle-aged woman with sickly yellow hair – I found a note.

Destroyed this day, April 6, 1930. Duncan Blood.

I did not know whether to be comforted or frightened by the knowledge that another version of myself was wandering Gods’ Hollow.

I put the question from my mind and made certain my pistols were loaded.

The weapons stayed in my hands.

I know how fast I am.

#CrossMassachusetts #horror #house #nightmare #fear #alternatereality #supernatural #scary #skull #gods

March 15, 1908

He dreamt us into existence.

On March 15, 1908, he walked down the North Road from the direction of Gods’ Hollow. Witnesses saw him moving at a steady pace, a gentle smile on his painted features, the dead hawk upon his head nodding regally with every step the stranger took.

By the time the man reached downtown Cross, he was not alone.

Several young boys had seen him, and they had rushed from their homes to follow the stranger.

He smiled at them, patted them on their heads, and spoke in a language no one understood.

No one except for Duncan Blood.

Duncan met the stranger on the street, and they exchanged words for several minutes before they both let out pleased laughs. Together, they sat down on the sidewalk and spoke for hours. Food and drink were brought to them, and a fire was built close by. Finally, the men stood up, and the stranger left the way he had entered the town, trailed by children.

When asked, Duncan explained how the man’s name was Dreamer, and he traveled the lanes between reality and imagination, sometimes drifting into worlds that were not his own.

The Dreamer had known of men such as those in Cross: pale and strangely dressed. But none had survived the winters in his world, and often he dreamt of what might have happened if such people had not died beneath the snow.

“He dreamed us into existence,” Duncan said. “Each and every one of us, all our pasts and those of our loved ones.

Those around him laughed, finding Duncan’s statement funny.

Duncan smiled and asked softly, “Who is to say that he did not?”

#CrossMassachusetts #fear #scary #death #dreams #murder #writersofinstagram #NativeAmerican #nightmare #horror

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March 13, 1922

She’s trapped in a dream.

Maggie Brooklyn moved into a small room in Cross in 1915 and found a job with the Boston & Maine Railroad as one of their few, female guards.

She was a quiet woman, and little was known of her. When she spoke, it was with a distinct German accent and when asked she informed people that she was from Switzerland. She would never elaborate.

In 1917, Maggie received several books from Germany, which she read constantly. One of them contained a theory of time travel from a young scientist, a theory illustrated with an analogy which employed a train.

Maggie became obsessed with the idea that she could travel backward in time via the trains she worked on.

She became focused on work, isolating herself from any sort of social events as she gathered money and what she called her equipment: bits and pieces of wireless sets and radios; broken electric lamps and curious bits of steel. Finally, on March 13, 1922, with the help of a friend, she dragged a tremendous steamer trunk to the platform of the Cross train station.

For nearly an hour, she set up her machine, a strange, almost brutal looking contraption. In the center of it there was an opening, along the bottom of which was a web-work of copper and silver wire, interwoven with the occasional strand of gold. From this webbing a single cable of the braided metal stretched out to the tracks, crossing both sets.

When she finished, Maggie stood alone on the web-work, grinning furiously.

As the morning train from Boston rushed toward the station, Maggie cried out joyously, titled her head back, and waited.

Moments later, the train passed over the braids, and Maggie and her device vanished.

Each day, at 9:17 in the morning, the lights in the station flicker, and Maggie can be seen screaming on the platform, if only for the briefest of moments.

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

Help Support Cross, Massachusetts!

Hello! I hope you enjoyed this post. If you did, please consider putting a dollar in the pot. 🙂 Every little bit helps, and each dollar allows me to spend more time creating posts and stories for you to read. Thank you for your support!

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