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

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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

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February 23, 1864

The world is far stranger than we think.

On February 23, 1864, at the First Battle of Dalton in Georgia, Sergeant Niles Angel of Cross, Massachusetts was wounded.

He was in the process of rallying his men when he was struck by numerous bullets, the soft, malleable lead tearing through him. When he was first brought to the field surgeon, it was believed that his left arm was the most grievous of his injuries and that he had lost far too much of it for the limb to be saved.

Still, the surgeon did his best. He cut away as much of the meat as he could, stitched it together when he was done and went in search of further injuries.

The surgeon found them.

More importantly, he found a wound that should have negated the good sergeant’s continued existence.

At least one of the bullets, the surgeon saw, had torn through Sergeant Angel’s heart.

The heart was not merely damaged but destroyed.

Most of that muscle was gone, and what remained was little more than shredded tissue.

Yet Sergeant Angel continued to live.

Lived and thrived.

He was sent home to convalesce, where his grievous injury was kept from everyone except his wife.

Following the conclusion of the war and Sergeant Angel’s mustering out, he worked as a porter for the Boston & Maine Railroad and fathered three children with his wife.

Sergeant Angel died at the age of 57 when a horse stove in the side of his head.

His children only learned of their father’s curious history when their mother died 40 years later, and they read her journal.

When they opened the family mausoleum to intern their mother, the children discovered their father’s tomb was empty and had been for some time.

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Where are you with your writing goals?

We’re almost done with the first month of 2019, and I’m curious, did you make a resolution about how much you were going to write this year? And, if you did, how did you break it down? Is it by day? Week? Month?

My own personal goal is to write at least 250 – 500 words a day of my own material. This is on top of the 3,000 – 4,000 I produce as a ghostwriter.

I’m happy to say that thus far, I have managed to achieve my daily goal. Some days I exceed it, but, overall, I’m right in the range that I chose.

It hasn’t been easy.

Not for lack of desire, but because of time constraints.

I work a full-time job on top of my ghost-writing. And I work a part-time job as well. This is in addition to being a husband, father, and a homeowner. Tack on a couple of cars that keep threatening to die and life is extremely busy. The last thing I want to do at 11:30 PM is prep a piece of flash-fiction, but, then again, it really is something I want to do.

I love the feedback that I get, and I’m always thrilled when the posts are shared.

Which brings me back to the initial question: where are you with your writing goals?

I hope you don’t think you’re working on something unachievable because you aren’t. You may have to adjust the number you want to reach or the amount of time that you need, but you can reach your goals.

The biggest hurdle to overcome in writing isn’t time or numbers, it’s our own feelings of inadequacy. When we start to lose focus, when we believe that we can’t do something, we lose the drive to complete the task. When that drive is gone, so too is the belief that we can accomplish what we’ve set out to do.

We don’t feel that we’re up to the challenge.

That’s why we create goals, so we can recognize that we are fully capable of doing what we love.

And what we love is writing.

For me, writing isn’t a choice. It’s a compulsion, and I suspect that it’s much the same for most of you as well. Some of you found it early in life, and you’ve been honing your craft for years. Others found it later, by accident.

Regardless as to how you came to your passion, the fact remains that it’s yours.

So, stick with it. Don’t let go.

And don’t be afraid to adapt your goals to what you need.

Remember, they’re your goals, so keep writing!

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