Blood Spirits of the Smokies
December, 2024
Stratton County ain't just a place on a map, a line on a page, or even a parcel to be claimed. It's the festering wound of the corpse of the highest and oldest of the rocky spine of the planet, once rising above the clouds that, out of respect for what these hills used to be, have since settled down around the eroded bases in immense blueish fogbanks that gave the Blue Ridge and Smokey Mountains their name in the modern tongues—Shakohoney in older, but still juvenile languages compared to what they were attempting to describe. Everywhere around, them clouds, both seen and not, press on the collective chest and throats of the communities that inhabit the valleys, hiding secrets that no living soul is meant to see or know.
Talk's been floatin' for the last few years 'round the hollers and ridges, whispers of somethin' dark and human-like, stalkin' and huntin' 'round the ancient campgrounds of Paint Rock, home to the magnificent five-millennia-old murals of the natives of the time. Their reason and meaning have been lost to the ages—least until yon rocks learn to talk and are willing to tell. On the other side of Deep Springs, rumors of formless voices and ear-itchin' whispers drive folks up the trail to Lover's Leap, talkin' them into takin' that final step into oblivion. Down in the Sandymush, there's talk of burnt cloven prints stamped into the ground, like Ol' Scratch himself come to dance on the bones of the small communities caught in the crossfire of these supernatural forces. It's like somethin' is trapped in these hills but has worked loose, like a dog on a line, just enough to tug, strain, and gnaw at its restraints, which ain't likely to bode well for those scratchin' out a livin' on the slopes of the valleys.
But it ain’t just the old spirits and haints you gotta worry ‘bout. No, there’s somethin’ else movin’ in these hills—somethin’ as human as you or me, but with a heart as cold as the stones these hills are made from. A bunch of zealots from over in Revel, stirrin’ up a heap of trouble, lookin’ to lay punishment on anyone they reckon’s been messin’ with things best left alone. They ain’t the type to ask questions, neither—just the sort to use the rod to its fullest extent, then pray for forgiveness later, after beatin' anyone into line that might cross their path under the righteous face of help.
As the locals would say, don’t look into the trees, lest you find what you seek—and madness takes you."
Talk's been floatin' for the last few years 'round the hollers and ridges, whispers of somethin' dark and human-like, stalkin' and huntin' 'round the ancient campgrounds of Paint Rock, home to the magnificent five-millennia-old murals of the natives of the time. Their reason and meaning have been lost to the ages—least until yon rocks learn to talk and are willing to tell. On the other side of Deep Springs, rumors of formless voices and ear-itchin' whispers drive folks up the trail to Lover's Leap, talkin' them into takin' that final step into oblivion. Down in the Sandymush, there's talk of burnt cloven prints stamped into the ground, like Ol' Scratch himself come to dance on the bones of the small communities caught in the crossfire of these supernatural forces. It's like somethin' is trapped in these hills but has worked loose, like a dog on a line, just enough to tug, strain, and gnaw at its restraints, which ain't likely to bode well for those scratchin' out a livin' on the slopes of the valleys.
But it ain’t just the old spirits and haints you gotta worry ‘bout. No, there’s somethin’ else movin’ in these hills—somethin’ as human as you or me, but with a heart as cold as the stones these hills are made from. A bunch of zealots from over in Revel, stirrin’ up a heap of trouble, lookin’ to lay punishment on anyone they reckon’s been messin’ with things best left alone. They ain’t the type to ask questions, neither—just the sort to use the rod to its fullest extent, then pray for forgiveness later, after beatin' anyone into line that might cross their path under the righteous face of help.
As the locals would say, don’t look into the trees, lest you find what you seek—and madness takes you."