Introduction

The spirit of the wood tracks Bazzel’s family like a debt. Demons hunt his blood like a hound. All for a deal that his grandpap made 60 years ago. Bazzel's grandfather, Crick, was a good and honest man. He came from Ireland in 1780. He landed in a port in Boston with a lust to find land, land untouched, land promising. His attention was immediately drawn to the new land of the mountains. The mountains way out to the west are treacherous and frighten people who even glance by.. You see, he wanted to start a life for his growing family, and if there was land cheap and untouched with little human contact, he had his mind set on grabbing it. His wife, Malvina, was with child, and a child needs land to wander and grow on. Issues that may seem minute, but never are in the moment. The land Crick was interested in was far out of what he could afford; so far out, in fact, that when he asked for a loan from the bank, they laughed him out of the building. 

The land was perfect, though it had a creek for cattle and man to drink from a like, the land is fertile and well irrigated, it truly was perfect for all of his desires. 

1

Crick steps from the bank with a sense of shame a man should never feel. His ego had been poked and prodded to the point of bruising. So what if it was out of his price range? The land he was going to buy with it would pay the loan back tenfold. Sadly, that doesn’t go over well when it comes to collateral. He grumbles something awful, a worker's joints never getting rest. He climbs the wagon's steps and sits down with a grunt. Malvina, bless her heart, looks over at him with a storm of worry that never seems to tamper down. He ignores the look; he’s seen it before, and it never works out for him as he would like. Emotions always get aired out when he tries his darndest to keep them hidden. He snaps the reins, urging the horses to go. He maintains the silence, the road drawing his attention more than it should. “How’d it go?” she asks, her voice meek with exhaustion. 

“Went as expected.” He gives a crooked smile that can be seen as self-righteous. Yet, in all truth, the man's stomach was so deep in his body he could feel it in his feet as the wagons rolled over the rocky road. He knows she's looking at him with an expression that can be described as concern, yet somehow filled with stern annoyance. “Maybe a bit worse than what I’d hope for us.” He coincides. “Well… what did they say?” Malvinas' tone is filled with respect and a sense of protection. “Said we were too poor to even try for a loan.” He ain’t gonna tell her about the way he got laughed out. She’d get all worked up, and she doesn’t need all that, not when she is still with child. Silence follows them like a passenger uninvited. He focuses on the dirt road, calculating where to go. A hand rests on his shoulder, soft like a breath, but steady enough to be real. He glances over to his wife's prying eyes and can tell a plan is forming under her ivy green eyes. “Spit it out,” His tone is gruffer than he intended, but he isn’t a man of apologies, so his regret goes unsaid. “Just… do they survey the land often?” A sense of dubious nature can be heard in his voice, and 

it piques Crick's interest. “How do you mean?’ He knows his wife, but he can’t pin down her meaning. “Just- if they don’t look at the land, how would they see its inhabitants?” and with that sentence, he knows exactly what his wife means. And to be honest, he doesn’t hate the idea. He ain’t above breaking a few laws. He nods once and redirects the wagon. He heads west, to the mountains that are calling the O’Locks name.

2

The woods are loud, birds sing their songs of joy and melancholy, squirrels chatter in a language that man forgot, and the wind carries messages that only those who listen can hear. Crick urges his horses on, the trail ahead of them only getting steeper. He knows that they need a break, and a break they will get when they get to the top of the mountain. Stopping on the slope is out of the question. Not only would it leave them vulnerable to any sort of stalking predator, but it would risk Malivna to a tumble. Unable to bear that thought, Crick pushes the horses onwards. The only way they would be able to rest is when and if they reach the land. The ride is long and not very comfortable. He can hear his wife's sounds of discomfort and longs to fix it, but he knows he can’t without stopping. He ignores his wife's sad ballad and snaps the reins. They have to be getting close; their ride has taken them past sun high,  when they should’ve been there 

by early morning. He sighs in frustration and wipes his face to remove the sweat that floods his eyes. When he looks back up to the road, he sees an empty patch of forest that opens up into the most beautiful pasture he’s ever seen. The river glistens with a light that must be sourced from the stars, flowers dot the green like pearls on a woman's neck, and bugs fly like birds along land they own. He gasps for air, not realizing that he hadn’t been breathing the entire time of his viewing. He looks over to his wife to see her gawking stare, and finally, smiles. He’s… happy. He’s supplying his family with something to their name. Sure, it most likely ain’t allowed, but that don’t matter.  The land is nice, firm, and filled with the stuff that makes plants grow. Crick’s trying to figure out a name for the ranch, but a good name is hard to come by. Right now, the name that is getting the most traction between Crick and Malvina is Crickets Chrip, which seems fitting due to the family name that’s been passed down for a few generations now. Plus, a friendly name like that will draw in customers who will buy products. Two dairy cows are on their way to the land as they sit and ponder over the naming of the plot of land, wheat seeds, carrot seeds, and tobacco are all on their way to an address that has been beautifully manufactured by his Malvina. 

Looks like an official stamp had even blessed the check they gave the bank for the plot of land. So what if it’s a little lie, with the success they will have, it won’t matter; they could pay for the land ten times over. The weeds are getting pulled, and an old song is swimming through the air, emerging from the mouth of his honey-filled Malvina. The song is sweet and beautiful, drawing in birds and bugs that flock around her. The weeds are thick and are taking over the prairie that surrounds a towering oak tree. It seems dead, hollow, based on Crick’s knocking investigation. The plan is to cut it down early the next morning. Today, in its ever-long entirety, is spent on freeing the earth of grasses and shrubs. Vermin run over his feet like bison fleeing from the trains, just… less destructive and more docile. Bales are stacked on the side of the field, set for a bonfire later to warm the campsite until the cabin has finished its construction. The frame is barely laid out, a simple thing. It consists of 3 rooms: a main room that consists of a fireplace and a kitchen, the master bedroom, and a room that is made for the future child. An out house is laid out about 20 feet away from the porch, a brisk walk for the wintertime, yet far enough for the smell not to reach the living area. The base frame is made out of salted pine, treated to withstand almost any sort of weather condition, of course, not a tornado, but rain or shine, this baby will stand strong. So 

far, they have baled up eight bales that are about the same height as Crick, and about as heavy as a bull in the wintertime. 

3

    Malvina is sitting on the upside-down tin bucket and cooking a trout that Crick caught in a trap the night before. Looking over towards his doting partner, he drops the scythe onto the ground and walks over, wiping the sweat from his brow. He sits on a log opposite his wife, and doesn’t say anything except a grunt that can be deemed as an uncomfortable “Umph”. Malvina looks over at him with a soft smile, thoughts wandering behind her forest-filled eyes. He notices it, but not wanting to bear a piece of soul so soon after the last time he did so, he keeps quiet and stares at the dancing flames. Eventually, though, she speaks up, her voice clear, “How’s the field going?” Crick knows it ain’t the field she's asking about, but he’s gonna treat it as such. “It’s goin’ alright, got about an entire pasture more to do,” his tone is tired and sad. He’s unsure as to whether or not this was a good idea. 

How is he supposed to do all this? How is he supposed to clear the field, build a house, a barn, fence a pasture, and clear that god forsaken oak before the end of winter? He could always hire somebody, but how is he, a poor man from the sticks of Ireland, supposed to pay for a crew to help him build an entire ranch in five months? The cabin is his priority; a home and a place to stay are the thing that needs to be done by the end of the season. Crick stretches his arms, a day's ache living in his bones and muscles. The sizzling smell of trout wafts through the breeze, rich and salty, mingling with the scent of salted pine and smoke. A fleeting moment runs through his brain, of the small rocky cottage where he was born, where his mother used to fry fish in a pan over the fireplace. He looks back and thinks about whether or not his family would approve of what he’s doing and how he’s living. A squatter who is staying on land that doesn’t belong to anyone. That thought flees quickly, though; he ain’t stealin from anyone, he’s surviving in a way that’s better for his family. 

When the trout finishes and gets a little blackened around the edges, Malvina takes it off the pan and sets it out on a tree stump next to her. She flays the skin from the meat and sets the freshly cooked meat on the plates next to her makeshift cutting board. She hands the plate to Crick; it’s decorated with potatoes that they bought from the general store before they left on their special road trip. Malvina clears her throat, “You think this place will keep us?” Crick tilts his head in thought, scratches his chin, and grunts before speaking, “Aye, I think it will keep us as long as we manage our time and how we spend it”. His tone isn’t the warmest or most inviting, but his wife knows it’s not directed; it’s just frustration and fear bursting through the seams.

    He can tell, though, she ain’t listening to him. She’s listening to the rhythm and the hum of the woods. The beat of the woodpecker, the whistle of the bluebird, and the melody of the eastern elk. The forest has its own heartbeat here, something that is comforting yet… unsettling. 

3

    It’s something old, something angry. The air is crackling with the energy that this thing is producing. He takes a look at it, and it… it looks like a deer, just wrong. The antlers are glowing with an energy that looks like old vines overtaking an abadnomed building. Its fur and form aren’t really fur, nor is it a form. It’s comprised of smoky shadows that billow from an unknown core within the creature's chest. It doesn’t hold a proper shape, and yet it is so definitely there that you can see it with your eyes closed. Crick thinks that he died; he’s had to have died. There is no other way a living mortal would see a horrifying creature during the day.  He scoots back with his hands pulling his weight, his eyes never leaving the changing form. When he moves away, though, the not deer steps forward with a thundering hoof stomp that causes the earth to quake beneath Crick's body. 

“W-what are ya? What do ya want?” Crick spits out, to his own surprise. The not deer takes a breath that gives life to the dead grass with its exhale. It opens its mouth, and not to Crick’s unfortunate surprise, it speaks the human tongue, “I am a being older than your time, a life bigger and greater than a 1000 of you put together. That is what I am.” Crick tries not to snort at the creature's cryptic message. How is one thing better than 1000 humans, the smartest thing on this god-forsaken planet? He doesn’t voice his rude thoughts, however, as he values his life a bit too much. Instead, a much nicer and polite question, at least, somewhat polite, emerges from his tongue, “What is you-your name?” The spirit that is worth 1000humans takes a breath, and Crick can feel his hair being pulled into the creature's nostrils.  It responds with a word that Crick can’t pronounce, it’s something ancient, something before words were even a thought. It sounds like the buzzing of bees and the rush of water, and something Crick won't even bother to try and say. Instead, Spirit settles nicer onto his tongue, and so therefore, that is what this 

being is deemed. Spirit. Crick stares at the spirit with a disdain that is reserved for things that are annoyingly unknown, and good for Crick, Spirit falls into that category. A mutter comes from his throat and emerges through his lips, “What is it that you want? What conjured you?” His tone is falsely fortified and weakly stable, so it more so comes out as a plea for knowledge than a demand. The Spirit chuckles deep in its chest, an echoing bellow that sounds like a mudslide with every breath. Unsure of what is funny to the entity, Crick looks around for the jest, when it is unfound, he realizes that he himself is the jester. Upset, he shouts, “Tell me!” The Spirit stops laughing and locks its fire-bright eyes onto the man's face, “I am here because you deemed yourself a worthy remover of all things sacred”.

The Spirit jerks its head back towards the tree, which, in the different light, the branches now look like antlers growing up towards the heavens. “That is a sight holy for centuries, longer than you have been in this land; so what makes you, a man, worthy of destroying a site that's been praised by species far greater than yours?” And to that, Crick doesn’t have a reply to give the Spirit. It is not like he knew that this old, rotted tree was a site worth worshiping. He stutters, his words caught between his teeth. Before he can unjam them, however, the Spirit snorts out in a tone that can only be deemed as wholly mad, “And why is the grass around this tree, the pews, in your mind, why is it gone from the site where they wereplanted?” Again, Crick has no logical answer, but he’s got to come up with one, and something better come quick. “I-I- I thought this was abandoned land! No sign was given to warn settlers  against that land that is yours!” It hurts his ego to submit to the Spirit, but a feeling has begun to rise within him; if he does not praise and worship this being, the world as he knows will be distorted and captures in a weird light.  

The Spirit huffs again, but this time, it’s not anger, it's… pleased with the submission. “You did not know”, its voice is quiet and simple, yet filled with a demand for an answer. Crick throws himself on his saving grace that was given to him. “Yes! I did not know! No one warned me to watch out for this land within your absence!” 

     A snort leaves the beast's throat, tired and sick of the humans' games. The thunderous sound rumbles through the air like a storm echoing through the holler, heavy with melancholy rain and judgment. Crick’s knees fail to support his body anymore, sinking into the soil that  faintly feels like it maintains a weak heartbeat. The Spirit’s antlers glow with a light unknown to an, twisting like the ivy that grows in search of light and rain. “You tread on ground hallowed, man of greed and machine,” it says, its voice maintaining  

layers that Crick can't comprehend;  part whisper, part roar, part roar through the bones of the forested trees, “What is taken in ignorance still must be paid in blood.”  Crick is speechless for… well he don’t know how long he sits there, looking at the creature. His lips shake, his lungs turn to stone, refusing to work. Finally, a croak works its way up his throat, the useless thing; his words sound pleading and pathetic. “Please,” he mutters beneath his breath; He ain’t worried about the creature not hearing him, he has a feeling it can read his very thoughts, “I-I didn’t mean no harm! I just needed somethin to own and call my own, give my family a place to know solace!” With the man’s pathetic and weak pleas, the Spirit tilts its head, and though eyes are not apparent on his frame, Crick feels seen in a way that tingles like lightning.

    “The roots of this church run deeper than your kind’s will ever settle,” it mutters defeaningly. “You till where you should pray. You cut what remembers more worship than you’ll ever speak.” 

    Crick’s breath comes out in a ragged way, his hands digging into the earth beneath him. “If- if I’d known, Jesus, if I’d known - I wouldn’t have touched a thing!!” 

    The Spirit now turns bitter in his tone, as a laugh seeps from his changing frame like vinegar. “You name your God and yet step on the ground He has hallowed, as if you own it. Humans speak of heaven often, the wind tells me, but you burn your Eden into charcoal.” The smoke plumes flare higher, the scent of sulfur and sap flooding the clearing. “You want to live on this hallowed land? Then live with what you’ve woken.” 

    Crick opens his mouth to ask the shadow what he meant, but the Spirit is quicker. It rears back, the glowing antlers scratching the clouds, and drives a hoof into the ground. The earth shudders and gorans, and the oak behind the Spirit bursts with light, green and gold and white, hot all at once. From within the hollow trunk, a sound clobbers forth. Not a scream. Not a roar. A wail, long and deep, like grief herself had found a tongue