Appalachian Phantasmagoria

Strange, Old Mountains

I have grown up in the mountains of the Appalachians. A mountain chain so old that it is agreed that the remnants of mountains in the UK are the original start of these mountains back when the world was still a Pangaea. They're time worn and rounded off, unlike the Rockies and many of the other mountain ranges around the world. This lends some mystique. There are large swaths of untouched, unclaimed old growth timber that are older than the country - older than man. There are caves that reach into the depths of the earth deeper than any man would ever want to explore for fear that they'd reach some hellpit, or worse something they would never be able to come out and describe. 

I've digested the lore, sat and listened as my paternal grandmother told the story of the coal camps and how the mountain lions would sit and scream from the tops of the peaks and their howl would echo down the valley. She swore that it wasn't a mountain lion, but a woman crying. She told me about the days of segregation and the xenophobia of facing down a neighbor of a different color than yourself when you'd never experienced that before - but that in time you would learn they're just as human as you or I. The story that probably stick out the most in my head though is something that I later come to learn is a pretty common piece of folklore and this was their version of it. 

When she was young, in little more than rags, looking out of the single window of the single roomed cabin in the coal camp back in the ancient hills they'd see a man with a large white sack walk by. Her stepmother, a hateful woman that she wore was a witch that put a spell on her daddy after her mama died, would spin a dark yarn. She'd say to my grandmother and her multitude of brothers and sisters, "Now y'all better not be out in the yard when the sun starts going down. You see him with the sack? That's the bone man. He comes by and collects what mean little kids that's playing in the yard this late." I saw it in her eyes, being in her late 60's she still feared the bone man. She would describe him. He was gaunt, almost unnaturally skeletal, and dark skinned. He wore rags that hung off him like they'd hang off a hanged man after his body swung and was ate by the crows and buzzards. She said his eyes were milky white and she swore that he was blind, but he walked with no stick and nary any guide. She said he made his rounds daily about the same time every evening and if the kids saw the bone man down the dirt road they'd all rush into the cabin and stare out of the window as he passed.

Now that I am old enough I realize that this is something that ties back into Lovecraft, the weird, and the fear of outsiders. It was generational racism which is honestly scarier than the stories told. My grandmother never traveled much outside of these mountains but she learned quick that those folks with different colored skin were no different than she was. It makes it difficult though, as these things are difficult topics - but the fear of outsiders is a major cornerstone of fiction and culture as a whole. The fear of the unknown, of the unknown actions, of the unknown people have driven people since the dawn of sentience in humans. 

Grotesque God

If you have ever traveled far in the south you will know that there is a major cultural element that permeates every facet of daily life. That is the fear of God. When you are a child you are sat down the taught about God's love, but as you age and you transition from children's Sunday school into full congregational worship you learn that God is a dichotomy. God is also angry, wrathful, and worst of all vengeful. God and the fear of his wrath is the center point of the fire and brimstone style of the old south preachers. Pentecostals are enraptured by the angry and mirth of God, and claim they are filled vessels of the power of a living God. They claim that they are granted powers of precognition and glossolalia, which another member of the congregation is granted the ability to interpret the tongue in which they speak. The services are frightening and powerfully intense. Equal part haunted house, concert, and spoken word performance. It is a spectacle to be hold, and I have beheld it many times.

There is a not-so-secret among these people though. The biblical literalist within the Pentecost movement - those who would seek out serpents to handle, dance in trance-like steps and chant these tongues. Placing their complete faith in God that they shall not come to harm and that He will neuter the snake of its ability to harm a child of God. Some of these men and women take up glasses of various liquids laced heavily with arsenic and paint thinners and drinking heartily as they shake, dance, and chant in a cultish fervor. They often come to harm by these methods. 

There is a surrealist aspect to these rituals and practices once you are one step removed from them. Imagining the wrathful hand of God reaching down into a man's very soul and possessing it and giving them powers for brief glimpses. There is a very cosmic bent to these ritualistic practices, an omnipotent God influencing the subtle interactions of human beings to do his bidding, to worship at his throne, and to dance in cult-like zealotry while drinking toxins and fondling snakes and all manner of venomous creatures. 

That Lonesome Valley

Lordsmouth sits in the midst of an analog to the real life Appalachians. Historically the Appalachians are an exploited territory - with the wealthy northerners coming to remove the coal and natural gas from the hills and valleys of my homeland. They exploited the simple clannish people that had not seen outsiders for the majority of their lives. Lordsmouth has a similar backstory. 

The Elders came from beyond the valley and built their city in the resting place of an ancient being. They dug the ground and built the factories around the more domestic regions of the city. Digging down into vast tunnels and underground rivers, seeking out the raw materials to power their monstrosities. The Elders of Lordsmouth bred and begot children from the wombs of the native peoples. These offspring became the Masters, driving their kin to more and more twisted forms as they work among the bellowing smog and the grotesque organic machines. These machines produce little anymore but provide food and artefacts to the Masters. 

Within the earth was something older than the mechanical Gods of the Elders and the Masters. Only remembered by the oldest and least twisted of the clan-folk. They still pray to the God in the ground and make offerings of flesh and spirit. You'll see the oldest folk missing arms or legs or eyes, and these know what slumbers beneath the city. 

The smog from the bellows and stacks erupt as the clanfolks work the mannish-machines, and the forests weep. The woods beyond the city have decayed and the smell of rot fills the air as trees hang dead, wildlife cannibalize their own, and odd humanoid beings skitter through the rotted undergrowth. Tendrils of horrible metal-plague stretch forth from the factories and wrap the trees with grotesque viscera. Hemogolbual laden slime dripping from open sore-like pores as the tender, soft vines hang from the branches overhead. The smog shrouds the higher reaches of the canopy, and faint screaming can be heard from the ruins. Terrible, wet wails of pain.

The mountains bound and fold along all sides of the city. Some of the saner denizens look up to the sky and wish to see the sun again as thick grey and green smog obscure the sky. The rain is hellfire and demands immediate shelter. It shines a garish red-pink hue and smells of sulfur and burnt hair. Worst of all though is what the wind carries. A carrion smell eternally sits upon the city as the factories work and toil burning flesh, bone, and blood. 

It isn't all bad however. Some outsiders have made their homes here among the leaning and yawning buildings of yore. They've made peace with the Masters and have an understanding. These outsiders fill a vital role for the area. They're the might, if ever it should come to the use of might. For the protection of the city the Masters allow outsiders to set up shop and farms, living among the former squalor that the clanfolk once claimed. There are loose governmental structures and there is a council that oversees the movement of outsiders. Most outsiders never leave, and the only ones that do leave only do so to kill themselves among the rotten spines of the deadwood in the forests surrounding the city. 

Lordsmouth is a wholly unwelcoming place, but it could be a home - or at least a base camp for now.