Campfire Cults and Creeping Fog: The Forest Wants You Dead

I went for a walk to clear my head.

I know. Hilarious.

Two miles past the bridge out of Savage Coast, there’s a barely-marked trail that slinks uphill into forest that isn’t on most maps. No trail markers. No signs. Just an opening in the trees and that little voice in your brain that says, “Go on. It’ll be fine.”

It was not fine.

I found the campfire around dusk — burned down to embers, still warm. Four stumps circled around it. No people. Just silence and the smell of old smoke.
There were bones nearby. Clean, arranged. Not animal bones.

They’d drawn something in the dirt. A ring of strange sigils with a five-sided shape in the centre. Some kind of rune that seemed to shift when I looked at it too long. I stepped back. I’m not stupid.

But the fog had come in. Thick, cold, fast. And that’s when I heard the voice.

It wasn’t behind me.
It was… under me.

I started walking back. I didn’t run — you don’t run in fog like that. You’ll turn around and the trees will be wrong.

I passed the fire again. It was cold. Ash scattered.
Like I’d imagined it. But my boots were still warm.

If you’re hiking near Blue Mountain, and you see a broken sign with a red handprint — turn back. I didn't, and I’ve had headaches ever since.
Not normal ones. I mean ones where I hear footsteps when I blink.

I don’t think they’re cultists out there.
I think they’re something older.

And I think they miss the fire.

Stay cautious,
— Jenna 🔥
keep feeding

The Ground Moves Here: Blue Mountain and the Thing in the Quarry

 I’ve had dreams about falling lately. Not from anything — just falling, into a place that doesn’t want me.

No end. No bottom. Just weightlessness and static.
The kind of dream where you wake up sweating and convinced your floor moved a few inches while you slept.

Which brings me to Blue Mountain — the part of the map where Kingsmouth whispers go to scream. The locals won’t talk about it unless they’re drunk, and even then, you’ll get words like “thin,” “bad vein,” and “don’t go alone.”

Naturally, I went alone.

🪨 The Quarry (Or: My Brain Got Rearranged by a Rock Pile)

I started near the old mining road, where the signs were more rust than metal and the fences looked like they were losing an argument with gravity. Beyond them was the quarry — carved deep into the side of the mountain like something chewed through it from beneath.

Nothing moved. No birds, no bugs. No wind. Just that kind of silence that has texture.

Halfway down the slope, I felt the pressure. Like altitude sickness, but internal — as if my thoughts were being pulled sideways. The ground under my boots felt soft, like walking across a dream stitched onto a memory.

And then… the time slip.

I checked my watch — yeah, I wear one, I’m that kind of nerd — and it was 14:42. I blinked. Took a few more steps.
Checked again. 15:04.
Twenty-two minutes.

Gone.

There were marks. Faint indentations along the quarry wall that didn’t match any mining tool I’ve ever seen. Deep gouges in a spiralling pattern, with a residue like old oil but with flecks of something… red. And warm.

Yes, I touched it.
Yes, I regret it.

Later, I found a chunk of metal embedded in the gravel — maybe part of a mining drill? But it was bent in a curve, like it had melted and reformed. I picked it up and dropped it immediately. It hummed.

As in, actually hummed.

Here’s the part where I stopped feeling brave.

🌀 The Spiral and the Sound

At the lowest point of the quarry, there’s a hollowed-out pit. Perfect circle. Something was dug — or birthed — there.
And in the dust, I saw it: a spiral stain, maybe 8 feet across. It looked like rust at first, but it smelled… wrong. Like iron mixed with old honey. I crouched to photograph it and—

I blacked out.

Just for a second, I think. But when I stood up, my knees were wet. There hadn’t been any water.

My camera roll had seven new photos.
Two were just black.
Three were of the quarry.
One was me, mid-step, walking away.
And one… one was me from behind. From about fifteen feet back.

I was alone.
I know I was alone.

Was I?

I don’t remember leaving. I just remember the road being there, and my legs moving. I didn’t think. I didn’t talk to myself out loud like I usually do (yes, I do that). I didn’t listen to music. I just walked, like something was walking through me.

When I got back to the safe zone near the inn, my boots were red. Not mud. Not blood. Something else.

I don’t think Blue Mountain is haunted. I think it’s aware.
I think it’s remembering things through people like me.
And I think it’s getting closer to remembering everything.

Next time I go back, I’m bringing a compass, a canary, and three exit strategies.

Until then:
Don't go near the quarry alone.
Don’t trust the ground.
And if something offers you a spiral? Don’t take it.

Still here. Still shaken.
— Jenna ⛰️
keep feeding