tonight we turn our attention to the mountains—  

the old mountains, the Appalachian spine,  

where the ridges rise like the backs of sleeping beasts  

and the hollows hold stories that were old before the first cabin was built,  

stories whispered through pine needles and creek water,  

stories that do not care whether you believe them.  

And in those stories walks a figure carved from bone and hunger,  

a witch or a specter or something that remembers being both,  

Today, we step into Beltane, the bright hinge between spring’s awakening  

and summer’s first breath,  

a night when the world feels alive in ways it doesn’t bother to hide.

The fires are lit.  

The dew is gathering.  

And something ancient is stretching beneath the soil,  

curious to see who dares to walk the boundary with it.

Across England, tucked into manor houses, farmsteads, and ancestral halls, there are skulls that are never buried.  

Not because they were forgotten…  

but because they refuse to be.

These are the screaming skulls—  

bone‑bound spirits,  

domestic ghosts,  

guardians or warnings depending on who you ask.

As you step with me into the shifting shadows of Glastonbury’s hidden lines and forgotten crossings, let your mind loosen its grip on the ordinary world, let your breath slow, and let the darkness gather at the edges of your thoughts, because what rises from the deep tonight has been waiting a very long time to be heard.

we drift into the hush beneath the surface — into the folklore and fact of the drowned cities of Britain, where bells toll through water, where grief settles like silt and where the land remembers what people try so hard to forget.

Night lay over the hills like a thick pelt, heavy and matted with mist. Joseph Signet guided his truck along the narrow mountain road, the headlights slicing a thin, trembling path through the dark.

The forest crowded close on both sides, branches leaning inward as though eavesdropping on his passage. Even the air felt watchful.

This story is one that clings to the edges of highways and riverbanks, a shadow perched just beyond the reach of headlights.  

A presence older than the bridges we build and older than the towns that pretend not to see it.

Today, we’re stepping into a season that pretends to be gentle.

Ostara.

The equinox.

The moment when light and dark stand eye‑to‑eye, neither willing to bow first.

So light your lanterns, snuggle down and if this attuned with you, like share and repost.

It helps small authors like me be seen in the algorithms and is gratefully received.

The Snallygaster is not finished.

It has simply chosen its next beginning.

If you felt the shift in the air tonight… you weren’t alone. The ridge remembers. The forest remembers. And somewhere out there, wings still beat against the dark.

we follow a story that rises from the older layers of the Appalachians — the places where the soil keeps its secrets close, and the dark moves with its own quiet purpose.