In southern West Virginia, there is a small community hidden in the wilderness; with less than 500 human residents, some say its people are outnumbered and surrounded by another kind of inhabitant - a mysterious type that thrives in every kind of darkness. In fact, it is a hotspot for these creatures: the paranormal.

Within the little village of Bud, past a gas station, cluster of homes, and to the left of a church, there is a dirt road. Narrow, rugged, and steep, the path veers and goes up, and up, and up. Bud Mountain and its cemetery are its most animated locations after dark.

Inside and outside of the fencing, beside and atop fresh graves and old stones, hugging Whitt Tomb and the dirt road are swaths of lit candles. While hanging pieces of cloth and curtains of little bells are excellent methods of seeing the unseen, candlelight is the most efficient method in places like this: open, dark clearings.

As the crescent moon rises, a small group of teens have gathered in the middle of their edifice. Excited, they fear no real danger but the idea of embarrassment. They chatter in low tones, some more nervous than others. The Paranormal Research Team readies their equipment and clarifies once more what the locals intend to do, how, and why. Laughing, they explain again: they’re here to summon a traveling salesman. The moon at its peak, glowing magically, all grow quiet. The ritual begins.

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Berg Hammond was a beloved peddler in the 19th century. He traveled the countryside of West Virginia, going farm to farm and village to village with necessities, minor luxuries, news, and his lively personality. Known to entertain with stories and songs, Berg most excited his hosts with instruments he brought for sale and display. The fiddle, however, was his and his listener’s favorite. He never turned down an opportunity to show it off and was treated in kind, most nights, with a place to stay.

Except for one evening.

Eager to make it over the mountain and farther down the road, Berg declined an offer to spend the afternoon at a local farm. Hours later, he regretted the decision, a nasty storm building up and thundering, overtaking him by sunset. The storm peaked at the worst part of the trail; crossing Bud Mountain in his horse-drawn wagon was even more treacherous, with rain battering the path and wind his eyes. While he would normally pull over and wait out the storm, he knew a friendly home would offer him respite just on the other side.

A dry, warm, cozy place.

He had made the journey many times. He could do it with his eyes closed!

On a craggy, flooding section of the narrow road, lightning struck; no matter how confident the peddler was, it had no bearing on his steed. Panicked, the horse lept and slipped on the dirt path; in a frenzy, it fumbled and ran, gaining its footing and reaching the peak - but the animal had no intentions of stopping. The horse, buggy, and Berg Hammond flew over the edge, tumbling over the mountainside.

In the morning, heavy fog lingered and caressed the wreckage. The bodies were not discovered until after noon. The peddler and his famous fiddle were laid to rest in a humbly marked grave.

But, that was not the last heard of the man. As others who have died in dark places, perished in particularly violent ways, or during intense emotional states, the essence of his soul - the memories, quirks, and all the little things that make a person on the inside and out - was stolen and copied, used by another.

On stormy nights, locals and travelers would hear the peddler’s cheerful music being strummed on the mountaintop, echoing across Bud, sometimes even his hearty laugh; when investigated, no music-maker would be found on the trail, in the cemetery, or anywhere near the peak... Though, those out looking felt uneasy, watched.

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Back at the graveyard, the group grows restless. One stands; others begin snickering, a few’s eyes grow large. Agents detect no activity. More candles are lit. Clearing her throat, one of the locals stands, ringing a bell.

“Berg Hammond, let me hear your pretty fiddle.” All stills expectantly, the people, the woodland creatures, even the insects and the wind. The candlelight doesn’t waver. Several heartbeats pass with no answer. One of the group shouts, causing one more to scream and the others to laugh. Unbeknownst to them, one by one the candles extinguish.

The tech agent elbows the communications specialist next to him. Activity levels are intensifying. A presence, no, multiple entities draw near.

The growing darkness catches a girl’s eyes. Her mouth dry, she struggles to alert the others. Gasps and incredulous comments echo through the trees. Agents ready their gear. The locals didn’t expect it to actually work.

When summoning, taunting, or calling for one of the Voritorvita, beings from the paranormal plane, there is a chance of attracting others into the area, or accidentally pulling them in your summons. Bud Mountain is something different, a community of hidden, spectral life that can be animated like the flick of a light switch. This gathering includes the ghost of Berg Hammond, but also others, lesser known beings who need not fame to survive, but fear - and sometimes flesh. And, they won’t become dormant once more until they get it.

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The air around the cemetery grows cold; the creatures are forming corporeal forms, growing bolder as uncertainty, alarm builds in their prey. The exterior row’s candles extinguish from multiple directions, causing their onlookers to huddle together closer to the mausoleum. Only one ring of light remains, holding its victims captive.

In the distance, a fiddle is heard playing an upbeat tune. A pale, rotund glow shimmers near the mountain’s edge. It draws closer, but no distinct features can be seen aside from arms swaying back and forth, playing an invisible instrument. At his song’s end, he bows and flails backward off the cliff and the remaining flames extinguish.

As soon as night envelopes the area, numerous figures appear alongside the group’s shrieks; they neither moved to the location, nor floated from the ground, but simply decided to be seen - like they were in attendance from the very beginning. Standing in a circle, no closer than the first ring of candles, the forms are dressed in black and talking among themselves in hushed tones. The mourners are seemingly oblivious to the youths, though they peer at them from the corners of blurry, bruised eyes. Unlike the fiddler, they are a dim gray and more humanlike, yet their facial features are fuzzy. Throwing out new sensors, BCwPA Agents are looking for something specific: one of the many species of malignant entities, those needing to be banished from the earthly plane, or exercised entirely.

One of the mourners steps forward with a shovel in hand, walking a foot away from the frozen, huddled mass in tears. He delves into the earth with the tool, eliciting a wail from one of the mourners; each thunk of the shovel sends another into grief. The equipment chimes, giving an emergency alert. Soon, the beings’ chorus is so loud it overrides one’s internal monologue and pulls the same heavy hearted cry from every observer, even the non-human ones. With a shout, one of the agents yells for the locals to leave and run down the hill. As the shovel continues to thunk and thud, the dirt under it moves of its own accord. Rotting hands in tattered sleeves protrude from black soil, clawing, pulling to be unearthed. While the team prepares for the encounter, the others stare with glossy eyes. The sight so unexpected and unnerving,only the cameras noted the change that took place: the mourners disappeared; now, the cemetery was quiet - except for the squelching body pulling itself from the grave.

This was the entity the BCWPA was looking for.

Tripping over each other to flee, it grabbed hold of an ankle and dug its nails into bone, sending unthinkable pain up its prey’s leg. It moaned and pleaded, “What happened? Take me home.” Kicking free and scrambling away, the boy backed against a headstone and stood, turning to to escape. However, it too had vanished. Looking down, a sooty streak fizzled and smoked; an agent stood over it with a firestarter in hand, an empty bottle in the other, and a high-beam flashlight in their mouth. Pain still seething, he pulls up his pant leg to find not a mark, not a drop of blood, only cold, sweaty skin.

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Bud Mountain is an ideal location to begin the study of Voritorvita - the Life Eaters, paranormal entities. Home to a few non-violent varieties, Bud boasts ghosts, phantoms, and a white, dog-shaped specter that only appears in quiet times. Fairly active, mild feeders, these beings exhibit the exceptional cooperation found in higher-level paranormal communities that lack a figurehead or boss, paranormal creatures called “Eidolas”; these ‘dead towns’ work to ensure all members have access to a constant, satiating source of food once they have been activated–as well as anything else they may need.

In this area, only one entity was deemed a threat to life and exterminated. Before tonight, many attempts were made to extinguish this particular being, but, instead of ridding it, activity only made it stronger, consuming more of a prey’s energy, and later, body, each feeding. Many avenues unfruitful, it was eventually discovered that the unusual creature did in fact have a weakness–like Berg, it too was pretending to be a dead man, and in that man’s death lie the secret of how to kill it.

When exposed by bright light, its true form is revealed: something resembling a floating spinal cord with an overly large mouth; only when revealed like this could the entity physically interacted with. Coated in an oily substance mixed with venom from a local species of snake, when lit on fire, it burst into flame and ash. For complex, dangerous creatures such as these, each weakness, each extermination requires unique procedures and materials. More often than not, they are linked to whatever guise they have taken. Yet, some do not pretend to be once living or fantastical people; they are even more deadly, unpredictable, and difficult to be rid of.

Sources

Bud Cemetery - Wyoming County - West Virginia (interment.net)

Southern WV Ghost Stories - Visit Southern West Virginia : Visit Southern West Virginia (visitwv.com)

Bud Mountain - West Virginia Ghosts (wvghosts.com)