We don't speak aloud about the old God sleeping beneath our valley nor do we speak aloud about what happened to the miners who dug deep enough to touch Its skin. May any Lord have mercy on them and us, for what they've since become is fearsome and wretched enough to make us all dread finding out exactly what It is a God of.
It's not mercy, that's for damned sure. It If had any mercy in Its mountainous form then our folks would have come back with nothing but stories instead of half the limbs they went out with and a whole cluster of new stone-like growths upon whichever part of them had been closest when they touched the Unholy flesh.
The town's been torn up ever since - half wanting to bury the mine beneath rubble and move out, letting the God take Its land back while we attempt to have normal lives again elsewhere. The other half want to to disturb It further - to speak to It and see what wisdom they can attain from its presumably ancient and omniscient self.
I stopped caring about the thoughts of the many when my brother came home so torn up we could scarcely blink in the last few hours of his life. I'm not about to linger and let this happen again and again and again as the town falls to zealous hysteria.
I'm leaving in the morning, if the mountains allow it and if they don't, I've a few bullets saved.
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