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The Shadowroot Trilogy is built out of paper. Diaries, ledgers, church minutes, a mechanic's invoice with something written on the back — the kind of record a family keeps without meaning to keep it, and a county forgets it ever had.
These are the witness records. Farmers, midwives, church women, and men who worked machinery in ground that didn't want to be worked. None of them are frightened that the uncanny exists. They grew up knowing it did. What frightens them is the particular thing that happened on a particular Tuesday, and what it means that it happened now.
Nettie Hargate is reading the same records you are. Her notes are in the margins.
The record — who wrote it, when, and why it exists.
The incident — what was seen, told plainly. The livestock, the machinery, the silence before.
The wisdom — the folk remedy or rule that follows. A hill grandmother doesn't explain a spirit; she tells you what to do about it.
The marginalia — Nettie's notes, written years later, connecting the record to what she's chasing now. Hers is the only voice on the page that doesn't know the answer.
The Smolder in Spencer — Baker Family Diary, October 1948. Cordelia Baker watches six hundred children burn their comic books in a West Virginia lot and sees something in the fire she was told had been destroyed.
[Add each record as you publish it: title, source and date, then one sentence. Keep them newest-first.]
A new field note goes into the archive most Fridays, along with letters from the river county: plant lore, folk remedy, and the work behind the trilogy.
The records are fiction. The valley is not. The plants are real, the remedies come out of Appalachian folk practice, and the limestone under the Ohio River has been doing what limestone does for three hundred million years.
Whether it listens is the part I made up.