THE LEGEND OF THE SAWMILL

The Fog of Widow’s Landing

They say the dead don’t stay buried in Widow’s Landing. Long before roads were paved and tourists enjoyed lakefront views, this stretch of Covington was little more than a isolated fishing camp tucked along the dark, unforgiving waters of the Tchefuncte.

For generations, locals whispered about the things that lived beneath the lake:

• The Ghost Ship: A Confederate hospital ship, heavy with dying soldiers, that vanished into an unnatural fog during the Civil War.

• The River Pirates: Smugglers executed along the shoreline, whose phantom hulls still creak when the mist rolls in tight.

• The Black Coffin: A monstrous artifact hauled from the deep by a doomed fisherman, unlocking something that should have remained buried forever.

When the thick, suffocating fog rolls across the river, it moves with a mind of its own. It smothers lantern light, kills sound, and ushers in the wet footsteps of drowned men dragging themselves ashore.

A Town Harvested

First, the lighthouse keeper vanished. Then the cemetery itself rotted. The caretakers charged with tending the dead stopped aging properly—their skin tightening over bone, their voices sounding like dry earth shifting over a coffin lid.

Even the heartbeat of the camp, the Tchefuncte Bait & Tackle Shop, became a slaughterhouse of hooks, rusted blades, and fishermen who refused to die. The locals finally realized a horrifying truth: The great lighthouse was never meant to keep danger away. It was guiding prey home.

“Widow’s Landing was never haunted. It was harvested.”

The Ancient Hunger: Old Leatherwing

The curse didn’t come from the lake. The truth lies deeper, past the village, in the bowels of the mill.

Deep beneath the floorboards rests an ancient Mesoamerican deity forgotten by time, but preserved in half-rotten journals: Camazotz, the winged bat-god of death. To the locals, he is known simply as Old Leatherwing.

Neither wholly beast nor wholly man, Old Leatherwing is a hunger with teeth. He has nested in these marshes for centuries, feeding on trappers, runaways, and the lost. But when the sawmill was built directly over his nest, the machinery became his ultimate tool.

The Mill is Alive

Decades of processing animal carcasses and human flesh have stained the very fabric of the building. Soaked in generations of blood and misery, the wood now groans like flesh. The walls breathe. The saw blades hunger on their own.

The Sawmill has awakened, and Old Leatherwing’s feral brood is ready to feed.

IF THE DEAD DON’T GET YOU… THE SAWMILL WILL!!!