Work Text:
The hills east of Dufftown have always been a bit queer. The heathered slopes are shrouded in perennial mists and preternatural shadows lurk in the deep woods to the southeast. A mountain rises on the shore of the twilit lake and when sunlight falls on the jagged cliffs in a particular way they conjure uncanny suggestions of handcrafted structures.
The locals shun the place. Most of the young folk have moved away, and the old folk whisper about voices in the foothills and odd lights up on the mountain at night and glimpses of nightmare shapes in the dark woods. They whisper about people going missing near the nemorous hills; many are never found but others turn up days, weeks, months later disoriented and confused.
People outside of Dufftown dismiss these as superstitious talk of rustic folk. For in their eyes, even the locals are a bit queer, dull and vacant-eyed. But even the rare traveller or a visitor who passes through the town doesn't like to get too close to the hills or linger too long.
Whatever the truth, the hills to the east remain untrodden and the shadowed woods undisturbed. And if chilling howls shred the air on the nights when the moon hangs full in the sky, well, it's likely just the wind.