Chapter One: When the Earth Still Sang -Breathing Life into the Beginning -

"The Lady in Flesh" begins not with a scream or shadow—but with a hum.

High atop Yula’mek, Wenonah and her family stand at the edge of something ancient. The stone circle hums low, the air too still. The earth still sings—but the melody has changed.

The first chapter, “When the Earth Still Sang,” pulls the reader deep into the pre-colonial heart of Appalachia. Set in the year 1600, long before Concord University was founded, the story opens in a world untouched by pavement and electric light. A world where the earth still whispered, and the people listened.

This isn’t just atmosphere. It’s origin. Horror doesn’t always begin in darkness. Sometimes, it’s born in reverence—and shifts slowly out of tune.

“Horror doesn’t always begin in darkness. Sometimes, it’s born in reverence—and shifts slowly out of tune.”

“Before the dorms, before the tapping—there was only the land. A sacred ridge crowned in fire-colored leaves and veiled in mist, still singing the old songs… but not for much longer.”

Researching the Lenape (Lenopa) People

To build this chapter with care, I researched the indigenous peoples native to what is now Athens, West Virginia. While the Shawnee and Cherokee are more widely recognized, the Lenape (sometimes noted as Lenopa in older regional records) were also known to pass through or inhabit parts of the Appalachian region before westward displacement.

The sacred site in the story—Yula’mek, or “The Belly of the Sky”—is fictional in name, but inspired by real traditions. Many indigenous cultures honored high ridges and plateaus as places of spiritual convergence. The use of seasonal ceremonies, ritual offerings, and dream interpretation was carefully researched and woven into the story with respect and intent.

“The point was never to exploit the past—it was to let the land speak through memory, myth, and mourning.”

“Yula’mek — The Belly of the Sky. A sacred plateau where the wind carries memory, offerings circle stone, and the earth remembers every footstep.”

The Characters Begin to Stir

In this chapter, you meet Wenonah, the tribe’s dreamer and healer. She’s the first voice in a story that spans centuries of sorrow. Her husband Takoda, her children Tamakwah and Ahyoka, each carry pieces of the greater mythos. Their story isn't about survival. It’s about witnessing the shift—when nature turns from guardian to grave.

The land itself is alive in this world. It watches. It waits. It warps. When deer rot too fast, when trees whisper symbols, when fire burns blue—something beneath the soil begins to breathe.

“The earth still sang. But Wenonah knew the melody had changed.”

Wenonah and her family witness the first sign—the earth no longer sings. As Ahyoka draws the symbol whispered in her sleep, silence gathers like mist between the trees.

Why This Chapter Matters

This isn't just a historical setup—it’s the foundation of the entire Psalms of the Tear series. The themes of land, memory, and silence echo through every book. Starting with reverence gives weight to the horror that follows.

“What if the land itself remembers? And what if it’s still listening?”

I wanted to create a world where nature isn’t just backdrop—it’s antagonist. Not malicious. Not sentient. But wounded. And that wound festers in silence for hundreds of years before it screams.

Author's Reflection

Writing this chapter was slower than most. It wasn’t about setting up plot—it was about establishing presence. A sacred hush. A warning without words. I needed readers to feel the hum of something deeper. Something buried.

“The Lady in Flesh doesn’t begin with blood. It begins with breath. And breath, held too long, becomes a scream.”

The earth cracked—and something stepped through. The stones no longer sang. They warned.

 Reader’s Question:

Have you ever stood somewhere and felt like the land was aware of you?

If so, where? And what did it feel like? Let me know in the comments.

Next Week’s Entry:

We’ll continue with Part II: The Tear.

Until then, listen closely. The wind may not be wind. The silence may not be empty.

— Joshua Bish

Author of The Lady in Flesh

📘 Now available on Amazon https://a.co/d/fIoaRHt