Roots. A powerful, stirring word. A mythical, meaningful link to the past. We all have them - whether we think on them or not is another matter. And they run deep, leading us back through time, through generations.
Imagine a child growing up in the root-conjuring culture of the coastal South. A child whose bedtime stories were dark and twisted. A child who believed in the power of intention and thought. A tiny soul who believed that the haints and spooks of her bedtime stories were real.
Stories of Boo Hags, Plat-eyes, Floating Heads, and the like are bedtime stories told in the Low Country to keep children in line. Lore, such as these, embodies worlds where witches slip in through crevices and cracks so they can ride you in your sleep and drain your breath. They steal your energy and life force, leaving you empty, or worse.
Floating heads encountered at night devour the flesh of bad children. And Plat-eyes are shapeshifters who often fail and end up creeping around in sagging skin with one grotesque eye, searching for their next victim.
These were the stories of my childhood. They shaped my imagination and cultivated my desire to write about the culture that molded my inclination toward the macabre.
My roots run deep in the Low Country, and our stories have been passed down from generation to generation.
My name is Ruby, and I hope you follow my tales of the Low Country and how I became a hunter of haints. I’ll share both the stories that have made the haunts of my birthplace famous and true accounts guaranteed to haunt your heart.