The region around the city of Coeur d'Alene is a mountainous one, full of thick, dense forest and hidden terrain. Once inhabited by Native Americans, it is dotted with ancient burial grounds - most long forgotten and untended by their worldly makers.
The dead, however, are still there. The grounds are still hallowed and spiritual, no matter how overgrown. This fact was realized far too late by a simple family settling in the CdA region at the turn of the century. A growing city, bustling with new development and endless opportunity, made no amends with the historical nuances and "color" of the surrounding countryside. A certain uneasiness was felt immediately by the woman of the house; even the children complained of bad dreams and bumps in the night. These feelings were ignored by the man seeking new wealth in this golden land - even though he sometimes did feel them himself.
A generation lived, grew old, and died in that house, leaving children and grandchildren to play in the streams and woods nearby. One such grandchild, a large kid at an early age, took pleasure at taking trips of discovery into the woods. He left no rock unturned as he searched for, and found, interesting objects. Old bowls, tools and the occasional arrowhead were all stored in his treasure chest, and soon it filled to capacity and was put away, as the attentions of a young boy often change with the seasons. As the boy turned into a man, having used his size to win battles on the football field and woo the local prom queen, he came across the chest and fondly remembered his days of discovery.
One last trip into the woods before leaving CdA for his own fortunes; one last trip for old times sake. This one would take him down a barely recognizable path, past a stream and over a draw that was familiar, yet never before seen by this young man. And then, at once, it laid before him, a large mound dotted with oddly growing trees and scrub brush, the original ornaments and decorations long since weathered away. It called him closer, and he went willingly, until he had climbed to the mound's peak. Had someone been watching, it would have been as if a sledgehammer had hit him in the forehead, dropping him like a sack of bricks - yet hardly a sound was made, save for the blowing of the wind and rustling of the leaves...