For seven generations, the solitary Attwood sons honorably safeguarded their pine-crested domain - the 60-acre Brier Grove forest thick with ancient oaks, rowan, and yew nestled between the misty Llyn Ogwen lakes in northern Wales.

Their bloodline descended from pagan tree priests banished long ago to these secluded wilds after the Romans crushed the druids.

But the Attwood men transformed exile into enduring purpose. They became stewards upholding this fecund valley through primeval Celtic rites passed down father to son. Appeasing and communing with woodland spirits, they ensured the forest's health and harmony.

The current heir Locke Attwood learned his role as Grove Guardian from predecessors, patrolling for threats while nurturing trees damaged by time or trial. Through studious care across decades, he maintained balance in these acres untouched since prehistory.

Yet the suspicious villagers in neighboring Gwynbrin remained wary of solitary Locke’s practices within the mysterious Brier Grove blanketing the far hillsides. They'd heard strange sounds echo from its depths on still nights. Some even claimed trees uprooted and walked like hunched men when the moon shone bright. Bottles stopped crossing themselves whenever Locke approached town, fearing his pagan lineage might conjure wicked spirits from the fairy mounds.

So when township land officials arrived at Brier Grove’s misty edges one soggy morning to survey sites "eligible for important civil resource allotments,” Locke was immediately on guard. They talked down to this feral forest ward in shabby waxed leathers. Did he not comprehend the Crown's decrees concerning eminent domain?

“We apologize, good sir, but on official orders, we must assess clearing trees here for a proposed mining haul road through the valley. Progress marches on, see? Can't halt business forever to indulge superstitious notions about dead religions and watcher ghosts, yes?”

Locke recoiled at their arrogant tones, brusque remarks of taming this untamed backwater valueless wood. As shouting erupted, scuffles broke out along the Delgwyd brook as Attwood warded the crews back from traipsing heedless through spirit pools and fungal rings older than dynasties risen and collapsed.

Later that same night, horrific guttural screams rang out from crews' nearby campsite within the treeline. Investigators eventually found the team gruesomely torn asunder and dismembered amidst bloody runnels. Avalanche? Wolf attack? But the bodies seemed displayed high in an oak tree, adorning twisted branches as if arranged by intelligent malicious hands...

Suspicion swiftly turned toward reclusive Locke Attwood and whispers of his witchcraft "fairy pacts" invoked for protecting this land. They'd endured his backward ways against proper society long enough. Were not his pagan spells the obvious culprits unleashing wild spirits from elder days? For no earthly violence could mimic such calculated carnage leaving only faint shimmering spores upon the gore.

Under the next harvest moon, a torch-bearing mob surrounded Locke's rustic forest sanctuary determined to break the heathen's hold upon the valley forever. They roughly dragged him before make-shift magistrates to rebuke his guilt face-to-face prior to execute. Locke swore innocence and sincere duty counseling all dwell peaceably in the valley.

But his accusers homed in on symbols of tree magic - circle of bone fragments, crude herb poultices and antlered stave etched with runes - as proof Locke conjured dark forces against righteous modern men. Shouting erupted as burning brands were hurled onto his thatched roof, acrid smoke billowing high over smoldering mayhem.

In end the mob swarmed the dazed Locke mocking his precious forest concords and trampled the Attwood talisman symbolizing blessed seasonal cycles without end under iron-shod heels into splintered driftwood. They hauled him past spectral mists gathering amidst the sacred oaks toward the village square to make wretched example...but only dogs now dare dig for what remained of Locke Attwood or speak that curse near the whispers beyond Brier Grove’s gloom-laden boughs.

In short years without an Attwood's assiduous rituals placating spirits old as shale stone itself, the ethereal forest transformed into a foreboding impenetrable zone few dared approach as brambles and clawing vines obscured sullen paths. Timber crews began refusing to harvest lumber anywhere near that accursed hollow...ome say mournful cries still shiver the crowns of pines hastily marked with elder signs lest you encounter what yet lingers in hoary rings.

For without the Grove's anointed caretaker, otherworld forces and primal claimants long slumbering stirred. Uncanny events accumulated over generations convinced locals Brier Grove solely belonged to those transient denizens from elder epochs preceding hearth or hall. To trespass risked drawing the hanged Locke Attwood's lingering wrath emerging from the darkest grotto seeking vengeance eternal...