The Trail of Tears: Jackson’s Bargain with the Spirits

(An Unreliable Narrator’s Dark Fantasy Retelling)

They say Andrew Jackson was a hard man—a warrior, a duelist, a president who carried bullets in his body like souvenirs. But what they *don’t say is that his greatest sin wasn’t greed or cruelty… it was a *deal he made in the shadows.  

The Night the Owl Spoke  

It was 1828, the year before he took office, when Jackson rode alone through the Tennessee woods. A storm brewed, the kind that makes even the devil seek shelter. Then—*a voice. 

"You will be president," it hissed, not from the trees, but from *inside them. A great horned owl, eyes black as a hanged man’s tongue, perched before him. *"But the land groans beneath the weight of the People. They must be… moved."

Jackson, never one to back down, spat tobacco and grinned. *"And if I do this for you, what do I get?"

The owl’s beak didn’t move, yet the words slithered forth: *"Power. Victory. A nation that stretches beyond the sun."

And so, the bargain was struck.  

The Paper That Cursed a Nation

When Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act in 1830, witnesses claimed the ink looked black at first—then *red just for a heartbeat. The Cherokee called it "The Paper That Walks," for it seemed to slither from desk to desk, unstoppable.  

Chief John Ross fought back. He took the case to the Supreme Court. *And won. But when the justices slept that night, they all dreamed the same thing: an owl, perched on their bedposts, whispering: *"Do you really want to wake up?"

The next morning, the ruling was ignored.  

The March That Wasn’t Just a March  

By 1838, the soldiers came. Families were dragged from their homes, yes—but some swore the soldiers’ shadows didn’t match their bodies. Some had too many limbs. Others, none at all.  

The Cherokee medicine men whispered of the *Nûñnë'hï, the spirit folk who live in the mountains. *"They are angry," the elders said. *"They made a deal with the Devil’s favorite president."  

As the people marched west, children vanished in the fog. Strange lights flickered in the woods. And the soldiers? They stopped counting the dead when the numbers began… *changing on their own.  

The Secret Buried at the End of the Trail 

When the survivors reached Oklahoma, the land was barren. But deep in the soil, something waited.  

A Cherokee woman, her name lost to time, dug her hands into the earth—and pulled out *a single black feather. That night, she burned it. The flames didn’t crackle. They *screamed.  

The next morning, Andrew Jackson’s portrait in the White House… *blinked.  

Epilogue: The Owl’s Due  

Jackson died in 1845, his body riddled with lead and regret. But on his deathbed, his doctor swore he heard the old general begging—*not for God, but for something outside the window.  

*"Take someone else!" Jackson rasped.  

A flutter of wings. Then silence.  

Today, if you stand in the Smoky Mountains at dusk, you might hear it: the echo of footsteps, yes… but also *laughter. Not human. Not animal. Something older.  

And if you see an owl watching you a little too closely?  

Run.

*(Narrator’s Note: Or don’t. Maybe it’s already too late.)