Bloodsong
Genre: Horror/Fantasy
Director: Issa Lopez
Writer: Holden Abbott
Cast: Devery Jacobs, Martin Sensmeier, Aidan Turner, Wes Studi, Q'Orianka Kilcher, Tantoo Cardinal, Michael Greyeyes, Angus Wright
Plot: Mississippi Territory - Early 1800’s - Pre Removal
Moonlight glints off a settler’s musket barrel as he trudges through thick brush - breathing hard through the quiet forest. He pauses, blood on leaves. A goat carcass split open at the ribs, drained, not eaten. He turns but sees nothing but a blur - firing in the dark. He lowers the musket - trembling. Then—a flash of movement. He's grabbed, yanked into the brush. No scream. Just the sound of blood soaking dirt. We hold on the woods. Then a faint whisper in Choctaw: “He is not dead. He is waiting.”
BLOODSONG
The red sun bleeds into the horizon as smoke curls up from a fire - many Choctaw women gather in quiet mourning. The rhythmic sounds of drums can be heard from afar - a pulse of the Earth itself.
Kinta Ishki (Devery Jacobs) prepares her grandmother’s body, there is no haste, just a quiet reverence. The elder’s body is washed and layed down. Kinta gently closes her grandmother’s eyes. As she does she begins a deep hum - a mourning song, a Choctaw lullaby passed through generations. The melody is haunting - slow, sorrowful, like a memory lost to time. It reverberates through the air.
The villagers gather around a sacred burial mound. Firelight flickers, casting a long shadow, and rattles shake in the wind, creating a rhythmic sound that echoes. The elders perform a chant, their voices low and layered. They are invoking ancestors, offering up the songs of old. Kinta stands a little apart from the others, a silent observer. Her grandmother's song pulses through her, a faint echo beneath the elder chants. As the chanting rises, Kinta’s song interweaves with theirs, more powerful, more ancient. The rhythm of her voice pushes back against the choir, shifting the air, bending time itself. The earth stirs.
Elias Harper (Aidan Turner) an English surveyor-preacher stands within a makeshift chapel (tent) with some of the tribe's children. He is visiting the tribe in order to provide an outreach of peace as a missionary in the land. Due to the recent passing he has asked for a moment to pray to his own God - the elders grant this. Elias attempts to recite a psalm in their native tongue, it’s awkward but clearly sincere.
Kinta dreams. She is standing on the edge of a dark forest. Her grandmother is whispering to her, but the words are faint. The melody she hums is one she recognizes, but twisted. We see old Choctaw rituals, blood rites and war paint, then a flash of a disturbing figure. Kinta awakes.
Elias talks with Akiyami (Wes Studi) (one of the elders) mentioning that he must return back to his town now but thanks them all for their time. Akiyami pulls Elias in and rests his head on his own. “Chi pisa la chike” (until we meet again), they both say to each other.
The next day a group of Choctaw men return with hunted game, but they carry something else too: A body. A white settler, skin gray, eyes wide and throat torn open.
The elders gather in only whispers, in only fear. Akiyami makes mention of no tracks. No teeth marks, just … drained. A crow flies by and drops mid-flight, blood coming from its beak. Akiyami looks to the others and advises they gather.
The fire crackles, casting flickering shadows over the gathered villagers. The elders stand in a solemn circle, faces painted with the marks of their people, bodies draped in ceremonial garb. Their presence is commanding—each one a keeper of the land's ancient wisdom.
At the center of the circle, the fire burns bright. Kinta watches from the edge.
Akiyami stands tall at the front, his voice deep and resonant. He is the oldest and most revered of the elders, with a lifetime of stories etched into the lines of his face. His voice thunders through the air as he begins to speak, summoning the ancient power of the land. “There are stories that live in the earth itself. Stories that wait, deep beneath the soil. Songs sung long before the coming of strangers—before the steel and fire burned the land.” As he speaks the flames crackle and pop, showing the story. “These are songs of blood... songs of the old gods. And there is one song... one figure, who should never be sung again.” Wepomi (Tantoo Cardinal), a younger but wise elder, steps forward, her voice soft but firm. He was not always as you see him. He was once flesh... blood... a man among us. But he was a hunter, a killer of men—both in body and in spirit.” Nitako (Michael Greyeyes) speaks next, “ Tuskolichi was not born of the earth. He was made—formed from the land’s deepest fears. He sought power... but in doing so, he tore open a rift. A rift that allowed something to enter this world. Something that should never have been allowed to touch it. His flesh became pale, white as death. His eyes—his eyes became the black of the void, and his song... it was not of the Choctaw. It was the song of devourers. A song that calls the Pale Kind. The wind picks up, and the drums start softly in the distance, almost as if summoned by the words. The elders' voices grow heavier, their tones deeper, as the gravity of Tuskolichi’s presence becomes palpable. Akiyami continues, “When the earth sang to him, he listened. He learned the language of the dark, the bloodsong. He took it into his veins, and with it, he became something else—not human, but less than human. He is what we call the Pale Kind. But not just any. Tuskolichi is the first of them—the one who opened the gates for others to follow.” He pauses, his eyes locking with Kinta’s, “And now... he seeks to return.” Wepomi delivers a final message, “ His song, the bloodsong, lives in the wind. It is the call of death. Every time it is sung, the land remembers... and it will wake him again. Do you understand, child? His song is your song now. Only you, with the blood of our people in you, can silence it. You must stop it, before the Pale Kind rise again. And remember—there is no peace for a soul like his. He cannot be buried by any song alone. It is fire that will turn him to ash. Only fire and the ancient rhythm of the earth will end him.” The flames go out.
Later that night, Kinta walks alone, following a strange whispering wind only she can hear. The trees lean unnaturally. A doe steps into the path—then walks backward, its hooves bleeding where they touch the soil. A deer antler lies half-buried at her feet. She picks it up. Her fingers tremble. From behind, a shape moves between trees—a woman’s silhouette with long hair and antlers. She vanishes when Kinta turns.
By firelight, Kinta prepares a smoke mixture. She pours ash, crushed herbs, and deer fur into a clay bowl. Her hands are precise—but her eyes are distant. She holds a knife. Hesitates. Then slices her palm and lets a few drops fall into the mix. Smoke rises, and it seems to curl into faces—silent, screaming, familiar. She breathes it in. Eyes roll back.
Kinta walks barefoot through a swamp of bones. Trees drip with blood. The sky churns red and black. She sees the burial mound, pulsing like a wound. Atop it: the Deer Woman (Q'Orianka Kilcher), faceless, gesturing for her to come closer. As Kinta approaches, the mound opens. A hand reaches out—grabs her wrist—She wakes. She knows she needs to go there.
Kinta, wrapped in a deerskin shawl, steps slowly through the underbrush, guided only by instinct. In one hand, she carries a small clay bowl filled with ash and crushed herbs. Smoke curls upward in twisting trails, dancing toward unseen things above. She pauses at the edge of a clearing. In its center: a burial mound, low and earthen, ancient and overgrown. It seems to breathe—dirt cracking gently, as if something shifts just beneath the surface.
Crows roost silently in the trees around the mound. Unmoving. Watching. Kinta kneels. She presses her palm to the earth. A single drop of blood drips from her nose onto the soil. The mound reacts. The ground pulses once—faint, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. She jerks back. Her breath catches. Suddenly, her surroundings warp. The trees seem taller, darker. The wind howls in reverse. Shadows flicker behind her—brief flashes of antlers, fire, and bone. The Deer Woman stands just beyond sight, face obscured, eyes glowing faintly red. From the burial mound, a hand—gray, sinewy, and clawed—breaks through the soil, reaching upward like a root searching for blood. Kinta does not run. Her eyes widen, but she leans forward, mesmerized, a tear tracking down her cheek. The hand opens… and gently touches the earth. Then it sinks back in. The crows scatter all at once, shrieking into the night. And just like that, the wind dies. Kinta is alone again. She rises, her shawl caught in the breeze. Her hands tremble. Behind her, barely visible in the moonlight, the blood she left on the ground has begun to spread, snaking its way into the cracks of the mound like a root feeding a tree. The mound is still. Kinta stands, changed. Not visibly—but the air feels off. As she walks back, the trees bow slightly, as if acknowledging her. Crows watch in silence. One follows her. As she steps into sunlight, the crow lands on her shoulder—and stays.
Kinta returns to the village - washes her face. Water in the bowl turns faintly pink. She stares at her reflection in the water. Above her, a shadow moves—not in the room, but in the reflection only. A tall, gray figure. Watching her. She doesn’t look up. She knows it’s there.
Elias Harper, the surveyor-preacher, rides into a small clearing. There are tents torn. Horses gone. Blood paints one wagon wheel. No bodies. No tracks. No sounds. He kneels and finds a Choctaw talisman on the ground—a bundle of herbs wrapped in deer sinew. He pockets it.
The elders decide to conduct a cleansing ritual. Smoke. Chant. Fire. Kinta is invited to sit in the circle. But when the shaman waves cedar smoke over her, the fire behind her flares. Wood snaps violently. Everyone goes still. She excuses herself, eyes lowered. As she walks away, a child whispers: “She smells like blood.”
Kinta goes to the river to cleanse herself. But as she steps into the water, fish float to the surface, bleeding from the gills. She screams—but no sound escapes her throat. The forest responds with a low, inhuman growl, distant, ancient.
Elias arrives back in town shocked at the sight he sees, hundreds of more soldiers then when he last left. He immediately enters the officers quarters. He begins to tell the officers of something unnatural happening in the forest. They laugh him off—until he opens a crate from the settler camp. Inside: A man’s spine, cleanly removed, folded neatly like a rope. They immediately tell him to go talk with the colonel. He is met by a new Colonel, who introduces himself as Colonel Garrison (Angus Wright). Garrison seems pleasant at first welcoming him back. Elias asks about Colonel Thorne, he tells Elias that Thorne had died of a mystery illness recently. Garrison continues the conversation asking what it was like living with the “unclean” for so long. Elias is taken aback responding that they are not unclean, they are gods' children just as they are. Garrison is appalled at the comments made. He begins to go on a rant saying that they believe in their “old gods” they can never be the one true god's children, he invokes manifest destiny and says God’s wrath will come down upon them one day. He then backtracks and asks why the officers sent him in. Elias mentions once more that there is something unnatural in the forest - he shows him the spine. Garrison stands still, and immediately, “Burn the forest. Clear the land. Flush out whatever is in there and kill anyone that stands in our way.” Elias immediately pushes back against this but Garrison tells him to get out of his way.
Kinta asleep - has a vision, She kneels before a fire pit, antler in one hand, the clay bowl in the other. She mixes her blood with black ash. Tuskolichi appears (Martin Sensmeier). Slowly. Silently. Like mist forming flesh. He kneels across from her. She doesn’t flinch. The two of them reach forward—press their palms together over the fire. Blood from his hand runs into hers. Their eyes lock. A moment of solemn ceremony, not violence. He speaks to her in a sadistic, muffled voice - he tells her that when the time comes he is hers to control, hers to lead. She asks why the others fear him. He says they simply don’t understand. He protects them from the others. The two of them look into each other’s eyes, then turn their heads. Outside, the crows begin to scream.
Kinta awakes and runs outside, she sees smoke from the forest as flames begin to rise.
Soldiers march under torchlight, axes and rifles ready. Their boots crush herbs, sacred stones, bones they do not recognize. They move in ranks—disciplined, unaware that the land watches them.
Elias rushes into Colonel Garrison’s tent as he is about to leave; he begs Garrison to call off the attack on the village. Garrison yells at him and tells him to find his fucking place. Garrison pushes Elias to the ground. Elias gets back up and tells Garrison that he is a weak man, he wants to hunt down those who have not wronged him. Garrison tells him that he himself brought the spine that was undoubtedly done by the Choctaw. Elias laughs this off asking how on earth he thinks the Choctaw people could do this - they have no means and no reason to. He says that there is something otherworldly going on in that forest. Garrison has had enough stating that is he doesn’t get out of his way he will be held for treason. Elias looks to him and tells him that what he is doing is wrong and God shall let him know one day. Garrison tells officers to arrest Elias. They take him out of the tent and throw him in the makeshift jail.
Smoke reaches the village before the soldiers do. Panic. Elders scream orders. Families scatter. Some flee into the woods. Others prepare to stand their ground.
Kinta emerges from her home, now dressed in ceremonial deerhide, antlers tied into her hair, her face painted in black ash and blood. The crow still rides her shoulder. She walks calmly through the chaos, toward the woods. Toward them.
Kinta kneels and places both palms into the dirt. We hear nothing but her breath. Then— The trees begin to scream. Not with voices—but in cracking bark, in rustling dead leaves, in sudden shivers of wind. Roots surge upward, twisting across the forest floor.
The path ahead suddenly splits open, as if the forest is rejecting them. Vines lash out like serpents, wrapping around boots, rifles. One soldier fires into the woods. Another falls into a hole, dragged by unseen claws. Then Tuskolichi appears—full form now, eyes glowing dim red, jaw distended, a weapon of old bone and blood. He moves like smoke, ripping through the formation. But the soldiers keep coming.
Kinta arrives at a small clearing—the site of the burial mound, now entirely broken open, pulsing red underneath. The sky churns unnaturally above. Red clouds spiral. The Deer Woman appears, half-submerged in shadow, watching with pride and sorrow. Soldiers burst into the clearing—at least a dozen. Kinta rises, hands soaked in blood, eyes black. She does not speak. She steps forward. They raise their rifles. She raises a hand. The wind dies. Then all hell breaks loose.
Kinta moves faster than human, slashing with clawed fingers, eyes glowing. Soldiers fire—but the bullets either miss or pass through illusions. One man lights a torch—only to have it extinguished by a gust of shadow. Tuskolichi joins the fray, his strikes ceremonial, devastating, almost ritualistic. Some soldiers try to pray. Others beg. The forest does not listen. She comes upon Garrison - a late addition to the battle, she slashes at his knees, he lets out a scream. While on his knees Kinta approaches him with a sadistic look on her face. He asks her what she is, she just tilts her head to the side and slashes at his neck, killing him immediately.
The flames spread from settler torches to Choctaw homes. The people try to fight the fire, not knowing Kinta fights for them in the dark. A young girl looks up—sees a figure in the smoke. Kinta walks out of the trees, covered in blood, holding the antler knife. The flames part around her. She walks through them untouched.
The battle is over. Bodies lie scattered across the forest floor. Birds return, circling above. Kinta kneels by the river. Tuskolichi stands behind her, distant. She washes her hands—but the blood won’t come off. She looks at her reflection. For a moment, she sees herself with antlers. She doesn’t flinch anymore.
Centuries later
A young boy in Indian Territory sits by a fire. He whispers to a wide-eyed girl beside him: “My uncle says there’s a woman in the woods. She’s Choctaw, but she drinks blood to protect us from white men.” “They say she walks like a deer. That she never sleeps. That the crows follow her.” The girl asks, "What’s her name?" The boy shrugs. “No one knows. But when the land is hurting, she comes.” In the distance, an antlered figure stands in the treeline. Watching. Cut to black.
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