Episode 86: Cry Little Sister

Well, hey there, family.

If you love old gods of Appalachia and want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment, well, you can still support us via the ACAS supporter feature.

No gift too large, no gift too small.

Just click on the link in the show description, and you too can toss your tithe in the collection plate.

Feel free to go ahead and do that right about now.

Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratchers from the California lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly.

Must be 18 years or older to purchase play or claim.

Running a business online?

Look legit and own your own brand with professional tools from GoDaddy.

Instantly build trust with your customers and boost your credibility with an email that matches your domain so people know you mean business.

There's never been a better time.

Just go to godaddy.com slash GDNow and choose from a wide variety of popular domains to find one that's right for you.

Pair that with a professional email that works for all your business needs from daily communications to to email marketing and everything in between.

That's a little price for a lot of credibility.

For a limited time, get a domain and matching professional email for just 99 cents a month for one year.

Go to go daddy.com slash GDNow and look legit with GoDaddy.

That's godaddy.com slash GDNow.

Again, go daddy.com slash GDNow.

There's never been a better time to choose the domain and email that's right for you.

New customer purchases only products auto-renew separately.

See terms on site.

Go daddy.com slash GD now.

There's the part of me that everyone sees.

I'm Howie Mandel, the comedian.

Apparently, I know what funny is.

Funny bought me a house, but I also know what isn't funny.

OCD.

I've lived with OCD my entire life and people throw the term around like it's no big deal.

But OCD is severe, often debilitating.

It's a mental health condition that involves unrelented, unwanted thoughts that can make you question your character, your beliefs, even your safety.

General therapy can help with some things, but for OCD, it can actually make things worse.

That's why I want to tell you about No C D.

No CD is the world's largest treatment provider for OCD and is covered by insurance for over 155 million Americans.

Their licensed therapists specialize in ERP, the most effective treatment for OCD.

If you think you might be struggling with OCD, go to nocd.com to book a free 15-minute call.

They are here to help.

And now, a next-level moment from ATT Business.

Say you've sent out a gigantic shipment of pillows, and they need to be there in time for International Sleep Day.

You've got ATT 5G, so you're fully confident, but the vendor isn't responding.

And International Sleep Day is tomorrow.

Luckily, ATT 5G lets you deal with any issues with ease, so the pillows will get delivered and everyone can sleep soundly, especially you.

ATT 5G requires a compatible plan and device.

Coverage not available everywhere.

Learn more at ATT.com/slash 5G network.

Hey, I'm Paige DeSorbo, and I'm always thinking about underwear.

I'm Hannah Berner, and I'm also thinking about underwear, but I prefer full coverage.

I like to call them my granny panties.

Actually, I never think about underwear.

That's the magic of Tommy John.

Same, they're so light and so comfy, and if it's not comfortable, I'm not wearing it.

And the bras, soft, supportive, and actually breathable.

Yes, Lord knows the girls need to breathe.

Also, I need my PJs to breathe and be buttery soft and stretchy enough for my dramatic tossing and turning at night.

That's why I live in my Tommy John pajamas.

Plus, they're so cute because they fit perfectly.

Put yourself on to Tommy John.

Upgrade your drawer with Tommy John.

Save 25% for a limited time at tommyjohn.com slash comfort.

See site for details.

Oh Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So listener discretion is advised.

Clay Morgan, Virginia

1991

Denise Raimi and her cousin Micah hadn't even made it through the front door when Denise's mama, Debbie, strode up to the pair and snatched the flyer from their hands.

She scanned the cobbled-together page and shook her head.

Absolutely not.

Micah, I don't know why I let you talk me into taking you out to that carny-ass record store in the first place.

Ain't nothing but druggies and devil worshipers in a place like that.

No wonder they keep it hid from respectable folk.

I mean, you have to go all the way around to the back of the building to even find it.

Hmm.

Backdoor records is right.

Denise pictured the stacks of vinyl occupying a a graffiti-covered building near the college in Tipton.

A customer would have to navigate through several rows of pop and country before finding something anyone would call remotely scary, let alone satanic.

All the heavy stuff was tucked away in the back corner, and you really had to know where to look to find the bands that inspired the wrath of the local hellfire and brimstone preachers.

Back door felt more like a head shop that decided to sell records and some sort of occult meeting house, but she imagined her mama would have been suitably traumatized if she had went inside.

I didn't even see you snatch this off that bulletin board.

What would people think if they seen you do that?

That I wanted to go to the show, maybe?

Denise narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to her mother.

Mom, you barely go to church, and you've taken me to the record store a million times.

You even dropped me off at shows over in Paradise.

Why are you so suddenly worried about devil worshipers?

Debbie Ramey had the grace to blush, but she still clutched the flyer, staring down at the pictures of the bands that had been taped and Xeroxed into grayscale immortality.

The glowering face of John David from violent fear, resplendent in a ski mask with fake blood smeared about his mouth, held her transfixed.

I might not go to church every Sunday, but I know the devil when I see him, Denise, and I heard all them rumors about cults and human sacrifices, and I didn't believe them.

I still don't.

I know people exaggerate and the preacher down at Micah's Daddy's Church will say anything to scare people into getting saved, but I didn't know the things you went to were like.

Well like this.

This looks evil, Denise Raimi.

I don't want y'all having nothing to do with people like this.

Micah rolled his eyes, leaping to the defense of his favorite band.

It's not like that, Aunt Debbie.

Violent fear ain't even heavy.

Their name, it's kind of a joke.

They're like, I don't know, Depeche Mode with more guitars.

Micah pointed at the bloody-mouthed masked man leering out at the world from the flyer, realizing as he spoke how this must sound to someone his aunt's age.

They just go for the shock value.

Denise's mama looked at Micah like he'd just sprouted a second head.

He looked like he's going straight to hell, if you ask me.

I ain't stupid, boy.

It says the word atheist right here on this poster.

Foxhole Atheist is just a band name.

It doesn't mean anything.

Y'all go to something like this, you'll come back brainwashed or queer or worse.

Micah flinched as if she'd struck him.

Denise glared at her mother.

A half second too late, Debbie Raimi realized what she'd said.

Oh, Micah, honey, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean, but Micah wasn't listening.

He bolted out the front door, snatched his bicycle from the front porch, and tore off down the hill.

Denise watched him go, then turned to glare at her mother.

Great job, Mom.

You sound just like your brother-in-law.

Denise stormed down the hallway to her bedroom at the end of the single wide and slammed the door.

I didn't mean to hurt his feelings.

I'm sorry.

Denise's door opened to crack, and she yelled back down the hall.

I'm not the one you need to apologize to.

Denise managed to get another full slam out of the door despite barely opening it.

Flustered, her mother nevertheless insisted on having the last word.

I never meant to upset anybody, but under no circumstances are y'all going all the way to Knoxville to see this kind of garbage.

You hear me, Denise?

Denise?

When the walls close in

and the light gets swallowed

and there ain't no place that feels like home

The ones you love

concerning the strangers

And you cast your eyes through the winding road

Keep your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward Clear your heart and mind

Best leave them ghosts behind

when the hearth grows cold and home is nowhere,

then you might as well

when darkness calls run like hell.

70-odd miles south of Glamorgan, in the shabby collection of single-wides known as Windsor Court, the door to another mobile home swung open.

A young woman was ushered through it with enthusiastic hospitality.

She was scared, but she was more pissed off and frustrated than anything else.

Two men followed her over the threshold and latched the door behind them.

The first older man she knew to be the one in charge, even though he appeared to be a normal person and not

like her at all.

The second was tall and built like someone who worked outside for a living, with thick, curly black hair.

He wore jeans and a black peacoat despite the warmth of the summer evening.

Miranda could tell that he was, for lack of a better term, like her.

The older of the pair, Glenn Shelby, bustled her through the entryway and into the tiny living room.

She scooched around the table, perching on the edge of an overstuffed armchair, and Glenn dropped his old bones onto the love seat closest to her.

Here we go, Miss Miranda.

Home again, home again.

Mr.

Troy, would you make sure the door is secured properly?

Can't have our young friend here going on walkabout again now, can we?

I done told y'all this ain't my home, and I don't want to be here.

Please, I can take care of myself.

Just get me to the highway, and I'll be out of y'all's hair.

I got friends I can go to.

I'm sure you do, my dear.

And if you value their lives, you will stay very far away from them for a goodly long while.

Those charged with your care have sent you here until you have solidified your grasp on your new life and can be trusted to operate within the system that keeps us all alive.

So, while you might not like it, this is home for the time being.

The man Glenn Shelby had addressed as Mr.

Troy returned from the rear of the trailer and nodded back the way he'd come.

All locked up, sir.

You need to listen to Mr.

Shelby.

This ain't a game.

In the cities, we're like tiny gods.

We feed as much as we want and from who we want, and nobody notices because the herd is thick enough to let us do it.

Out here,

whew, you might as well be in outer space, girl.

We're like astronauts floating from rock to rock with the help of people like this man.

I don't want to live in some nasty ass old trailer out in the middle of bumfuck.

I had a life.

I had friends.

I had a job.

I had a boyfriend and then...

And then your boyfriend turns you into a vampire.

And a couple weeks later, he got high out of his mind and didn't get in for the sun come up, and this left you without a maker nor anybody else to teach you shit about your new life or how to survive it.

The girl moved to interject, but Glenn cut her off.

Oh, I imagine he taught you a thing or two, like how to throw a pitiful glamour, how to hide your teeth when you need to.

Am I getting warm?

Miranda nodded, then cast her eyes down to the coffee table dejectedly.

Did he teach you how to close a wound so you can drink from the same well twice?

What about running water?

Garlic?

How to turn into a bat?

We can turn into bats.

No, of course not.

You meet one of your kind that can change his shape.

You get as far away from that sunbitch as you can.

Sure, sign of corruption are packed with something darker than you need to be dealing with.

And you'd know this if you hadn't been sired by some child whose main motivation was getting his fangs wet.

Did he tell you who made him?

Do you even know from whose blood you draw your eternal life, girl?

Miranda's head shook almost imperceptibly.

Mikey was from Florida.

I don't know who his people were.

Glenn moved to cut the the stranger off before he got any more involved in the affairs of Windsor Court.

There was something about the tall creature in his smoldering eyes and broad shoulders that he didn't like.

He didn't care if his Rosalie knew him from

before.

There was something off about him.

Oh, thank you, Troy.

But Miranda here is in fact quite fortunate.

Elder Cyrus himself has kindly stepped in to provide.

Fuck Cyrus.

He's He's a drug dealer and an asshole.

He's probably the one that got Mikey killed.

That very well may be, but Cyrus Robinson is the elder of the oldest bloodline in the fair city of Knoxville, and he's agreed to sponsor your time here with us until you have a better idea of what to do with yourself.

I know you probably thought you were signing up for some Anne Rice nonsense, but

the reality is nothing like that.

You're lucky Cyrus and his lot realized you weren't with your maker when he burned and brought you here before you did more harm.

There are rules you must learn and follow.

Those rules will keep you alive.

Speaking of keeping yourself alive, going out in the sun is not how you do that here.

Put this on your burns.

It'll help.

Glenn Shelby removed the lid from a small mason jar of an off-white cream and placed it on the coffee table.

The room filled with the scent of something moldering in a crawl space, the stench of sealed air and decaying flesh.

Oh, Garb!

Smells like roguekill.

I can't put this on my hands, let alone my face.

It does have a

pungent bouquet, but Miss Rosalie makes it herself, and it will ensure your skin heals up nice and pretty.

Your body will recover from most injuries within reason, but sun damage is

different.

It can leave nasty scars if you don't take care of it, right?

So now rub it in thoroughly.

You won't be sorry.

Miranda smeared the foul-smelling salve onto her burned forearms, and the relief was nearly instantaneous.

She might have wept in gratitude if she weren't so busy rubbing it over her hands, arms, and face.

When her task was done and the sting had sufficiently been taken out of her burns, she turned to her host with a pleading expression.

She knew she had to look pitiful, all burned up and covered in dead possum cold cream or whatever this was.

But I can go out at night, right?

Once you are properly trained, yes.

It's far too soon for you to be taken off back to the city to see some silly concert.

We don't know if you can ever show your face there again.

Someone likely saw what you did, and you may have to accept that your life in that town is over.

Once your time here with Miss Rosalie is done, you'll be free to go wherever you wish in accordance with the rules.

Hey, probably for the best.

You got lifetimes to live, girl.

Why would someone lucky enough to be turned while so young and pretty

want to spend them in Knoxville of all places?

I have friends there.

I made a whole life there.

I've already lost my first real boyfriend and now you're telling me I can't see my friends neither?

I didn't ask for this.

I didn't want this.

I just want to go home and live my life.

And that silly concert, as you call it, is important to me.

My friends are putting out an album that they've worked hard on, and I just want to be there for them.

Please let me go.

I'll come right back, I swear.

Sweet girl,

you haven't it since you got here.

You nearly got yourself burnt into cinders.

Now, if we let you near a living soul right now, you'd tear them limb from limb.

Well, you're not like me and him, and I ain't killed you yet.

That has to count for something.

Oh, my dear child you have so much to learn i am not one of you know but i

belong to miss rosalie not as a lover or as a spouse i am her possession her property

her familiar

Your senses do not even register me as a living thing, and even if they did, trying to feed on me would not end well for you.

And on that note, Mr.

Troy, if I I could trouble you once more, the vampire in the peacoat turned and strode into the small kitchen.

He opened the avocado green refrigerator and returned a moment later with a styrofoam cooler.

He popped the lid off, revealing bags of human blood, neatly packaged as if for delivery to a hospital.

Suppertime.

Now, don't that look scrumptious?

That plus the ointment should heal you up nicely.

We'll talk again tomorrow evening when your belly is full and you're less cranky.

I'm truly sorry you are unhappy with your current circumstances, but right now you need to stay here.

Sweet dreams, my dear.

Mr.

Troy, thank you for your help this evening.

Let's leave Miss Miranda to her supper.

Over the mountain in Glamorgan, in lot number 13 of Cherry Hill, rituals were underway.

The prohibitions laid down by Debbie Raimie had proved toothless as usual.

She'd informed Denise and Micah that she'd be going out of town with her on-again, off-again boyfriend Wiley Stidham Thursday evening through Saturday afternoon.

She left them money for food and gas on the kitchen counter and asked that they please not burn the place down.

This particular on-again

was no coincidence.

Wiley had come through Denise's checkout line at the Payless earlier that week and had, as manners would dictate, asked how her mama was doing.

Denise had indicated that her mama was fine, if a bit lonely, and maybe overdue for a night or two out on the town with a handsome man with money.

Wiley Stiddam was neither of those things, but he took the hint and called Debbie Ramey as soon as he got home.

With her mama out of the way, the teens had pulled their money for fuel and gas station wine obtained for them by an older friend, and by the time Denise had finished her shift, the other members of their friend group had already let themselves into her trailer to begin the evening's preparations.

Normally, the black eyeliner and such didn't make its way into the scene until the sun had dipped beneath the horizon, but the three-hour drive to downtown Knoxville had dictated that the transformative process begin early.

When Denise walked through the door, she found the air filled with the fragrances of Aquinette, St.

Ives apricot scrub, Fantasia incense, and clove cigarettes.

Concrete blonde blared from the skinny boon box in her bedroom at the end of the hall.

Johnette Napolitano warning that the sky is a poisonous garden tonight.

Denise slipped into the bathroom located next to it to get ready, applying her cosmetology training to transform from the skinny blonde checkout girl to a creature she thought of as Little Dead Riding Hood in her most private thoughts.

She applied a mixture of foundation and concealer in the palest shades she could find at the drugstore, topped with a layer of translucent corn silk powder with a bit of iridescent sheen, then brushed pale lavender eyeshadow onto her cheeks for blush.

Next, she moved on to her eyes, applying matte black black shadow near her lash line and a pure shimmery white to the upper eyelid up to her eyebrows.

Between these, she brushed on a swoop of deep blackberry.

She lined her eyes in coal black, first using a pencil liner that she gently smudged along her bottom lashes, then drawing a graceful cat eye with liquid liner along the upper lashes.

Finally, she used the same black pencil on her lips, actual black lipstick being in short supply in rural southwest Virginia.

The only time Denise could ever find it was around Halloween when Kmart dedicated a single aisle to costumes, and that stuff was trash.

It was greasy and thin, didn't last worth a damn, and smeared all over besides.

In the bedroom, her best friend Lori Powers sat at the battered old vanity table Denise had scrounged up from a yard sale when she was 12, using Debbie Raimi's old light-up makeup mirror to transform her own pretty cherubic face into a temptress from the shadows.

On the day bed beside her sat the newest member of their little coterie, Brendan McDaniel.

Brendan had relocated from a school in Jacob County, Kentucky, where he had been a star athlete through his junior year, lettering in several sports.

His dad's abrupt job transfer across the state line into Esau County, combined with a torn ACL acquired in the final basketball game of last season, meant he'd been unable to play sports his senior year.

No sports meant no scholarships, which meant Brendan had to stay on top of his grades if he wanted to get into UK in the fall.

He'd met Lori in Spanish 3, a subject he would not have passed without her help.

That class had been a nightmare for the curvy girl with immaculate eyeliner and perfectly dyed hair as black as midnight in a coal mine.

It was filled with the standard-issue mean girls who seemed to take issue with every element of Lori Power's existence.

When the hot new boy told them all to eat shit and mind their business, Brendan's social standing in his new school had taken a dive, but he didn't seem to mind.

He enjoyed Lori's company and had followed her like a puppy right into their little coven of outcasts and weirdos.

While on the surface, Brendan appeared to be a clean-cut jock.

Once they all got to know the new kid, they found he fit right in.

He was into bands like Metallica and Ministry, whom he'd been introduced to by an older kid named Kevin at his old school.

Brendan talked about Kevin a lot.

How Kevin got him into this band or that cult classic movie or Kevin taught him how to make stir-fry with nothing more than soy sauce and sprite for the seasoning.

His prized possession was a watch that Kevin had given him for his 17th birthday.

Denise, Lori, and Micah were pretty certain that Brendan and Kevin had been a bit more than just friends, but they didn't press for the details.

They figured he'd get around to telling them about that in his own good time.

With his incongruous save-by-the-bell haircut, 9-inch nails t-shirt, and black jeans, Brendan looked as though he was trying on a whole new identity tonight.

Micah was painting his nails a dazzling shade of purple glitter.

He watched in amazement as his fingertips became a sparkling forest of violet gemstones.

he studied them for a moment as a look of heavy, pondering thought crossed his face.

I think I hate my name.

Uh, okay.

Why do you hate your name?

It's just so

generic.

It's like there were too many Brandons in the world, so they changed one letter.

My dad might as well have named me Football.

I need a cool nickname.

What do you all think of Thorne?

Ain't nobody calling you Thorn, baby doll.

Why not?

We're out of school.

It's not like the Chads and the Travises are gonna fuck with me now.

Though I would kind of like to see him try.

Brendan grinned to himself.

Bad knee or not, he could probably take most of the boys on the Pioneer's offensive line if it came down to a fair fight.

He might have spent this school year on crutches and the better part of the last six weeks in physical therapy, but he'd been all-region football and wrestling at his old school.

And he'd done his best to keep the rest of his body in shape without doing himself further injury.

Sug,

for one, you don't get to pick your own nickname.

You want to go down to the courthouse and change your government name?

You can do that, but you don't get to pick your nickname.

For two, you wouldn't be a thorn.

I see you as more of a sugar tit.

Sugar tits?

I mean,

I have been working out my pecs lately.

Brendan struck an exaggerated bodybuilding pose, and Micah let out a cackle, struck by the hilarity of their token jock friend flexing like a pro wrestler with his sparkly purple nails.

He laughed so hard he had to set the nail polish down for fear of spilling it all over Denise's bed.

Oh, yes, baby.

Sugar mania is running wild.

Show us what you got.

Woo!

Brandon scooped Micah up and delivered the gentlest body slam he could onto Denise's daybed, nearly sending the box filled with her nail polish collection flying.

Oh God, I've been sugar slammed.

As the hooting and laughing reached his crescendo, Denise poked her head around the corner to see what the fuss was about.

What's going on in here?

Y'all already getting into the Boon's farm without me?

Micah, get off my bed.

Ooh, Brendan, I like your nails.

Brendan held his hands out in front of him, wiggling his fingers while swinging his hips to the beat of the tape, shaking what the good lord gave him as Johnette Napolitano wailed.

All of them joined in singing the final chorus to The Beast, Lori's powerful voice soaring above the others, harmonizing perfectly with the lead singer of Concrete Blonde's signature croon.

By the end of the song, all of them were leaning on each other and laughing, glowing with the kind of camaraderie that only comes along once or twice in a person's life.

The sort of connection that would fade into the golden sunset of youth before they knew it.

Denise hated to be the one to break this spell, but since her older brother Bradley had left town, it had fallen to her to be the responsible one.

And she needed to herd these cats into the car if they wanted to make it to the show on time.

All right, let me go get my crap out of the back seat so y'all have a place to sit.

We need to get on the road.

Micah, make sure you put the lid back on the nail polish good and tight, okay?

That purple glitter wasn't cheap.

Lori, can you make sure he does it right?

Last time he spilled my Lincoln Park after dark, and I still ain't found that exact color again.

I got you, Sug.

You twist him on good, youngin'.

I got it.

I got it, Dee Dee.

Calm down.

The niece walked down the hall, through the living room, and out the front door where their chariot awaited.

The vet, as they called it, sat in the driveway in all its dusty gray glory.

Bradley used to brag about the vet he got for his 16th birthday, the joke being the car in question was a Chuvette and not a Corvette.

In point of fact, he'd received a cake from Foodline and a card with $10 in it when he reached that magical age.

The car he bought himself, mowing lawns and cleaning out gutters for two summers to save up enough to buy the ancient hatchback from Rogers Auto sales a half mile down the road.

He'd plastered the back window with band stickers, Sabbath and anthrax, and some old punk bands like Minor Threat and Social Distortion.

Denise had been slowly adding her own to the mix since she'd inherited the car.

The Cure, of course, Bauhaus and Joy Division, and a smattering of local bands like No More Light, Violent Fear, and Punchin' Judy.

Denise lit up a cigarette and leaned into the back seat, pulling out jackets and sweaters, a couple spare uniform tops, and various other shit she would have taken inside ages ago.

Her brother would have never allowed so much to accumulate.

While in typical teenage fashion, his bedroom might have looked like the aftermath of a tornado, he had been meticulous about the vet.

Spending a couple hours every weekend washing, waxing, and vacuuming out her interior.

He'd been so proud of that car.

Denise could hardly believe it when her brother had handed her the keys the night he told her he was leaving.

The vet had been as much a part of Bradley Raimi as his crooked smile or the sandy brown hair that he'd worn to his shirt collar since he was old enough to go to the barbershop by himself.

She'd called lifelong shotgun the day he brought it home, and Bradley would let her drive it home after shows occasionally, even before she had her own license when it was late and he'd had a beer or two too many.

From time to time, she'd taken it to work when their mama's car was in the shop, but it had felt weird to slip behind the wheel and claim the vet as her own.

And truth to tell, she'd rather have him than the damn car.

She missed her big brother.

Four years older than Denise, Bradley had hung around for a couple years after graduating Lamorgan High, taking classes during the day and delivering pizza at night.

She had known he was trying to save up money to get out of Esau County, but it had still come as a shock when he told her he was leaving.

He'd earned his certificate in welding from the local community college and was going to North Dakota, of all places, to work on the pipeline.

It was long hours, but good money, far better money than he could earn anywhere around here.

And he could use to build a real life for himself.

That's what he called it.

A real life.

And it had struck Denise that maybe she too could dream of something beyond what Southwest Virginia had to offer.

Her brother, like everyone else, assumed she would just get a job at a local salon after she passed her cosmetology exam, but at this point, Denise wasn't sure she even wanted to take the damn thing.

Did she really want to spend the rest of her life putting perms on the old ladies holding down the pews at her Uncle Buck's fire and brimstone church?

Sure, she enjoyed doing hair and makeup, but she wondered if she could do something more.

Or hell, just do do it someplace else.

She wished she could talk to Bradley about it, but he didn't call much.

He was pulling 14-hour shifts six days a week, he told her the last time they spoke.

I mean, he was obviously excited about his prospects, but he sounded exhausted, too.

Her mama was no help.

Debbie Raimi was afraid to set foot outside the mountains.

Even their annual trip over to Paradise to buy school clothes at the mall had obviously made her a nervous wreck, as she was convinced any town bigger than Glay Morgan was was bound to be a hotbed of criminal activity.

She would grab Denise's arm and clutch her purse if anyone other than a sales girl at JCPenney so much as glanced in their direction, and then snap at her daughter when Denise inevitably rolled her eyes.

Bradley's easygoing manner and sense of humor had acted as something of a buffer between the two generations of Raimi women.

He could usually diffuse the arguments that flared up between them with increasing frequency as Denise grew older, with a deft change of subject or one of his goofy jokes.

Without him, the atmosphere in the single wide grew ever more tense.

Denise heard the screen door bang open behind her, interrupting her wool gathering as their tiny coterie marched out into the late afternoon sun, a ragtag company dressed in black, the color drained from their faces courtesy of Maybelline and Mary Kay.

It was strange to see them all gothed out in the middle of the day, but she also felt a glow of pride.

Here we are, Cherry Hill, your children of the night.

What music we make.

Hey, shotgun.

Oh, man, I wanted shotgun for one.

The hell you say?

Ladies up front.

Sugar tits in the back.

Micah and Brendan clambered into the back of the car, grab-assing and carrying on the way boys do.

Denise stood just inside the open driver's side door, hesitating for a moment before she took her place behind the wheel.

You okay, Suge?

Yeah, I think so.

I've never made a drive this far on my own.

Bradley usually drove.

Yeah, I miss his dumbass, too.

It's gonna be fine.

You got this.

I can drive some on the way back if you need me to.

No offense, but you're blinder than I am at night, and you drive like a bat out of hell.

All right, let's go.

With that, the vet rumbled to life, and the dark heart of Glay Morgan took to the road in search of good friends, good music, and good times.

About an hour after sundown,

in a house somewhere out near Big Gap Road in Baker's Gap,

a kitchen phone began to ring,

and Cody Blevins plucked it from its place on the wall before it could finish its chirping song a second time.

Uh, hello.

Uh, mayor?

It's uh, it's Glen Sheldy.

Uh, hey, Glenn, everything uh all right up there?

We do have a small situation.

Uh, we We brought Miss Miranda back to the property and told her very sternly that she was not to leave her rooms tonight, but she got loose again.

I know.

Come across the CB about 20 minutes ago.

The Ayers boys spotted her getting into a service van for an HVAC company out of Sevirva.

They were following up on it.

Oh, good.

You know the Ayers boys well enough, I think.

Could you reach out to them and see if they were.

It was too late, Glenn.

They clocked her earlier today when she was in town.

Like I said,

it was on the CB.

Everybody heard it.

Bird called claim on it.

Wouldn't surprise me if she's already in the wind.

I'm sorry, man.

There ain't nobody can reason with that woman once she's on the hunt.

Oh.

I see.

Thank you, Bear.

I'll see what we can do on our end.

Don't do nothing stupid now, Glenn.

This is Bird we're talking about.

You know, I know, I know.

Y'all have your protocols and we have ours.

Have a good night, Bear.

You too, Glenn.

And for what it's worth,

I'm sorry.

So am I, Bear.

So am I.

Well,

hey there, family.

Thank y'all for sticking with us as we journey into the deepest shadows of the early 90s here in the final arc of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia Run Like Hell.

We have bodies in motion from both sides of the proverbial state line headed towards the big city of Knoxville.

Who do y'all think is following on their heels?

Guess we'll have to come back next time and find out what bird of ill omen might be casting its shadow over our young folk, both living and dead.

I hope you'll join us.

I truly do.

Now if you want even more stories of the green and the dark that wander all over the timeline from the 19th century through the late 20th, you could cast your tithe into Collection Plate and join us over in The Holler, our paid subscription service where you can access hours upon hours hours of exclusive storylines like Build Mama Coffin, Black Mouth Dog, Familiar and Beloved, alongside studio productions of some of our live show stories such as Easy Money or The Ties That Bind.

If you can spare a few dollars a month, head on over to old godsofappalachia.com slash The Holler and join us today.

We promise that it's well worth your time and hard-earned money.

Now this is your there ain't no goth party like an Appalachian goth party because an Appalachian goth party don't stop even when people yell slurs from passing pickup trucks.

Reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep nerd media and it's distributed by Rusty Quill.

Today's story was written and produced by Steve Schell and Cam Collins.

Our theme song is by Brother Land and Blood.

And our outro music, Neon Dracula, is by Violent Fear, aka Jacob Danielson more, and it's currently available over on Jacob's Bandcamp.

And you can find the link to that in the show notes.

The voice of Miranda is Andy Marie Tillman.

The voice of Troy is Adam Kampuris.

The voice of Niche Raimi is Autumn Bogeman.

The voice of Micah Raimi is Aaron Bentley.

The voice of Brendan McDaniel is Craig Rice.

And the voice of Lori Powers is Allison Mullins.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you real soon.

lovers

tired

Quick

on

the

fire

of an aching lust

is It's an aching lust I just

don't

trust,

we belong with us,

we belong with us

We are draguous.

Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game, Day Scratches from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly.

Must be 18 years or older to purchase, play, or claim.

Hey, I'm Paige DeSorbo, and I'm always thinking about underwear.

I'm Hannah Berner, and I'm also thinking about underwear, but I prefer full coverage.

I like to call them my granny panties.

Actually, I never think about underwear.

That's the magic of Tommy John.

Same, they're so light and so comfy, and if it's not comfortable, I'm not wearing it.

And the bras, soft, supportive, and actually breathable.

Yes, Lord knows the girls need to breathe.

Also, I need my PJs to breathe and be buttery soft and stretchy enough for my dramatic tossing and turning at night.

That's why I live in my Tommy John pajamas.

Plus, they're so cute because they fit perfectly.

Put yourself on to Tommy John.

Upgrade your drawer with Tommy John.

Save 25% for a limited time at tommyjohn.com slash comfort.

See site for details.

Do you want to work in an environment where your voice is heard?

At Siemens Energy, we welcome perspectives and ideas from every region and background.

Because we believe a diverse team is the only way to tackle the diverse and complex challenges of the energy transition.

Are you ready to add your voice to the mix?

Step forward and join us.

Let's make tomorrow different today.

Siemens Energy.