Episode 85: When You're Strange

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Come to the dark side.

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

So listener discretion is advised.

Baker's Gap, Tennessee,

1991.

It was 4.45 on a Wednesday evening and Cody Blevins was just about whooped.

He'd been back and forth in the company tow truck every hour on the hour since he clocked into Blevins towing and service at six that morning.

He'd towed two cars out of two entirely different fender benders on opposite ends of town before lunch.

After that, he got the privilege of handling two blowouts up on the interstate by exits 46 and 50, respectively.

He'd just returned to the garage from that run when he got a call informing him that the pastor's wife was having engine trouble out at Rising Creek Baptist.

Since his shop had replaced her alternator last spring and it was still under warranty, off he went to work through his lunch hour in the sweltering summer sun.

After he got her back on the road, another request came through on the CB radio that sent him out to Red Fork Falls, where some dumbass out-of-towner had busted his oil pan.

As if that pothole-ridden nightmare of a road wasn't bad enough, the whole area was rife with poison oak.

It had been a long day.

And now he sat in the drive-thru of Pal's sudden service, waiting for his double big pal, two chili dogs, large Frenchy fries, and peachy tea.

Hell, he might not even make it home with his meal.

He could just pull into one of the spots by the drive-through and chow down right there.

He had the house to himself tonight.

His girlfriend Regina was visiting her folks down near Oak Ridge, so it wasn't like there was anybody waiting for him.

He was off the clock and his cousin Davy was on call for the night shift.

The world was his oyster and he was hungry enough to eat it.

Once a nice lady in the window handed him his brown paper bag, a heaven-sent manna and a giant styrofoam cup of the world's most perfect iced tea, Cody Blevins eased his truck into a space on the far edge of the the parking lot, right across the two-lane road from the interstate on-ramp, and set to it.

He was about three bites into his double cheeseburger when he saw her.

She was young, probably no older than 16 or 17, and crouched in the late afternoon shade of the overpass.

Dressed in black jeans, a washed-out black t-shirt, and dark sunglasses, her box-dyed black hair hung about her face in a frizzy shroud.

She was paler than a saucer of milk and looked like she was working up a nasty sunburn.

You didn't seem any of the fashionably tragic around Baker's Gap these days, so she caught Cody's eye and held it.

After that business a few years ago with Scotty Blankenship and his little cult, the number of kids walking around in all black and raccoon eyeliner had greatly declined, even over in the larger city of Tipton.

Thanks to Cody and a handful of other good folks who worked behind the scenes to make sure the things that went bumping the night didn't end up bumping into the daytime, that whole mess never ended up on the evening news.

But there was always talk, and rumors abounded about what had really happened to Scotty and his little army of weirdos who used to hassle people for fun.

Baker's Gap was a sort of small town that feared few things more than teenagers and black lipstick who listened to music their parents are sure must be about the devil.

At least, that's what those TV preachers say.

The satanic panic, as they had called it on the national news, had mostly blown over in the bigger cities, with most folks feeling a bit silly in retrospect about the tizzy they'd worked themselves into and wishing to forget the whole sorry affair, but it was still alive and thriving in small-town central Appalachia.

Cody's family had been in Baker's Gap for a long time, and he knew most of the families who'd had kids that age.

He didn't recognize this girl.

And she was clearly doing her best to remain unnoticed under that overpass.

He finished off his burger, burger, took a long sip of his tea, and unwrapped his first chili dog as he watched her detach from her perch and scrabble down to the road proper, slinking toward the edge of the shade cast by the highway above.

An 18-wheeler thundered overhead as she timidly approached the point where sunlight met shadow in a bright hot line.

Now that she was closer, he could see the sun had indeed done a number on the poor girl.

Her skin was bright red, and you wouldn't be surprised if she had blisters.

Cody polished off the dog in a handful of bites, thinking he'd stay out of the sun if he was that prone to burn.

She hesitated at the edge of the shadow, then extended her lily-white hand from the shade into the late afternoon light.

There was a spark and a whisper of smoke, and she recoiled as if she touched an electric fence, scurrying back to the spot of deeper shadow where she'd been hiding before.

He took another big swallow of sweet tea and cussed under his breath.

God damn it.

Like I needed this today.

Cody packed the remainder of his feast back into the bag and placed it on the passenger side floorboard as he considered what to do next.

If he had just seen the girl there as he drove by, he might not have thought twice about her, but watching the way she reacted to the sunlight had summoned up a whole parade's worth of red flags.

There were all sorts of things in the underbelly of Appalachia that didn't like sunlight, but only a few walking around in corporeal form that could actually be harmed by it.

There was no shortage of stories about mysterious pale women walking out of the woods to lead hitchhikers to their demise, but those were usually nocturnal.

And where would she have come from?

All the way out here.

They were on the outskirts of town, a modern wasteland of shopping centers and fast food.

There weren't any old graveyards or dense patches of wood close by.

He unfurled a map of the area in his mind and dropped a mental pin where the girl sat.

She was right off the interchange at US-23 and State Road 107.

He pondered the idea she could have come from the interstate, but that didn't sit right.

What if she was trying to get to the interstate instead?

Could she be running from something?

Then the most likely scenario came into focus.

Heading west on State Road 107 after it turned into State Road 81, there was a gated private drive festooned with with no trespassing signs that did not appear on any official county maps.

It wasn't a sort of fancy wrought-iron gate that might lead to some private country club community.

It was a simple, sturdy affair of the kind meant to keep vehicles out and livestock in.

Accordingly, what lay at the end of that road was not a neighborhood of many mansions, but rather a mid-sized ranch house behind which lay a scattering of single-wides that comprised a small trailer park.

An old weathered metal sign identified it as Windsor Park.

Windsor Park did not advertise vacancies or lots for lease, though many of its units were often unoccupied.

The people who needed to know about a place like this lived

a different sort of life.

Those who didn't need to know were better off.

Eyeing the pale, burned young woman, Cody's gut told him this was exactly where she'd come from.

He brushed the crumbs from his beard and pulled out of the pals' parking lot, driving slowly under the overpass.

He braked as he neared the girl who had moved further up the embankment.

Cody took a deep breath to prepare himself for whatever happened once she realized he was stopping, then leaned across the seat to roll down his passenger side window.

Excuse me, miss?

Are you okay?

Do you need help?

The girl ignored him for a long moment, averting her gaze to the road.

Uh, miss,

can you hear me?

Uh, do you need assistance?

Realizing he wasn't going away, she took off her dark sunglasses and stared into the face of the big man in the truck.

Her eyes were a smoky amber that shimmered briefly in the gloom of the road.

I'm fine, sir.

You move along.

I'm just waiting for my ride, is all.

Cody felt the gentle push against his mind.

It was a feeble attempt, clumsy, really, to make him move on.

He'd had a few things try to mess with his free will over the years, a common occurrence in his secondary line of work.

And he had taken precautions to prevent such nonsense for years.

Darling, you don't gotta lie to me.

Uh, if you need help, I can get you help.

Just say the word.

Cody Blevins met the girl's gaze, letting her know that whatever she had tried wouldn't work.

Oh, I...

No, really.

Please, sir, just go.

I'm fine.

My ride's just late.

And...

And I'll be fine.

Just leave me alone, please.

All right.

Sorry to bother you.

Have a good evening now.

Cody sighed, rolled the the passenger window back up, and headed west.

It's a good thing Gina wasn't waiting on him.

This day just wouldn't end.

And he had a feeling the night would be worse if he didn't hurry.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up to the gate outside Windsor Park, stopping alongside the cluster of mailboxes in the high weeds at the edge of the property.

He checked his watch and glanced up at the late afternoon sun.

Full dark wouldn't come until almost nine in high summer, so this was as safe as any time to call.

With an effort that was two parts finesse, one part elbow grease, he unlatched and swung the front gates open.

Then he got back in the truck and drove on through.

Cody tried not to flinch as they swung shut and latched behind him.

He continued up the hill and within a few minutes parked in front of a shabby looking house the color of turned mayonnaise.

The porch was a sagging, dirty structure piled with old bicycles, stacks of newspapers, and other assorted junk.

Cody reached under his shirt and pulled out a chain which held an old set of dog tags and a charm bag, allowing them to hang in plain sight.

He then took a deep breath, stepped onto the porch, and knocked on the front door.

Glenn!

Hey, buddy, wake up.

We need to have a little talk.

Don't act like you don't hear me, bud.

Come on now.

Cody Blevins wasn't the sort of man who'd just go pounded on someone's door without good reason, especially if he knew the folks inside worked the night shift, which was sort of the case here.

Glenn, if I have to invoke certain rights and privileges, I will.

But if we can keep this a friendly visit, I'd appreciate it, brother.

Cody raised his meaty fist to knock again, but then the door cracked open, and a pair of bleary eyes peered from behind a chain that stretched taut over the narrow passage.

Oh,

hey bear.

Sorry.

I didn't hear you knocking.

I was down in the basement doing some

work.

What time is it?

The man behind the door peered over Cody's shoulder into the early evening sunlight.

It's a little early for a social call, don't you think?

It is,

and I apologize, but I think we might have a situation.

How many have you got staying in the park right now?

Situation?

What's going on?

Is there a problem?

None of us have left the property today, not to my knowledge, at least.

Miss Rosalie spends most of her time sleeping or pondering and ain't bothered nobody.

We stay right here on our land, and them that pass through here only stay their appointed time.

We do our best to make sure the accords we have agreed to are kept and no oaths are broken.

We certainly don't want no trouble with you and the council or anybody else for that matter.

Glenn, Glenn, I need you to focus for me.

Right now, everything is fine.

I'm sure you and Miss Rosalie have stayed well within bounds, but that's...

that's not what I'm asking.

How many folks have you got staying out back right now?

Glenn Shelby was older than Cody's daddy by 30 years, but didn't look a day over 50.

His hair was a wild gray tangle.

And his once jowly face was peppered with a frosting of white stubble.

He was, technically, technically still human.

But the thing that slept in the basement of the house, the thing to which Glenn Shelby had dedicated his life,

was not.

Well, let's see.

Mr.

Thomas left three nights ago, made it safely to Louisville, called me when he got there.

Yes, he did.

And

Miss Turner.

I believe you met her one time.

She passed through last week.

Such a nice lady.

I appreciate you keeping up with everybody, Glenn, but that's not what I asked you.

Who's staying out back right now?

The old man scratched the back of his head and pulled a pair of wire-frame spectacles from around his neck, sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

He took a top-bound spiral notepad from his back pocket and flipped it open, scanning the pages.

Well, there's Mr.

Mobley in number four.

He's here till the end of the month.

Young Mr.

Franklin from over in Charleston is in number six, but just for a night or two.

He's on his way back home after staying the season in Indianapolis, I believe.

You got a girl who looks like a teenager.

Maybe a little older.

Oh, you mean Miranda.

Just got here last week.

Supposed to stay full term, per our friends over in Knoxville.

She is a young one indeed, only been in the family for a little while.

Lovely girl.

Staying in unit number two, so we can keep a close eye on her.

Cody sighed.

Well, you ain't doing the best job of that, Glenn.

That lovely girl is currently stuck under the overpass down by pals.

I don't know how she got there, but she's going to end up burnt to a crisp if somebody don't go get her.

And if she's still out after dark and somebody like Bird or one of the heirs boys come across her, she's fair game.

Did you not explain the rules to her?

There was a fumbling chain and the door swung open when Shelby stood framed by the deep darkness of the house behind him.

He was a short, dumpy man, dressed in a rumpled white button-up and a pair of well-loved Levi's.

His feet were bare, as Miss Rosalie didn't allow shoes on her carpet.

No light entered the squat box of a dwelling.

Every window had been boarded up and sealed with blackout curtains, and Cody would bet good money the lack of light wasn't the only thing that obscured what lay within.

What?

Oh, my, of course I explained the rules to her, Cody Blevins.

What kind of monster do you think I am?

She is young in every sense of the word.

Had it in her head she was going back to the city for a concert of some sort.

Said she'd rather die than miss it.

We told her that was simply out of the question, question, and if she doesn't abide by the rules, dying is a very real possibility.

I'm afraid I didn't take her seriously.

Now, that's on me.

Let me check with Miss Rosalie, and I'll go get her.

Is there a

problem,

Glenn?

The voice that rolled from the murky dark behind the old man hit Cody Blevins like a blow to the gut.

He felt the pouch around his neck tremble as its tones washed over him.

It was deep and masculine, touched with power power meant to inspire fear and unease.

Cody could not see the speaker, but Glenn's eyes went wide.

He spun around and stepped back into the house, pulling the door almost shut behind him, partially blocking Cody from view.

No, no, no, no, no problem at all.

No, small matter with one of the other residents.

Please, uh,

go back downstairs.

I'll be right with you.

Thank you, Troy.

Cody felt the presence, heavy and malevolent, linger for a long moment, then withdraw into the depths of the house.

As the sound of the stranger's boots on the creaky basement stairs faded, the old man turned back to Cody, who eyed him cautiously.

Who's that?

You got somebody else staying in the house?

Downstairs with your lady?

You think that's a good idea, Glenn?

Um, that is, uh,

that is Troy.

He's apparently an old acquaintance of my...

of Miss Rosalie.

He'll be staying in number eight once we get him settled.

Just arrived last night.

Glenn's eyes took on a faraway look for a moment.

Then he snapped back to attention.

Yes, thank you, Bear.

I appreciate your discretion.

I'll take the van to fetch young Miranda and get her resettled, and then take care of Mr.

Troy.

Busy times.

Summer is always a busy time, if you'll excuse me.

The door to the rundown house shut in his face, and Cody heard the turning of locks and the scrabbling of the chain as Glenn slid it back into place.

His supper roiled in his stomach.

He did not need this today.

When he drove his truck back down the narrow drive, he found the gates already open, awaiting his departure.

He turned back onto State Road 81 and headed for Baker's Gap.

He'd sit and watch and make sure Glenn collected the girl before sundown.

Then maybe he could go home and and get some sleep.

Somehow he doubted it.

There was trouble on the wind, and he had the unsettling feeling something bad was coming.

If not tonight, then soon.

And if not here, then not far away.

Why couldn't it be something simple like ghosts or even werewolves?

They would go years on in without hearing a peep from the folks that came and went from Windsor Park.

And when they did,

it usually meant blood and misery.

Goddamn vampires.

More trouble than they're worth.

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 ill

Vampires were relatively rare in Appalachia for a number of reasons.

For starters, there was a lot more competition for prey.

Haints, boogers, shapeshifters, vengeful spirits, night folk who are not the same thing as vampires, and the like were here first.

And that's without factoring in those things crafted by the great and sleeping darkness under the mountains, who've been here almost as long and can be very territorial.

Second, while the members of Fangit Society might run amok in the shadows of bigger cities where folk don't notice a few disappearances or have become desensitized to the number of dead bodies appearing on the evening news, Appalachia is primarily composed of small towns.

Smaller population means people notice when their neighbors go missing.

These are folks who know the score, at least part of it.

and are willing to take action if something new starts drinking the local barflies like bottles of knee-high, just as there are bloodlines sworn to serve the green or the inner dark.

There are families who have, for generations,

hunted anything supernatural in the name of keeping their communities safe.

One can easily imagine the bloodshed that could result from such a scenario, and thus, there are rules.

Ever since the first grannies clashed with things that weren't animal nor human in the deep woods, there have been treaties, agreements, and pacts laid down so that those who walk by night and those who live by day can coexist as peacefully as possible.

Balance and order were good things for day-to-day living, and there was no reason to burden the average citizen with the knowledge of the things beyond their kin unless absolutely necessary.

When the first bloodsuckers appeared in Appalachia alongside mortal folk during the Great Migration and ensuing land theft, there were those who knew what they were.

Every culture has some form of lore about those who walk the night and drink the blood of the living, and most folks didn't have much love for them.

Unlike the haints and boogers that were a natural occurrence, any place has its own, the undead were just people who got turned into something more dangerous.

They could easily be uprooted, run out of town, or slaughtered en masse.

To prevent such open displays of violence in front of the general population, the night registry was put in place shortly before the Civil War.

Vampires could pass through Appalachia, even reside there for up to 90 days, so long as they dwelt in an approved domicile overseen by authorities of their kind, whose job it was to ensure their transit through the region left as few bloody footprints as possible.

Windsor Court was just such a place.

Miss Rosalie, who spent most of her time sleeping in the basement of that old ranch-style house, was afforded the privilege of being the sole permanent undead resident of Johnson County on the condition that she act as the sponsor and responsible party for any of her kind passing through.

She had ruled that way station for the last hundred years or so, and during that time there was not a whisper of vampires in Appalachia.

Well,

almost.

As Cody Blevin shook off the shivers from his visit to that trailer park of the dead, a similar neighborhood filled with the living was coming to life an hour and a half away over in Glaymorgan, Virginia as folks made their way home from work.

Cherry Hill Mobile Home Park was a respectable, family-friendly affair, as such places go.

Located not far from both the middle and elementary schools and a stone's throw from the high school, it was clean and well-kept.

If trailer park living was your lot in life, you could do a whole lot worse.

All manner of folks made Cherry Hill their home, from the family of four working their asses off to get by, to the retired mamma and papa who just wanted a smaller place to manage, to folks who could afford what they could afford, and that that meant dropping a single wide on a lot and doing the best they could, so be it.

At lot number 13, Denise Raimi had just returned home from a long day at the payless and was having a well-deserved smoke on the front steps before the evening chaos of making supper for her mom and younger cousin Micah, who were on their way back from a dental appointment over in Tipton.

Micah turned 16 next month and was finally getting braces after years of delay due to his mess of family giving consent, then not giving consent, and Medicaid generally being an asshole about it.

Micah had been living with Denise, her mama Debbie, and until recently, her older brother Bradley for a while now.

His parents, Bunk and Winona, weren't missing or dead.

They just

kind of sucked, both as parents and his people.

Bunk Raimi was the niece and Bradley's uncle.

He was a holy roller and a hypocrite, the sort of man who sat first or second pew every Sunday, hand-raising and hollering when appropriate, then spent the rest of his time being an emotionally abusive, controlling narcissist.

He had never amounted to anything in his life and was mad as hell that anybody else did.

His wife, Winona, had left him a half dozen times, but

always come back.

She was a sad, bitter little woman, but being married to Bunk Raimi would do that to you.

Bunk wanted a hulking son in a letterman's jacket to accomplish all the things he never could.

He wanted a boy who would bring the family a little shine with some pictures on the front page of the sports section in the local paper.

What he got was Micah,

who started high school at five foot nothing and a hundred pounds soaking wet.

He looked and sounded just like his mama, which drove his daddy crazy.

He loved fantasy novels, horror movies, and was about as tough and masculine as a My Little Pony hairdryer.

By the time he was 14, he was sure his daddy hated him and his painted fingernails as much as he hated the posters of androgynous rock stars who stared out of those staple-kissed portraits that adorned the walls of Micah's bedroom.

That gallery of grim wraiths with made-up faces and ludicrous hairdos drove his daddy crazy.

By the time Micah was fifteen and had rocketed up to a towering five-foot-four, Bunky had ripped all those posters down a million times, screaming about backward messages and devil music making his boy into a queer.

And when his dad had moved to take his stereo, a boombox with detachable speakers and dual cassette deck that had been a gift from Denise and Bradley two Christmases ago, the boy hit his breaking point.

He'd jumped up and shoved his daddy hard enough to send him sprawling into the hallway of the house he'd grown up in.

Bunk Raimi had clambered to his feet in a quiet fury and told him he had a choice.

He could be ready for prayer meeting that night, have all that shit scrubbed off his fingernails and all them devil worshipers' pictures off the walls of his house, and be ready to apologize, or he could be gone.

Micah had packed up his things while his folks were at work and rode his bike the 10 minutes down to Cherry Hill to stay with his cousins.

He'd been there ever since.

Denise was tired.

She'd been on her feet all day running a register and was over it.

She closed her eyes, blew out smoke, and listened for the familiar sound of her mama's cutlass supreme coming up the road.

This was the summer after her high school graduation.

She should be out partying her ass off, getting into trouble for the last time before half her friends went off to college or the military and the other half settled into jobs.

Denise had taken the vocational track through high school, focusing on cosmetology.

Her end goal was to get her state license, but the closer the date of the exam got, the less certain she was she wanted to do it.

She'd really just taken the classes to learn how to bleach her own hair without it falling out and to get that Sally Beauty Supply professional discount card.

Like many of the Glamorgan High School class of 91 who weren't committed to some far-off four-year school, Denise had limited options.

She could enlist, head over to that brewing storm in the desert, or sign up for the local community college and spin her wheels until she either earned a certificate of some sort or burned out and quit.

Neither option appealed to Denise or her friends.

The tail end of Generation X were a peculiar bunch.

They were latchkey kids and survivors, but they weren't quite as jaded and numb as their older counterparts depicted on TV or in movies.

Denise and her friends still gave a shit and thought maybe they could dredge some sort of happiness out of life.

Currently, the only thing that really made Denise happy was music.

Local underground music, to be specific.

While lots of folks thought that Appalachian music was all banjos, bluegrass, or a particular flavor of country, it simply wasn't so and never had been.

Every generation rebels against the traditions of those who come before it, and punk, hardcore, goth, metal, dirty, gut bucket, garage band, rock and roll, all these could be found around southwest Virginia, East Tennessee, and eastern Kentucky.

Not so much in places like Gla Morgan or Prince's Flat.

Esau's County-aspiring musicians and folks who loved music like Denise had to drive over the mountain to the Tri-Cities, Model City, Tipton, and Paradise, where they could see bands they'd only read about and well-worn Xerox pages of fanzines passed down from older siblings and cousins.

All three of the bigger towns had their own flavor of music their parents definitely wouldn't understand.

Denise loved the fact that these were kids just like her and her friends playing shows and putting out records.

These weren't famous rock stars she never took a chance of seeing in concert, much less meeting.

They were normal people.

Their small circle of weirdos had become friends with local bands like Jabberwockie and Aggie Colored Karma, who were doing their best to channel the spirit of early 90s Seattle into Esau County, and they were okay.

But it was the hour-long late-night drive to the warehouse skate park in Paradise or to an old office space in Tipton that got her excited.

That's where she could meet other people like her who hadn't grown up in shitty towns like Glaymorgan or Tom's Creek, who introduced her to other bands and shows.

And they were usually pretty friendly if you didn't act like a dumb hick.

The Tri-Cities were great for local shows.

But seeing bigger bands required driving the three hours to Knoxville.

A daunting task in the 77 Chevette Denise had inherited when her brother Bradley skipped town.

A six-hour round trip, not counting time spent at the show with a cab packed with small-town goths, was a tall order for the ancient sticker-covered four-cylinder.

If the right show come along, though, she vowed to make it happen.

There were times when this town threatened to smother her with its smallness, and those road trips and adventures were the only things that kept her sane.

The region's music scene connected them to something bigger in real, tangible ways.

For example, her best friend Lori's cousin Marcus, who moved to Tipton for college, had ended up in a really good goth band called No More Light.

They played with a bunch of bigger touring bands at the office space in downtown Tipton, as well as local bars closer to campus.

Last year, they opened for Violent Fear, Micah's favorite band.

But it had been on a school night, so they'd missed out.

Still, they were friends with a girl whose cousin had played on the same stage as the guys who wrote Neon Dracula.

And that was something.

Denise was shaken from her musings by the sound of her mom's car pulling into the driveway.

Debbie Ramey had barely stopped the car when the passenger side door flew open and Micah tore up the short driveway clutching a sheet of paper in his hand.

Dee D Dee, you'll never believe what I found out at the record store.

It's happening.

They're coming back.

We have to go.

Can you have Lori call Marcus?

It's all ages.

We can all go this time.

Denise took the paper from her cousin's hand.

The boy was vibrating with excitement, his eyes dewy with happy tears.

She looked down at what turned out to be a show flyer, clearly constructed by somebody with access to cheap art supplies and a photocopier.

The top and bottom of the page sported thick bands of black toner with white lettering.

The middle was occupied with band photos and logos clipped from something else, then awkwardly taped into place in Xerox.

It read, Record release show,

violent fear, with special guests, No More Light, Tipton, Tennessee, and Foxhole Atheist from Kentucky.

Thursday, June 18th, doors at 7,

$5.

All ages.

The Mercury, Knoxville, Tennessee.

Oh, holy shit.

That's tomorrow night.

Please, Dee Dee, we gotta go.

I'll just die if we don't.

Well, hey there, family.

Welcome to the final arc of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia Run Like Hell.

We've come back home for this last run, both in the sense that we've returned to where we started this season in Baker's Gap, but also because we're wandering over the mountain to that place that birthed me in Cam, Esau County.

It ain't easy being one of the weird kids in rural Appalachia, and we're excited to give you a little taste of what that was like.

Now, if you'd like to keep up with us in between episodes, we invite you to make your way over to oldgodsofappalachia.com, where you can complete your social media ritual and follow us on all the relevant platforms.

And if you want even more stories from our Appalachia, you can cast your offering into the collection plate and join us in the holler, where you can find exclusive stories like Build Mama a Coffin, Familiar and Beloved, and so much more, all for a reasonable fee that for the time being does not ask for hair, blood, or your firstborn.

Just visit old godsofappalachia.com slash theholler to sign up today.

And this is your the only backward messages we ever got came from people who'd rather judge us than understand us.

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

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

It's currently available over on Jacob's Bandcamp, and you can find a 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 Denise Raimi is Autumn Bogeman.

The voice of Micah Raimi is Aaron Bentley.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you real soon.

Fill the

mind

as the air

tastes thick

as a lovers

tire

Quick

on

the

fire

of an aching lust

It's an aching lust, I just

don't

trust,

keep it all with us,

keep it all with us,

keep it all the way,

all with us,

keep it on with us,

are dragging ourselves,

be your dirt,

what you deserve.

Family, won't you come with me into the darkness,

into the sweet-smelling gloom of a dead mooned night,

into the realm

of Sucrabay.

A woman-owned and operated fragrance company like no other.

With hand-blended small batches of perfumes with names like Nightshade, Chloroform,

Goth as fuck,

and I come from a long line of terrifying women.

Sucrabe is your source for smelling enticing and terrifying at the same time.

For more information on their world-bending fragrances, as well as subscription bags and a marketplace connecting you to over 40 other indie business owners, head over to sucrabay.com.

S-U-C-R-E-A-B-E-I-L-L-E.com.

Look in the show notes for a link.

Come to the dark side.

We smell fantastic.

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.

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

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