Episode 82: Cold Call

Well, hey there, family.

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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.

There are moments that serve as turning points that change the course of life as we know it.

There is the world before, irretrievable, and the world that exists after, forever altered.

The feeling of the envelope in a young man's hand that informs him his country has drafted him into bloody service.

The blazing flash of panic as a soldier realizes he's stepped on a landmine, the knock on a worried mother's door that announces the arrival of two men in uniform who brought her only a folded flag and a letter.

Seeing the strangely dressed man step from the woods near Chaplin's Creek was just such a moment for Chip Collins, little though he knew it at the time.

Chip and his longtime friend Gary Jesse regarded the stranger in their midst for several silent seconds.

Chip had no idea who the man was or why on earth he was tramping around the woods in what appeared to be his Sunday best, but he had a sneaking suspicion who'd seen him.

He set his tackle box on the ground and shifted his fishing pole to his left shoulder.

He wasn't expecting trouble.

Not really.

Not from this soft-handed stranger with his shiny shoes and perfectly starched collar, but his appearance here was odd, and it never hurt to be cautious.

His tone was polite but firm when he spoke.

Mister, you may not be aware, but uh, this is private property.

I know it's easy to get turned around out in the woods and maybe you missed it, but there are signs posted.

Beside him, Gary muttered under his breath, the fence might have been a clue, too.

The man's gaze flickered briefly toward Gary, and just for a moment, his pleasant demeanor slipped.

His lips twisted into a scowl, and something akin to rage flashed in his eyes.

Gary shifted uneasily, sinking back on his heels.

Just as quick, though, that look

was gone.

And Chip couldn't quite be sure he hadn't imagined it.

The stranger blinked dismissively, his attention returning to Chip.

He offered him an oily smile, and there was something

off

about the expression.

It was more than simply insincere, though it certainly was that.

It was almost as if the stranger didn't fully

comprehend what a smile should look like or why a person would choose to smile in the first place.

It was a bit too wide, too eager, almost a mimicry of actual warmth.

His teeth were sharp and unnaturally white,

his eyes glacial.

It was like staring into a void.

When the man had initially spoken, his voice had roiled low in his throat in a near baritone, but as he opened his mouth to respond, what came out now rose in pitch to match the tone and cadence of normal conversation.

His choice of words was odd too.

Had the man asked to parley?

Who even talked like that?

Oh, I'm aware, and I believe you're just the man I'm looking for.

It's Collins, right?

Roger Collins?

The question all but confirmed Chip's suspicion.

His eyes hardened, and his voice was flat when he answered.

Uh-huh.

The stranger stuck out his hand.

His teeth gleamed.

Vincent Albright, I represent the Cumberland Valley Authority.

We'd like to have a chat.

Chip eyed the proffered hand, but made no move to shake it.

A jet, huh?

So you sneak over my fence and follow me out to the middle of the woods.

Have you heard of a telephone, Mr.

Albright?

Unperturbed, the man calling himself Albright tucked his hands into his pockets, rocking casually back on his heels.

Please, call me Vince.

You know, funny thing, my secretary has tried calling the number listed for you in the phone book.

I wanted to set up a meeting, but she's had trouble reaching you.

In point of fact, Albright's secretary had had no trouble reaching him at all.

It was simply that Chip had hung up on the woman the first time she identified herself and continued to do so the moment he heard her voice every time she called.

And call she had.

Repeatedly.

There had been days she had called so many times he'd simply taken the phone off the hook and gone about his business.

Mr.

Collins, can I call you Roger?

Rog,

there's an important matter we'd like to discuss with you.

Important and potentially very profitable.

There was a certain oozing quality to the man's smile.

Chip didn't know if Albright's attempt at charm worked on other people, but uh he wasn't impressed.

Nobody called him by his first name, let alone, for fuck's sake, Raj.

He gritted his teeth and returned the smile with a tight-lipped expression that aspired to be polite.

Mr.

Albright, as you can see, I have a guest.

We have plans for the day.

And as I mentioned, this is private property.

I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

Again,

there was that flicker of something else in Albright's eyes.

A flash of anger just below the surface that his polished appearance and practiced smile couldn't quite contain.

Like a flicker of static on a VHS tape.

It was gone in an instant, but Chip had seen it.

He was certain this time.

There was something odd about the man, something not quite

right.

He couldn't put his finger on it, but

it was there.

The smile returned, turning rueful as Albright nodded in acknowledgment.

He held up his hands in a gesture of submission, taking a step back.

But the look in his eyes, when his gaze met Chips, was full of cold determination.

Ah, I see.

My apologies.

I didn't mean to intrude.

But now that I know for sure that this is still your land,

we'll be in touch.

When the walls close in

and the light gets swallowed,

And there ain't no place that feels like home

The ones you love

turn into 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 when darkness calls, run like hell.

Neither of the two men said a word as they watched the retreating form of Vincent Albright moving through the trees.

He was walking toward the house in the direction of the road, not back the way he had come from Chaplin's Creek.

Gary waited until the man was out of sight before giving voice to the question that had been plaguing him since the moment Albright had crossed their path.

What the hell was that all about?

Chip spat on the ground.

Goddamn CVA.

They've been after Aunt Betty's land for years.

I ever tell you they showed up at the hospital when she got sick.

Are you serious?

Yeah, trying to swindle a dying woman, bastards.

Unbelievable.

Some people got no shame.

Chip nodded in agreement.

Assumed her mind was gone too, I guess, but Betty was sharp as a tack till the day she died.

She was furious.

She told him to get the hell out of her room or she'd called security.

She was a tough old bird.

The CBA had done more than simply try to swindle Betty Collins.

They had harassed her for years to sell the property even before her cancer diagnosis.

At one point, a particularly enterprising member of their legal team had even attempted to falsify a bill of sale, a move that had cost him his license to practice law in the Commonwealth, though notably not his job.

When both persuasion and fraud had failed them, they tried petitioning the county to obtain the parcel for them by exercising eminent domain, but had been denied due to the presence of a family cemetery on the premises.

Betty had always been conscientious about maintaining that sacred ground, situated on a gentle rise in the northeastern corner of the property and surrounded by a tidy white picket fence.

No one could claim the graveyard was abandoned or disused.

Betty herself had arranged to be buried there, alongside her parents, June and Lacey, and her older half-brother Kevin.

Her Her mama's first husband, Trevor Gilbert, had been laid to rest there, too, years before she was even born.

The family farm had originally belonged to June and Trevor, who had sadly passed just before baby Kevin was born, and there she had eked out a living, working long hours all on her own until she met and married Betty's daddy, Lacey Collins.

Lacey had raised the little boy as his own, and a few years later, he and June were blessed with a daughter and later a son, Chip's own own father, Darrell.

Why are they so easy to get their hands on your aunt's land anyway?

I don't know, don't really care.

It's family land, and she and my grandparents are buried out in that little graveyard.

Figure Beverly Jean will probably put me in the ground out there, too, one day.

It's not for sale.

Chip reached for his tackle box.

He glanced over his shoulder a final time, but saw no evidence of Vincent Albright lingering in the woods.

He nodded to Gary and the two of them started walking.

The well-worn path through the woods ended about 50 yards ahead, where the tree line broke over a gently sloping bank down to the water.

When Chip stepped through the trees, he stopped so suddenly Gary nearly run into him.

What the hell?

Chaplin's Creek, where it crossed Chip's land, was about 30 feet across at its widest point.

Its swift-running waters normally flow clear and clean, home to numerous fish, crawdads, and other freshwater critters.

What they found today

was nothing of the sort.

Here at the bend in the waters where Vincent Albright must have surely passed through from the other side of Chip's fence, Chaplin's Creek had gone stagnant.

Its waters began to slow about 20 yards upstream, choked with some oily black sludge that spread across the bed of the creek.

Dead fish floated on its surface, their empty eyes staring up at nothing, and the air was thick with the unmistakable stench of rot.

At the water's edge, a turtle struggled to escape the choking waters, its forelegs clawing desperately at the grassy bank.

I don't know.

I've never seen it like this.

Hell, I've never seen anything like this.

Chip grabbed a stick and knelt down, dipping it into the sluggish water.

It came away slicked with whatever the black gunk was.

It stank.

And there was more of the stuff on the bank, and in the dry grass, he thought it almost looked like some sort of

fungus.

He peered at the turtle, assessing how safe it might be to touch.

Snapping turtles were common in these parts, but he quickly determined this little guy wasn't one of those.

The distinctive red stripe on either side of its head marked it as a red-eared slider.

It was a small one, only about five inches, perhaps not even full-grown.

It occurred to him that the substance, whatever it was, could be toxic.

He probably shouldn't touch touch it, but he also couldn't let the poor thing suffer.

So he dug a rag out of his tackle box and used it to protect his hands as he lifted the small reptile from the polluted waters.

Hand me your canteen, would you?

Gary pulled the small water jug he always carried on these excursions from a side pocket of the canvas bag he used to carry his fishing tackle.

Chip used it and the rag to clean the turtle off as best he could.

As Chip looked after the turtle, Gary glanced around them uneasily.

You think that guy, uh, Albright, had something to do with this?

Maybe.

I don't know how you do something like this, but it seems pretty convenient for whatever this is to happen the same day we find him sneaking around out here.

What are you going to do?

Don't know yet.

We may as well back it in for a day, though.

It's not a good idea to eat any fish out of this creek until I figure out if it's safe.

Chip wasn't quite sure who to call about that.

The Department of Fish and Wildlife?

Would they even be able to help since it wasn't on publicly held land?

He wasn't sure.

One of the science professors at the college over in Glamorgan might be able to tell him what the black gunk was.

That was worth a shot.

Beside him, Gary's stomach rumbled loudly, and his friend chuckled.

Guess I should have had more than a piece of toast for breakfast.

Jocko's opens for lunch in about a half hour.

You want to grab a burger and a beer?

Yeah, fuck, may as well.

Chip had hoped to catch a fish or two.

Maybe throw him on the grill, but since that wasn't in the cards, Burger sounded good right about now.

The two of them walked along the edge of the creek heading upstream, and they found a safe place to release the red-haired slide her well away from the spot where the black ooze began to infect the water.

He worried whatever this was might spread, but this was the best he could do for the little critter at the moment.

When the two men returned to the house, they found the dog and the cat hiding under the porch.

There was no sign of the man from the CVA, and while the two still appeared spooked, they were able to lure Mac and Simon out with a bit of ham from the kitchen.

They let the two animals into the house while they headed into town for lunch.

In the days that followed, Chip Collins all but forgot about the visit from the man from the CVA.

He reached out to an old friend who worked at the college up in Glamorgan who put him in touch with a professor of environmental science who agreed to come investigate the oily black substance he had found in Chaplin's Creek.

Unfortunately, the woman would not be able to make the trek out to Hazel County for another week, so for now, he could only wait.

There were no further calls from the secretary, least ways not while he was at home to hang up on her, and life otherwise went on as usual.

There was work to do and bills to pay.

His car blew attire he had to replace, and Mac had to see the vet for his annual vaccinations.

His daughter's birthday was coming up, and her mama called about splitting the cost of the purple huffy bicycle Beverly Jean had asked for.

Simple things.

The threads that wove the tapestry of ordinary life helped dull the strange encounter in the woods in his mind, and he eased back into his normal routine.

It was nearly a month before the knock came at his door.

It had been a long day, and he had settled into the old recliner in the den with Mac on the rug at his feet.

Clementine, the old tortoise shell he had adopted before his daughter was even born, stretched across the back of the recliner behind his head.

He had a can of natty light in one hand and the TV remote in the other, flipping through the channels, hoping to find something interesting to watch.

It was the mid-season doldrums, and just about everything seemed to be a rerun.

He had just about settled on tonight's episode of 2020 when the dog began to growl at his feet.

Chip turned the volume down and sat forward in the recliner, listening.

What is it, boy?

He heard it then.

The strange, high, whining noise he and Jesse had heard just before their encounter with the man in the woods.

It was faint, coming from outside the house, but the sound was distinct enough to recognize.

The hair on the back of his neck pricked as his ears tracked that weird keening.

It was coming along the western wall of the house, moving toward the front yard.

Clementine moved behind him, hopping from the back of the recliner down onto its right right arm.

She perched next to him in a tense crouch, her fur ruffling, head following the sound just as he was.

The cat hissed and let out a low, threatening growl.

Chip could sympathize.

The noise seemed to ring inside his head, setting his teeth on edge.

As it moved around to the front of the house, he heard the creak of a footstep on the porch.

Mac rose to his feet.

starting to bark, and the cat hissed again, rocketing off the arm of the chair and bolting upstairs.

the whining sound finally subsided, and a polite knock came at the door.

Chip rose from the recliner silently, padding quietly toward the front door in his sock feet.

The door was flanked by narrow windows dressed with sheer curtains for privacy, and the front porch light was on and the entryway dark, allowing him to discreetly peek around the edge of the curtain at his visitor.

The man who had introduced himself as Vincent Albright looked much the same as he had a month before.

Expensive suit, neatly pressed shirt and tie, fancy cufflinks, he was staring directly at Chip through the narrow gap between the curtains, the same over-eager smile plastered onto his face.

He spoke through the glass.

Evening, Rog.

I think it's time for that chat.

At Chip's side, Mac snarled.

He kept a grip on the dog's collar as he unlocked the door and pulled it open about halfway, blocking the entrance with his body.

He did not unlock the storm door or make any move to invite the man in.

It's after 10, Mr.

Albright.

I don't know how y'all do things over at the CVA, but for most of us, it's well past business time.

Oh, no, Raj.

Let me stop you right there.

This isn't about how the CVA does things.

Quite the contrary.

You see,

this is about how I do things.

I am very good at my job.

I'm a people person.

I'm a closer.

I secure deals for my employer that no one else could.

It's what I've always done and will continue to do.

When my employers want something that someone else has, I acquire it for them.

I like making my employers happy, Raj.

I like making the people I negotiate with happy, too.

So tell me,

what can I do to make you

happy?

Chip snorted.

For starters, you can get the hell off my porch.

After that, you and your secretary can leave me alone, Mr.

Albright.

I know what y'all want.

Same thing you wanted from Aunt Betty.

And my answer is the same as hers.

I'm not interested in selling.

For a heartbeat, the man's smile flickered.

And once again, Chip was reminded of television static.

For just a second, the mask slipped, and he saw something else beneath the surface, an emotion far from the cheery, self-possessed exterior.

Then the smile was back, quick as a blink.

Vince Albright shook his head and

tisked with disappointment.

You know, transactions like this should be as painless as possible.

I really believe that.

But some people, people like you, Raj, insist on being pains.

Now, I can deal with that.

We can do this the hard way if we must, but uh, I prefer to handle things in um

a civil fashion.

We will have this property, Raj.

One way or another, I can make you very happy with the deal

or not.

Either way,

you will be hearing from us again very soon.

So think it over, Raj.

The man turned to walk down the front porch steps and tucked his hands into his pockets.

As he walked down the drive, he began to whistle, the sound growing fainter as he retreated into the darkness.

Glancing down, Chip noticed a smear of familiar black ooze on the front porch, just where Albright had been standing.

He felt a flash of anger and gritted his teeth.

Oh, I don't doubt that.

Looking forward to it.

Vince.

Well, hey there, family.

Looks like old Chip Collins might have his hands full with this fella from the CVA, but funny how he don't seem too scared about it, though.

Wonder what he's got up his sleeve, and looking at the old boy's family tree, it ain't hard to see where he gets it from now, is it?

Guess you'll have to come back in a couple of weeks and find out what happens.

I think you might.

Family, this spring has flown by.

Can you believe it's almost June?

And y'all know what happens in June.

That's right.

We're hitting the road again to wrap up the unhallowed grounds tour that we started last summer.

We had to postpone a few dates due to Hurricane Helene and other circumstances.

And we promised y'all we'd make those up.

And we keep our promises, family.

We'll be coming to select cities in Appalachia and the Midwest this June.

And the good news is for all y'all who may have missed the show last year, tickets are still available for all dates on this tour.

Some of those venues are getting mighty low.

Boone, North Carolina, Indianapolis, and Columbus, Ohio, in particular.

These are the only live shows planned for this year.

So if you want to see us, you need to head on over to old godsofappalachia.com/slash tour and get your tickets today.

For those of you still hanging on to your tickets from last year, yes, tickets purchased for the corresponding 2024 dates will be honored.

Reach out to the venue with any ticketing questions you may have.

Seriously, family, we can't answer those.

If you contact us, we're just going to tell you to reach out to your venue.

So, save yourself some time and go right to the source for those questions.

And this is your who the hell is Mr.

Albright and what did he do to those poor fish?

Reminder that Old Gods of Baphalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill.

Today's story was written by Kim Collins and performed by Steve Schell.

Our theme song is by Brother Landon Blood and our new outro music, Stone's Throw, is by Brother John Charles Dwyer.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you real soon.

Outside at midnight, with all the same questions that have carried my whole life, and I lost how I get here

But I always know, I always know What stones throw to the window The person I'm trying to be

I'm trying to be

I'm trying to be

I'm trying to be good

I'm trying to be

I'm trying to be

I'm trying to be good

All that I want is to fade with grace.

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.

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