Episode 81: Gone Fishing

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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 responsibly must be 18 years or older to purchase, play, or claim.

Thumbtack presents Project Paralysis.

I was cornered.

Sweat gathered above my furrowed brow, and my mind was racing.

I wondered who would be left standing when the droplets fell.

Me or the clawed sink.

Drain cleaner and pipe snake clenched in my weary fist.

I stepped toward the sink and then...

Wait, why am I stressing?

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

Into the sweet-smelling gloom of a dead mooned night, into the realm of Sucra Bay.

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

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

Goth as fuck,

and I come from a long line of terrifying women.

Sucrabay 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 dot com.

Look in the show notes for a link.

Come to the dark side.

We smell fantastic.

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material

not suitable for all audiences.

So listener discretion is advised.

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 to 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.

Mavisdale, Virginia, 1983 nineteen

Springtime comes slow to Appalachia,

creeping over the mountains and winding through the hollers one delicately unfurled leaf at a time.

She likes to entice with balmy days even as early as February, promising the cold days of winter are all but over.

Luring folks out of the house in shirt sleeves long before such lightweight fare is truly advisable.

Come March,

the dance has well and truly begun.

She pulls back the layer of winter snow to show a flash of purple crocus or the green stalks of daffodil leaves, only to snatch that enticing glimpse of her bounty away as yet another snowfall blows down over the mountains.

April is even worse.

As longer periods of warmth lead some to prematurely begin planting, or loading up on the annuals one can find in the garden department at the hardware store, though any fool knows better than to set out plants before Mother's Day.

Chip Collins was no such fool, and this particular morning in April of 1983 found him in the rocking chair on his front porch, sipping a mug of hot cocoa.

He had never cared for coffee.

The previous week had been pleasantly warm, with temperatures hovering in the low 70s, but there was a nip in the air this morning that hinted at snow on the horizon.

It wouldn't be the first time nature lured folks away from their wood stoves with promises of picnics and cookouts, baseball games and warm evening strolls, only to snatch the rug out from under them just as they begin to consider stowing their coats away for the season.

Mother Appalachia loved a good baitin' switch.

So now, instead of swapping his jeans for a pair of shorts, he found himself hunkering down in an old flannel-lined corduroy barn coat.

Chip had inherited the house, as well as the pair of rockers that graced its wide wrap-around porch and most of its interior furnishings from his aunt Betty, who had taken him in when he ran away from his mama's house at 13.

His mother, Jeanette, had taken him and his sister when she left Mavisdale and his father and moved to Kentucky to marry his stepfather, who turned out to be a violent drunk with nothing but hard words and a harder hand for his new wife and her children.

When he was old enough, Chip had shoved a few clothes and whatever else he could carry into his school bag in place of books, set out for the bus stop, and kept on walking.

When he got to the highway, he stuck out his thumb and hitched to ride back to Hazel County.

He had found his daddy, Darryl, between jobs and living temporarily with his sister Betty, a kind woman with no children of her own, who had been happy to open her doors to her nephew.

When Darryl Collins got his own place and moved out, Betty had gently suggested Chip was more than welcome to continue living with her so long as he stayed in school and was willing to help out around the farm.

Learning the ways of Betty's farm had been a challenge at first.

She farmed the old way.

Planting by the signs and insisted that her young charge do the same.

Planting must be done when the moon was in a fruitful sign, preferably Taurus or Cancer, to ensure the resulting crop would withstand drought.

Crops should be harvested in the old of the moon, its waning phase, so they would keep longer.

Cannon and pickling and other means of preservation should be done when it was in its last quarter by the same logic.

Chip had thought the old lady was crazy, following her instructions with reluctance, but he couldn't argue with the results.

The vegetables he planted when she told him flourished.

The few times he had planted off schedule for one reason or another, the crops never quite grew as well.

Chip spent the remaining of his school years living with his aunt, studying English, history, science, and math during the day and traditional farmways, nights, and weekends.

He learned to forage for food in the woods behind her house, where he would find mayapples and sumac, pawpaws, and muscadines, black walnuts, and a seemingly endless variety of berries.

He learned to treat common ailments with teas brewed from various herbs that grew on the property as well.

Bone set for colds, comfrey root for arthritis, golden seal to soothe an upset stomach, and so on.

Betty had to let the farm go in her later years, once her arthritis no longer permitted the long days of hard work that farming required.

Chip had helped her convert the land, planting grass and native wildflowers and a few trees when the moon was in Libra, she insisted, the sign of beauty.

Almost a decade later, there was little evidence of the rows of corn and taters, green beans, and squash that had once dominated the property around Betty's sturdy two-story farmhouse.

The remaining acreage in her parcel of land, well, his parcel now, consisted of the sort of dense woods, thick with tangled vines and knotty underbrush that were common in central Appalachia, providing unmatched privacy.

Chip appreciated that.

Now, he didn't dislike his neighbors, but he preferred not to know their business, nor they to know his.

As he sat enjoying that privacy, and the pink-hued glory of the sun rising over the mountains draped in a gauzy veil of fog, his ever-present companion, Mac, lay at his feet.

The rangy black and gray dog appeared to be some combination of husky and German Shepherd, although his size and temperament suggested to Chip there could be a thread of something a bit less

domestic in his heritage.

He wasn't certain whether owning a wolf dog was legal here in the Commonwealth, however, so he kept that suspicion to himself.

Chip had adopted the dog as a pup, admittedly from a backyard breeder who swore Mac was a purebred husky, though he had no papers, during the long, lonely winter after his wife had taken their daughter and moved to Blackford.

Mac was a great dog.

Loyal and affectionate,

at least with the family.

He was fiercely protective of Chip's seven-year-old daughter and even sweet with his grumpy old tortoiseshell cat Clementine.

But he was deeply suspicious of strangers and slow to promote anyone from stranger to friend or even person I won't growl at.

Turned out he had a strong prey drive and a talent for fence jumping too, which had not endeared the dog to their neighbors.

Eventually, Chip had found it necessary to install a long lead between two oak trees in the backyard for Mac's outdoor time, lest his habit of bringing home chickens and even the occasional sheep from Evelyn Pollard's farm down the road drive them into bankruptcy.

Chip was contemplating going back inside for another cup of cocoa when Mac raised his head, eyes turning toward the long driveway that snaked through the trees at the edge of the yard, and began to growl softly.

A moment later...

The sound that had roused the dog reached his ears too.

The rumble of a well-tuned engine and the grinding of rubber on gravel.

Hush now, he warned, dropping a hand to stroke the dog's head as a Ford F-100 with a blue and white two-tone paint job emerged from the tree line.

You know who that is.

The old pickup was Gary Jesse's pride and joy.

It had belonged to his grandfather, who bought it off the showroom floor at Friendship Ford when it rolled off the line in 1967.

Gary had inherited it, along with Randall Jesse's sizable farm when the old man passed unexpectedly just three short years later.

Unlike many of his peers at the time, including Chip himself, Gary had not been dodging bullets in a jungle halfway around the world.

Being young, dumb, and in love, Gary had gotten married fresh out of high school, and by the time his number had come up for the draft, he'd had a toddler to provide for and another on the way.

So Uncle Sam had generously exempted him from serving his country.

Chip Collins found himself grateful for that every day.

He'd returned from Vietnam with scars, a few on the outside and a lot more on the inside, and counted himself lucky.

Too many of Hazel County's sons had never come home at all.

It had been nice to find someone he knew settled down with a couple of kids carrying on his family legacy, though he hadn't known Gary well when they were kids.

He was a few years ahead of Chip in school.

They had become friendly after he got out of the military.

He'd been living with his aunt aunt Betty in this very house, taking classes at the college over in Glamorgan during the day and supporting himself in the evening by slinging beers at Jocko's, a local bar where Gary occasionally enjoyed a drink or three after a long day's work on the farm.

Over time, Gary had become just about the closest friend he'd ever had.

He'd come with Chip to the courthouse to stand as witness when he married Christie, then Christy Holyfield, who was accompanied by their other witness, her sister Stephanie.

He'd met Christie after he'd finished college, where he'd studied social work and taken a job with the county.

His studies had focused on working with children, and his job was in the Child Protective Services Division, where he hoped he could do some good for other kids in the mountains who were suffering in home environments like the one he'd grown up in with his stepfather.

Christy was a fellow social worker in the same office, although her position was primarily centered on seeing to the needs of Hazel County's elder population.

The two of them had been young and idealistic, and they got on well at first.

Within a couple of years, they were married, and a year later, they welcomed a daughter.

But marriage wasn't easy for anyone.

The stress of the type of work they both did, the suffering they saw inflicted on the most vulnerable members of their community, either by folks they should have been able to trust or by poverty and simple bad luck, began to take its toll,

particularly on Chip.

Their arguments had grown louder and more frequent, particularly on those evenings when he found himself staying out late for a relaxing afterwork beer that turned into seven or eight.

It all came to a head at the tail end of 1979, when he lost his temper on a late-night visit to the hospital.

He'd been summoned there by the medical team, who suspected a boy who'd come in with a broken arm had been the victim of abuse.

As it turned out, Chip was well acquainted with this particular family.

He had several visits to the home previously, but the child, his siblings, and their mother had all claimed no one was hurting them, despite the bruises evident on their skin.

In the hospital that night, however, he was able to speak privately with the kid for a few minutes, and with tears welling in his eyes, he finally admitted the truth.

His daddy had pushed him down the stairs.

When the father in question swaggered into the hospital room, making some snide remark about CPS being called every time somebody tripped, Chip had just punched him.

He lost his job after that.

Though he'd only done what every social worker who'd ever met the man wanted to, he understood.

He needed to be able to keep his cool, to work with police to handle these situations in a court of law, and not just beat the snot out of every shitty parent who crossed his path, no matter how much they might deserve it.

His buddy Jocko had immediately stepped in and asked him to come back to bartending, and he'd gratefully accepted.

He spent enough time there anyway, he figured.

Might as well have something to show for it.

The loss of the job he'd felt was his calling, a chance to do some real good in the world, was a hard pill to swallow, though these days Chip thought it might have been for the best.

At the time, however, working at Jocko's had only given him more excuse to drink, and that combined with late shifts at the bar had not been great for his marriage.

Christie informed him that she was filing for divorce.

She loved him, she said, but a home with two adults constantly shouting at each other was no fit environment to raise a child, and

he couldn't argue with that.

She had accepted a new job in another county, and she and their daughter, Beverly Jean, then five, would be moving after New Year's.

That final Christmas they'd all spent together had all but broken Chip's heart.

And see the two of them pulling away down the driveway had shattered it completely.

He hadn't been sure what he was going to do, how to even keep going at that point.

But Gary had been there.

He'd shown up with a six-pack of beer and the bed bed of the pickup stocked with tents, sleeping bags, and a couple of steaks, and told him to get in the truck.

They were going camping.

As the pickup drew closer to the house, he could see the brown face and white chest of Simon, Gary's snowshoe Siamese cat, perched on the back of the Ford's bench seat with his white paws gripping Gary's shoulder.

Simon went just about everywhere with Gary.

At a hefty 15 pounds, he was a talkative, friendly cat, if prone to nibbling on folks's fingers when he got a bit too excited.

He'd been with Gary since 1975, when his former mistress, Gary's neighbor, Ada Spivey, had gone missing in an incident that no one in town had ever been able to adequately explain.

Gary had been cat-sitting at the time and told everyone that he would keep Simon just a little bit longer.

I couldn't stand it if Miss Spivey came home and I'd gone and give her cat away.

By about the third year after Ada disappeared, few folks even remembered that Simon had once belonged to anyone other than Gary.

Gary remembered, though.

Every once in a while, sitting around a campfire or the wood stove in the winter, after he had a few too many beers or a nip or two or something stronger, he would talk about the woman

and the things he'd seen around the time she went missing.

It was spooky shit.

Like something out of a Stephen King novel.

There was no plan for such a campfire today, thankfully.

Gary had come over to enjoy a pleasant day fishing in the creek creek that ran through the back of the property.

As he pulled the truck to a stop in the driveway, Chip rose to his feet and walked back into the house, Mac following.

He carried his now-empty mug to the kitchen and gave it a quick scrub in the sink, setting it in the dish rack to dry.

A moment later, the back door opened, and the plump, coffee-colored Siamese cat preceded Gary into the kitchen to join him.

Spotting one of his favorite friends, Simon twined around the dog's legs and began to purr.

Mac sniffed at him, nuzzling his muzzle into the cat's thick fur.

Gary chuckled.

Those two.

You wouldn't think a cat and a dog would get on so well, but they sure do.

Speaking of, where's your old girl?

He glanced around, his eyes seeking out Chip's cat, Clementine.

Out in the barn, last time I saw her.

She may be old, but she can still catch mice with the best of them.

How's your weekend?

Easter had fallen on the previous weekend, and according to the terms of his custody agreement, it had been Gary's year to have the three kids for the long long holiday weekend.

He had planned to take them camping up near the dam.

Jennifer, Stevie, and Kevin were now 17, 15, and 12, respectively.

And Gary could see the time he had left with them as children growing short.

Jenny was set to graduate in June and planned to attend college in the fall, so he planned one last big family camping trip before the girl headed off to school.

It was all right.

There was something in Gary's voice that told Chip this might not be entirely accurate.

I mean, was good.

The boys had a great time.

We all did.

What about Jenny?

I thought you said they were all going.

Gary sighed.

She was, but then she called me last minute to ask if she could bring her boyfriend with her.

Chip could hear the distaste in his friend's voice.

J.D.

Phillips was the kid's name, and this wasn't the first time he'd come up.

The son of a local attorney and grandson of a judge, the boy had more money than manners and was constantly getting into trouble that his well-connected family would promptly sweep under the rug.

I said no.

This was supposed to be a family trip.

When Linda came to drop him off, Jenny wasn't with her.

Chip grunted in understanding.

Hmm.

I take it Linda wouldn't make her go.

You know how she is.

She just says she can't do anything with her.

And to be fair, you know how stubborn Jenny is.

It's gotten worse the closer she gets to graduation.

17 going on 35.

Gary shook his head.

Maybe Maybe we can try again this summer if that little shit's not around.

To tell you the truth, I'm damn glad she's going to school out of state.

That'll probably be the best thing for her.

Get out of here, meet some new people.

She'll forget all about that, Phillips Brad.

Gary steered the subject away from his fatherly woes and back to the important task at hand.

What say, buddy?

You ready to do some fishing?

Yep, just let me grab my gear.

Chip fetched his rod and reel and tackle box from the garage at the side of the house, and an old Duke's mail jar filled with dirt from the back porch steps.

He'd spent part of the evening before digging up night crawlers out in the woods closest to the house and stored this fine cache of bait in a jar.

Gary, who still preferred to fish with a cane pole the way his granddaddy had taught him to, grabbed his own gear from the back of the pickup, and the two men set out across Chip's backyard, heading into the woods opposite, their furry companions following along.

It was not yet seven in the morning, and the trees were shrouded with shadows and fog as they stepped beneath the canopy of branches.

Birds twittered from behind the leaves, just waking up as the sky began to brighten.

Chip had never been a bird watcher, but Gary could point out each of their distinct voices.

Chickadees and waxwings and thrush and the innumerable species of warblers.

Chip could never keep them all straight in his head, but he listened without comment as Gary named one songbird after another, the habit of a lifetime spent in the woods of Hazel County.

Oh, that's a yellow-throated warbler.

And this, that's a that's a gray-cheeked thrush.

Oh, oh, oh, you hear that one?

That's a rose-breasted gross beak.

You ever seen one?

Oh, those are real pretty.

Chip, who wouldn't have known a gross beak from a groundhog, allowed as he'd never seen one, which of course prompted Gary to launch into a description of the bird's identifying features so that his buddy might identify the songbird should one ever appear in his yard.

He nodded along as they picked their way down a well-worn path that had undoubtedly been used for generations to reach the wide creek that ran along the southern end of the Collins property.

Chaplin's Creek was a tributary of the Clinch River, known to locals for its excellent trout fishing.

Chip and Gary had enjoyed some mighty fine evenings cooking what they'd caught there over the grill or battered and fried up in Aunt Betty's expertly seasoned and lovingly maintained iron skillet.

Today, however, as the heady green aroma of creek water reached their noses,

something found

off.

As they neared the banks of the stream, the chorus of birdsong died down.

Where usually one could hear the croaking of frogs and chirping of crickets, there was only

silence.

It was unnerving.

Every step through the last season's fallen leaves sounded unusually loud to Chip's ears.

Every twig snapping underfoot was like a gunshot.

And to Chip,

it all felt horribly familiar.

It brought to mind the sense of creeping dread he'd experienced as a young man on the other side of the world, treking through the bush with his unit just before some poor bastard got his foot blown off by a landmine or took a round of the head from a sniper's rifle.

He drew to a stop, lifting a hand to motion to Gary, who paused and looked down.

At their feet, Simon hissed, his tail lashing as it puffed up twice its normal size.

Mac began to growl, the fur along his spine rippling as he crouched low.

An odd noise came to them then.

An ominous high whine, almost as if they'd stumbled upon a rattler's nest, but not quite, and much louder.

At Chiff's feet, Mac let out a whine of his own, and Simon bolted, loping back through the trees trees in the direction they'd come.

There was a shushing,

slithering sound then,

as of not one snake,

but many

moving fast through the brush.

And all at once, an enormous shadow fell, blocking out the sun that filtered through the branches above them.

And without a word, Chip and Gary each took a cautious step back and the shadow receded.

The strange noise faded.

Up ahead of them,

someone began to whistle.

A moment later,

a man emerged to the brush,

coming up the bank from Chaplin's Creek.

He wore a black suit that looked like it cost more than Chip made in a month.

A razor-sharp pin-striped dress shirt with French cuffs pinned by shiny gold cufflinks, a white tie, and dress shoes polished to a mirror shine.

His hair was swept back and gelled to an almost lacquer finish.

And when he smiled, his teeth flashed as white as bleached sheets.

That smile did not reach his eyes, though, which were a flat, merciless black,

like staring into a void.

The stranger made a gesture as if tipping an invisible invisible hat.

When he spoke, his voice was polite and colder than the ocean's depths.

Good morning, gentlemen.

Shall we

parlay?

Well, hey there, family.

Welcome to the third arc of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia Run Like Hell, where it's springtime in Mavisdale, Virginia.

Y'all remember Mavisdale, don't you?

Lots of strange things going on in that town, and it seems like poor old Gary Jesse has seen more than his fair share, doesn't it?

We hope you'll join us again next time to learn more about this stranger on his buddy's land.

But I bet you will.

And speaking of springtime, y'all, this time of year is filled with all sorts of holidays and special occasions like Mama's Day, Daddy's Day, graduation ceremonies left and right.

And here at Old Gods of Appalachia, we want to help you celebrate that special someone.

So from now until the end of June 2025, we're offering gift subscriptions to the holler at 25% off.

Yes, family, for a quarter less than the usual price.

You can introduce your mama to the horrors that unfold here in these mountains or help your penny pinch and daddy finally experience that exclusive content like Build Mama a Coffin, Familiar and Beloved, and more.

Head on over to old godsofappalachia.com/slash the holler to purchase a gift subscription today for somebody you love

or loathe.

We don't judge how you spend your money, family, not at all.

And this is your ain't we all glad to see that old Simon is still alive and kicking after his encounter with those creepy pumpkins.

Reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Dirt Media and it's distributed by Rusty Quill.

Today's story is dedicated to the memory of the real-life Chip Collins.

Vietnam War veteran, survivor of of Firebase Ripcord, social worker, founder of the Ripcord Association support group, father, and friend.

It was written by Kim Collins and performed by Steve Schell.

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

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you real soon.

A stone's throw to the window for 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.

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

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

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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.

Thumbtack presents Project Paralysis.

I was cornered.

Sweat gathered above my furrowed brow and my mind was racing.

I wondered who would be left standing when the droplets fell.

Me or the clogged sink.

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