Episode 72: Strange Visitations

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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.

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,

1989.

It was 6 o'clock on a Monday evening,

meaning he should be sitting in his recliner watching Wheel of Fortune, all things being even.

That was his routine.

Meatloaf, maybe some mashed taters, green beans, and a tall glass of iced tea while Pat Sajak spun that big dumb wheel and even dumber people tried to guess at a puzzle he'd figured out 10 minutes ago.

But nothing was even close to being even.

It was 6 o'clock on a Monday evening,

and he was standing outside Osborne's funeral home in Baker's Gap,

which meant that yet another person he knew and loved

had died.

Some people might say they passed on or were in a better place now or some such nonsense, but the truth was they just died.

Twarn't no shame in it.

Everybody does it.

So the good churchgoers of the gap could keep their euphemisms and soften blows.

He personally looked death in the eye many times throughout his life, felt that cold black breath right in his face and shivered from it.

Now his friend,

likely his best friend, had died.

A man lived his life and then he was done.

Simple as that.

Dead was dead and ain't nobody never come back from it, except maybe Jesus, if you go that way.

Well,

there was that one other time.

But they didn't talk about that.

The parking lot at Osbourne's was full, as it should be.

Not so full as it meant folks were coming here just to be seen.

Wasn't Wasn't as though some politician or local luminary had passed where the rubberneckers would line up for a country mile just to gawk at their pale and waxy corpse like a prized pig at the county fair.

The lot was full in a way that suggested this man had family and friends and plenty of them.

The visitation was open to all.

Which meant just about anyone who'd come into regular contact with the deceased or his family might show up to say their goodbyes.

Now, the funeral would be for family and those who,

for whatever reason, needed to see the box lowered into the ground for themselves, but the visitation was where you could take the measure of a man's life.

Osbourne's was a newer funeral home built in the mid-70s by James Osbourne and his wife Anne Marie.

It was a lovely, modern-looking brick building on the backside of Baker's Gap proper.

Right down the block from Little Creek Methodist, another recent structure built in 1966.

Following the road past the church, you'd end up down at the new Food City Shopping Center and the even newer Powell Sudden Service Drive-Thru.

It was the first to open outside the small and beloved regional chains home in Model City.

And folks in Baker's Gap were mighty proud of that distinction.

The gap had grown since he last set foot in his hometown.

He hadn't lived here in almost 15 years.

His Ronda had passed back in 75, and he'd managed on his own for about two years before his old bones and the stairs down into the basement conspired against him.

After his third fall that same year put him in the hospital over in Tipton with a fractured hip, his eldest boy, Kelson, insisted he move in with them over in Blackmoor, Virginia, a little over an hour away.

At first, he hated the idea.

He knew Baker's gap in the woods around it like the back of his hand, and his people had been in the gap since time began.

His boy wasn't having it though.

Dad, you know mom wouldn't want you living all by yourself out there.

Come live with us.

Kristen and Joyner would love to have you around.

We have more than enough room.

The river is right there and there's plenty of fishing.

Now that was just dirty pool.

Bringing the littler grandkids into it like that.

He was proud of all his kids.

Andrea and her husband Patrick lived in Roanoke where he worked for the railroad and she worked as a nurse.

They had three kids, all of whom were just about grown.

His second eldest, Crystal, was a college professor in Kentucky.

His baby girl Kate was a social worker in Jacob County, Kentucky, where she lived with the two kids from her first marriage, both of whom were also just about grown.

His two boys, Kelson and David, were born later in life than he and Rhonda expected, but made them just as proud.

Both boys had grown up tall and dark-haired like most men in their family and both had good jobs.

Kelson worked for the forestry service in Virginia and David was an engineer for the state of California out there building hydroelectric dams and such.

David was a lifelong bachelor but Kelson and his wife Pearl had given him the sweetest gift in the world with his youngest grandchildren.

Joyner was 10 and Kristen was eight.

And if there was any doubt their bloodline would be just fine, all anyone had to do was look at those two perfect babies and rest assured.

So off he'd gone, over the mountain and down by the river, to reside in the land of his forefathers.

The house that his son lived in had been in their family for as long as he could remember.

His own father and his uncle Johnny had built it from logs hewn on the very hillside where it sat.

Now, his family might be one of the oldest in the gap, but they'd originally settled in Blackmoor, right on the banks of the Clinch River.

Hell, there was even an old historical marker out in the middle of a cow pasture that testified to the length of their presence.

The sound of a car pulling into the parking lot startled him from his reverie.

How long had he been just standing there?

Good Lord, he hated how his mind drifted these days.

He turned to see a petite older woman easing out of the driver's side door of a dirt-brown Ford Granada.

She was sharply dressed and wore her iron gray hair clipped short, as she had for most of her adult life.

She moved with the assurance of someone unlikely to take a tumble down the basement stairs, even though he knew her to be his elder.

She locked the car and dropped her keys into the handbag slung over her shoulder.

She glanced up, and her eyes lit with a smile when she saw him.

Well, well, well.

They'll let just about anybody in here, won't they?

He felt the smile break across his face.

Well,

hey there, Miss Bell.

It's good to see you, ma'am.

Archie Stallard.

I was hoping to see you tonight.

No, let me rephrase that.

I knew I'd see you tonight.

You boys always showed up for each other.

Of course you'd be here.

Today, all days.

Sadness touched her warm, hazel eyes as she pulled him down into a tight hug and whispered into his ear, I'm so sorry, darling.

Archie Stallard, Master Motormouth and Connoisseur of Small Talk, found himself struggling for words.

He wanted to say something stoic and cynical had become his way in recent years.

But he decided to go for pithy and clever as when he was her student.

When he opened his mouth to speak, however,

all that came out was

I'm I'm the only one left, Miss Bell.

She pulled back from the hug and cupped his face with one hand, wiping away the tear that had escaped onto her own cheek with the other.

She looked at him and saw the whole of him as a man, as a soul who had stood against the dark.

She saw him and she loved him in the way that teachers always love the truly good ones, even if their value isn't always readily apparent and they make you a little crazy sometimes.

The moment stretched on.

The way moments will when words won't work and all you can do is be present.

Then his old school teacher cleared her throat and gestured toward the door of the funeral home with a carefully constructed smile.

Let's go in, Archie, honey.

I'm sure a lot of people will be happy to see you, and I bet you got plenty of stories to tell.

Archie smiled weakly and then coughed to hide the quiver in his voice.

I'll be right in.

I just need another minute or two to collect my thoughts.

It's good to see you, though, man.

You go on.

The woman who several lifetimes ago had been called Sarah Avery,

but had been Belle Calloway for all the decades since, nodded and vanished through the front doors of Osborne's funeral home.

It had done Archie a world of good to see her.

She had always been kind to their near-feral pack of mountain boys.

She'd seen them through some dark days, and he'd love her forever for that.

He had been sure she was still alive.

So many people from back in those days were long gone.

Kirk Kilgore died in 1979 of a heart attack.

Della Shepherd had gone to bed one night in 1984 and never woken up.

His cousin Shane had gone in 1987 in a way nobody wanted to talk about, so they didn't.

And now here he was,

standing outside another funeral home, where he'd come to tell the stories and lay the bones to rest yet again.

Archie took a deep, steadying breath and walked carefully up three concrete steps to a set of glass doors through which he could see a black felt sign with the little white stick-on letters in the foyer,

welcoming him to the close of his best friend's life.

In loving memory of Floyd Wayne Absher,

1913

through nineteen eighty-nine.

Damn it, Floyd.

What am I supposed to do now?

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 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 hell.

Archie Stallard leaned on his son's shoulder as he lowered himself into one of the nicer armchairs in the side parlor of the funeral home.

I swear to God,

I don't know why I even have that hip surgery if it's gonna hurt this bad after I stand on it for an hour or so.

Thank you, boy.

Dad, you've been telling stories about Uncle Floyd for over two hours.

Take a minute and rest.

Have you talked to Virginia and the girls yet?

Archie looked around his son's broad shoulders towards the front of the room where Floyd Abysher's widow, Virginia, and his two oldest girls, Lacey and Cindy, stood by the casket.

Some other relative or other was clinging to Virginia's hand as they extolled her husband's virtue at great length.

She looked tired.

Behind her, the girls seemed ready to intervene, thanked the out-of-town family for coming, and subtly nudged them along so that the next person in the receiving line could speak with their mama.

Not yet.

I keep running into people who want to talk about old times, which always leads to a story or two.

I guess that's what I'm here for.

Make sure everybody knows the truth about the good old days and what rascals we could be.

Archie chuckled feebly, and his son favored him with a level, knowing look.

Archie sighed and visibly deflated.

No, I ain't yet.

I don't know what to say to them just yet.

I don't want it to be another limp, handshake and meaningless.

I'm so sorry.

They deserve better than that,

at least from me.

Besides, I don't know how I can face her, Kel.

All of this might be my fault.

Respectfully, sir, don't start that again.

Floyd Absher was a grown-ass man.

He knew the dangers of hiking out by the lake at his age.

Some of those hills will wear a young man out, much less.

Archie caught his son's eye and glared playfully.

Much less.

What?

You know what I mean, Dad.

I don't think I do, oh son of mine.

Much less what?

Much less some old fart with a heart condition and a bad knee from the war?

Much less some old fool out chasing ghosts by the spooky old reservoir?

I didn't mean no disrespect, sir.

I know.

I know, boy.

I also know I didn't tell the man to go after that old lake and snoop around, but I sure put it in his head that he needed to.

There's something going on, Kel.

Floyd and I have been writing letters and talking about it on the phone for a while now.

Something out here in the gap ain't right.

And I'm worried that us looking into it got Floyd killed.

Uncle Floyd died of a heart attack.

He went out before sunup without taking his medicine, climbed the rocks over by the dam, and had a heart attack.

Rockbone.

What?

The cliffs of Dirk Rockbone.

That's where he died.

That's what we called those rocks when we were kids.

That place was precious to us, although it did try to kill us a couple of times.

It's complicated.

Right, let me get you something to drink.

Take a minute.

Take some nice deep breaths, and I'll be back with some ice water.

Okay?

You sit right here, and don't go nowhere.

You hear me?

Kelson Stallard settled his hand on his daddy's shoulder and squeezed.

Archie reached up and patted it, glancing up at his son with a weak smile.

I hear you.

Go on now, for I worry you enough to put me in a home.

Kelson slipped away into the murmuring standing-room-only crowd that filled Osborne's main parlor.

Archie sank back into the chair and allowed his eyes to wander around the assembled mourners, curious who else might have shown up.

He'd already encountered many old school friends who hadn't run with him and their tight-knit circle of adventurers, but were still nice people to see again.

He'd spun yarns about him and Floyd and Kurt sneaking out of the house to go go night fishing in the middle of the school week.

He'd told the story about Dallas Shepherd's daddy, Walter Ray, catching them sneaking out of Sunday school to buy soda pops at the little general store that once stood next to Rising Creek Baptist.

He hadn't told the story of the thing that haunted Kurt Kilgore after his daddy died or anything that happened out on the island.

What happened there stayed there,

no matter how gruesome or terrifying.

Archie smiled as his gaze landed on Miss Millie from the ladies' auxiliary, along with two of her younger daughters, who must be in their 70s by now.

The three of them worked the refreshment table like geriatric automatons, ensuring there was enough coffee and cake to go around, as mandated by the unspoken laws of funerary courtesy in Baker's Gath.

Miss Millie was one of those amazing women who was everybody's auntie whether they were kin to her or not.

She knew everybody's business and could be counted on to show up with a casserole or a dish of banana pudding before the ink on the obituary was even dry.

She was spry and lively and you'd never know she was coming up on her 98th birthday.

Toward the middle of the room, he could see Floyd's oldest boy, John Allen, with his own youngest son, Taylor.

Taylor had to be going on 12 or 13 and looked like his papa made over.

John Allen was encouraging the boy to tell some folks from church about making the Little League All-Star team again this year.

The Absurd bloodline produced handsome men and athletes on the regular.

Floyd had easily been the fastest and strongest of them, and to see him laid in that box at the head of the room broke Archie's heart.

On the other side of the parlor, back toward the main entrance, Jerry Cook signed the guest book, then turned to shake hands with Floyd's youngest son, Christopher, a stout man with a mop of sandy blonde hair who favored Virginia's side of the family.

As he marveled at one of the infamous Cook clan trading grips with a descendant of the boys of Death Island, Archie noticed someone he didn't know stepping through the glass doors.

He was a medium height, maybe six foot,

dressed in a well-tailored black suit.

His face was handsome, if unremarkable, with wide, sad eyes.

And his brown hair was cut in a short, timeless fashion.

He was maybe 25, 30 at most, Archie would guess.

The man paused to look at the little black sign with Floyd's name and dates on it for a long moment.

Then he stepped fully into the room.

And for an instant, his eyes met Archie's.

A chill radiated from Archie's tailbone to the top of his head.

What had he seen there?

Recognition?

Did he know this young man?

Well, if so, he couldn't place him, and that was unusual.

Now, there were a lot of people here tonight, and if you put a gun to his head and asked him to name everybody in attendance, he probably couldn't get him all right, but it would be close.

Archie had a good memory.

It was more than that, though.

Something in his gut told him this person had to be an outsider.

A group of women trundled by on their way to the receiving line, blocking Archie's line of sight.

When Deborah Bledsoe and her flock of hens had passed, the stranger was nowhere to be seen.

Archie was on edge now.

Before he had died in the shadow of old Dirk Rockbone, Floyd had written to him about outsiders poking around his mom and dad's old place.

Folks in city suits asking about buying up Larry Collins' old pastures.

Larry had died in the mid-60s, but the family had held on to the land.

The people knocking on doors asking questions about who owned the land had been...

odd.

to put it politely.

Floyd had described them in one of the first letters Archie had received from his old friend in years.

I tell you, Arch, they're downright weird, with big glassy eyes and white, white skin, like they ain't seen daylight in a year.

The way they talk hit me wrong, too.

We would like to make an offering on this good land, sir.

Who is the keeper of the place where Mr.

Collins herded his cattle?

Who talks like that?

And it's never the same ones asking either.

One time they knocked on the door and it was two fellers in suits that fit them like they were painted on.

Hair darker than pitch and their eyes.

Lord help me, Arch.

Their eyes were like a hungry mouth or bottomless pits or some other wild thing Shane used to talk about in his stories.

They weren't right.

Virginia said a woman come calling in much the same way while I was out walking the dogs, a little wisp of a thing, she said, dressed like she'd struck gold at some church rummage sale, all wrapped up in scarves and shawls like some sort of fortune-teller.

She asked whether the land had ever been for sale, and what happened to the cows.

She'd heard so much about the lovely cows.

Archer, they ain't been cows on Larry Collins' lower pasture since these people had been alive.

And it ain't like there are still fences or anything that would indicate that land was used for grazing anymore.

I was walking down that way with the dogs right after dark one night because Bluebell will only do her business on her schedule, and I saw five or six of them.

Young people mostly of all sorts.

And big dark eyes and sickly color to their skin, dressed all kinds of weird.

I swear to God, one of them was wearing wearing a cape.

Hollering, Good evening, Mr.

Absher.

We would still like to make that offering.

If you recall who we should contact, please let us know.

I got Bluebell to do her thing, and we got back up to the house.

They give me the shivers, Arch.

I don't know what they really want, but I doubt it's to build a new double quick.

That was the first time Floyd had reached out to his old friend about the strange, dark-eyed folks sniffing around the gap.

But it wasn't the last.

There had been other letters and numerous phone calls that ran long into the night where Floyd relayed even more disturbing events that seemed to confirm some of their longest-held fears.

Could this stranger be one of those odd folk?

Archie scanned the crowd for the young man in the black suit.

As somber shades were the prescribed palates at gatherings of this sort, it was like looking for a needle in a particularly morose haystack.

There,

finally, he spotted the young and over by the cake and coffee table.

Miss Millie was smiling at him.

The young man leaned in close and said something that made her giggle.

Oh, he had to be some sort of flim flat man laying it on thick for the sweet old ladies, Archie thought irritably.

The crowd shifted as a small army of Metcalfs and sergeants entered the funeral home and made a beeline for the refreshments, and the stranger disappeared again in the flood of newly arrived visitors.

Archie braced himself against the arms of the chair and with some effort rose to his feet so he could see more of the room.

Everywhere he looked, he found old friends wearing their grandparents' faces.

Kinfolk he hadn't seen in years mingling with children who looked like the ghosts of people he had once known.

The familiar smiles of people long since gone etched into the fresh faces of a new generation.

Then Archie spotted him.

The stranger in the dark suit had cornered two women by the receiving line.

And he recognized one of them as Miss Bell.

That was enough.

This interloper was not going to disturb his best friend's memorial, and he certainly wasn't going to let him bother Miss Belle with questions about the Collins property or the fate of long dead cows.

With a searing pain in his hip, he stomped across the room, his breath growing heavier with each step until he stood directly behind the young man.

Miss Bell caught sight of him over the stranger's shoulder and smiled.

Her expression growing alarmed when she saw his flushed cheeks and the anger in his eyes.

Gently nudging the young man aside, she moved to intercept him.

Archie, honey, are you all right?

I wanted to come find you so I could.

Archie Stallard wasn't listening.

He turned to face the younger man and hissed.

Stop it.

You stop right there, young feller.

I heard all about you and your bunch out here trying to buy up land, hassling my friend and his family.

I won't have none of y'all doing it here.

You just leave Miss Bell and her friend alone and get out.

The young man met Archie Stallard's eyes again.

And the world

fell away.

Archie sputtered.

His breath caught in his chest.

Archie?

Archie, are you okay?

What's got into you?

Don't you know who this is?

I told you that I knew y'all would show up for each other, like you always did.

Before Archie's eyes, the years seemed to peel from the young man in the black suit, back to Sunday dinner at Shane's mamma's place, to Copperhead's Den, to the cliffs of Dirk Rockbone,

to Death Island,

and then to the schoolhouse on the scariest night of their lives.

Suddenly, to Archie, there was no young man in the black suit anymore.

There was only a little boy with dirty knees and big, soft, brown eyes.

Hey, Arch, uh, uh,

it's been a long time.

We need to talk.

Kid,

how

cowboy?

There is a curse upon my every

waking breath,

and

I

cannot

escape

Well,

hey there, family, and welcome to the first arc of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia Run Like Hell.

I figure, as is y'all's custom, you're probably cursing my name over that little cliffhanger.

But what better way is there to start the season than to bring back one of the most beloved little boogers in all of our Appalachia as a grown-ass man and then leave y'all hanging for the full story?

I've missed this.

And we've missed y'all.

Now, if you'd like to learn even more about what the boys of Death Island have been up to since we first met them in season two, you can join us in The Holler, our brand new subscription service where you can enjoy ad-free episodes and for a mere $10 a month, listen to exclusive storylines like Familiar and Beloved, Return to Death Island, Build Mama a Coffin, and more.

You can sign up today at old godsofappalachia.com slash the holler.

There's a link right there in the show notes now as always we encourage you to complete your social media ritual by following us on facebook instagram threads and now blue sky And if you really want to dig into the nitty-gritty details of the show with your fellow listeners, the community on Discord would love to chat with you, family.

You can find all those links on our website at old godsofapalacha.com.

Speaking of links to exciting things, one other thing you'll find a link to on our website is our brand Spankin' New Merch Shop.

Or you can just head on over to old godsmerch.com and we'll have that link in the show notes for you too but there you will find high quality t-shirts hoodies and more several y'all reached out to us to let us know you missed out on tour merch and i know we've been promising to make that available online for y'all for well a while now But I'm pleased to report that the hedge merchant has opened the vaults and placed our remaining tour merch up for sale in our new shop.

So go get yourself something nice that will last you a long, long time.

And this is your Every Time You Think You're Safe, we go back to Death Island Reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Beat Nerd Media distributed by Rusty Quill.

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

Our kick-ass new theme song is by Brother Landon Blood.

Our outro music is by those poor bastards.

If you know it, sing along.

The voice of Kelson Stallard was, well, Kelson Stallard.

Fun fact, family, the character of Archie Stallard is based on my dear childhood friend Kelson and is named after his actual papa.

So in the most Appalachian casting ever, Kelson Stallard is playing a generationally advanced version of himself.

You might also recognize Kel from his performance as Micah Hobbs in part two of Familiar and Beloved over on the Holler.

The adult voice of Cowboy Apsher was Brandon Bentley.

who you might also recognize from his heartbreaking performance as young Wayland Boggs and Blackmouth Dog and Familiar and Beloved Kith and Kin.

We're excited for both of these fine folks to make their main feed debuts here in season five.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you real soon.

And we're back live during a flex alert.

Dialed in on the thermostat.

Oh, we're pre-cooling before 4 p.m., folks.

And that's the end of the third.

Time to set it back to 78 from 4 to 9 p.m.

Clutch move by the home team.

What's the game plan from here on out?

Laundry?

Not today.

Dishwasher?

Sidelined.

What a performance by Team California.

The power truly is ours.

During a flex alert, pre-cool, power down, and let's beat the heat together.

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.