Episode 30: The Dead Queen

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Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

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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.

Family.

It's a word we use a lot around here.

We call each other family because we are connected by the blood under these mountains, if not by the blood in our veins.

Around here, we've watched families be destroyed by the very things they needed to survive, be it a paycheck in the grind and dark of the mines or the grace of a God they weren't taught to understand or question.

These families ended up being torn, stem and bloom from the earth and cast into inner darkness.

But sometimes such a sundering left behind a root that grew and blossomed into stories of chosen families that stitched themselves together out of desolation.

A child whose family was wiped from the face of the earth save only himself became a part of two new families in trade.

Sisters reached out and attempted to heal old wounds to connect with the scattered threads of their particular warp and weave.

And these are just stories, of course.

But they've all led us here

to a place with no name

and no marker on any map.

In the company of haints and witches and other things with a thousand names between them

as family

to stand as a barrier

between the living world

and the dead queen

falls,

and so I'll follow.

No time to rest these weary bones.

I hear her song,

and my heart goes hollow.

Best not to walk these woods alone.

Best stick to the roads out of the shadow.

Best get on home.

Let's look at them go straight.

The spring air in Baker's Gap still clung to the soft coolness of the love letters these mountains seem to write to winter until summer smacks their hands and tells them to quit it.

The town itself was just starting to trust in the warm spring afternoons, even if they were betrayed by chilly twilights and would be until late May.

Marcy Walker was anything but chilly as she bustled about the various rooms of the sprawling homes she built, dotting the I's and crossing the T's of a a thorough spring cleaning.

The Walker House's guest floor was normally orderly and clean, but Marcy insisted that everything needed to be just so for this particular gathering.

Her backyard visitor had made it clear that she would be expected to extend hospitality to two other women in their respective kin should they accompany them, and that their safety and comfort was crucial.

to the success of the seemingly impossible task they would set out to do.

The Walker House would be the base of operations for this dread business, given the gap's proximity to the unnamed plot of land where all this would have to end.

So with help from Melvin and Clara, Marcy had readied the guest rooms and cleaned the whole house from baseboards to eaves.

Her sister Ellie had wanted to drive down from Esau County and was rather annoyed when Marcy told her no.

Point of fact, they'd bickered pretty hot down the phone lines about it, but ultimately Marcy prevailed.

Ellie didn't have a role to play in the upcoming working, and her time would be best spent looking after Cowboy.

Given his tie to the thing they were working to bind, it was safest for him to stay as far away from Baker's Gap as he could.

Ellie had grown quite fond of the boy, and Marcy knew she'd give her last breath to keep him safe.

So Melvin had made the requisite market runs, and the pantry and larders were well stocked to entertain a small army, much less a handful of women whose ages ranged ranged from sunrise to sunset, who'd probably be too nervous to do more than peck at some biscuits.

Still, Marcy knew this could very well be the last time she got to play hostess.

Depending on how this fool's errand turns out, she was determined to do it right.

And besides, Granny Underwood was coming.

Marcy hadn't been sure if Miss Marigold was still alive or even if any of the Underwoods that bore gifts were still in these mountains.

Lots of black folks had done up and left the coal counties in West Virginia and elsewhere for better jobs and employers who might not actively want to kill you or run you out of town.

And growing up, Marcy hadn't known much about the Underwoods at all.

A famously gifted family who kept to themselves or at least out of the sight of the white folks of that particular part of Appalachia.

Her mama always had spoken highly of the herbs and powders and tinctures you could get from the underwoods of Oak Mountain.

See, it was one thing to be powerful gifted.

It was another to be a good granny and tender of the green.

The Underwoods gardens were kept with a level of care that most people could only dream of.

And that wasn't magic.

It wasn't a gift.

It was just hard work and the expertise gleaned from decades of it.

Marcy had known grannies without a lick of any special powers or skills that could grow mugwort or rue that would be better than anything an indifferent gardener like her could ever coax out of the ground.

The Underwoods just happened to have both the gift and the skill.

In particular, they were known to grow some of the most powerful and dangerous plants you could gather for a working.

Akonite,

Belladonna, Devil's Trumpet, all beautiful, all-powerful, and all requiring extreme caution to grow safely.

Marcy wouldn't have attempted to keep them on her land, but the Underwoods had tended and harvested them without incident for decades.

The giant man in the Sunday suit had referred to Miss Underwood as the fire of the mountain in his peculiar way of naming people all the way through when he spoke of them, and that felt right.

But Marigold Underwood wasn't a raging blaze that burned and consumed.

She was the communal hearth of a family and a community.

She was the heat of a forge that tempered her family into steel, ever-burning and stalwart.

Her gift lay in resilience, in a steadfast resolve that we will survive this and there ain't nothing nobody nor nothing can do to stop us.

Marcy had hoped some part of the family still remained in the area, but she never expected to meet Miss Underwood herself.

Supper was underway, but still a good hour when both the wards and the sound of an approaching engine let Marcy know the first of her guests had arrived.

She knew before she reached the front door who it must be.

The green up in Esau County on the Virginia-Kentucky state line had its own feeling and smell, like fresh split pine and coal smoke that tended to flavor the magic of the workers who lived there.

She could sense it on Ellie sometimes when she'd been staying at her place up that way a while.

And whoever had just pulled up front was steeped in that power.

It wafted like the smell of cinnamon off an apple pie for the young woman in the passenger seat of the dust-covered Nash that had just pulled up to a stop in the main drive.

A tall young man of remarkable proportions rose from the driver's side of the car and walked around to the back.

Dealy, go on now, girl.

Make your manners.

I got them bags.

Go on.

And the big man was true to his word, popping the trunk and stacking all of their luggage on top of a massive steamer.

Then easily lifting the whole load all at once over to the front porch steps.

Between the arrival of their mysterious caller, Melvin, and now this sweet-faced giant, Baker's Gap, was just swimming in big men, it seemed.

Thank you, Indiana, the girl said sweetly.

She was purdy, in her late teens, with honey-streaked light-brown hair, and she wore a neat navy-pleated skirt, a white blouse with a striped sailor collar, and sensible shoes.

She strode over to Marcy with her hand extended politely.

Miss Walker, I'm Delia Hubbard.

This is my cousin, Indiana Boggs.

Thank you for having us.

I'm so honored y'all thought of me.

Now, I'm still learning from what my mamma Boggs left me.

But we're here to help.

I appreciate y'all coming down on such short notice, Miss Dealia.

Oh, please.

It's Dealy.

Well, Miss Dealy, let's get y'all settled in.

Supper will be on soon.

Melvin Blevins had been traveling since before sunup.

And frankly, though he was well used to ferrying people and goods around the greater Bakers Gap area and usually enjoyed the work,

he was about done with the inside of this truck.

He was about done with these busted-ass old roads, and he was already done with the first of two picnic baskets Miss Marcy had packed for him.

He'd been forbidden to open the second until he had picked up his passengers.

He was tired.

He was hungry, and he had miles to go before he could rest.

But if the folks he'd been sent to fetch were on time, they could get back to the gap just in time for supper.

But for the moment, Melvin's journey had ended here,

just outside of Withfull, Virginia, which was the midway point between Oak Mountain up in West Virginia and Baker's Gap.

He was a good bit north of the town limits, parked in the back lot of a small family funeral home.

It stood out here alone.

No other businesses or houses around it.

Folks not much liking to live or do business with the constant shadow of mortality looming over their shoulders.

But the windows were boarded up and it appeared to be abandoned.

The sign out front was faded and illegible.

The land around it seemed drained of color, and the sky overhead hung heavy with clouds, the shade of morning.

First he'd seen on this whole trip.

Melvin knew who he was picking up.

He also knew why he was in the middle of nowhere and not in town proper.

Withful had been in all the papers just a couple of years ago.

A young black man had been lynched and left on display not far from a local church way over on the other side of town.

And the story only got out because there was a bunch of reporters in the area covering some government business and the outcry.

Y'all, the outcry was tremendous, but the result was predictable.

Silence.

Then a drunken confession from a single white man out of a mob of 50, who, of course, was acquitted.

Melvin, to his shame, had forgotten the whole thing until he passed the bright and cheery, Welcome to Wiffful sign on his way through.

Before he had time to ruminate further, though, a royal blue packard sedan looking like it just pulled off the showroom floor rolled into the back lot and parked directly across from Melvin.

The driver A sharply dressed black woman whose pinstriped suit seemed to have been coordinated with the car's brilliant color scheme, motioned for Melvin to get out of his truck.

And Melvin threw up a hand in acknowledgment and climbed down from the cab.

Stay right there, Nina Jennings snapped from across the way.

You Blevins?

Uh, yes,

Melvin Blevins.

That's me.

You got any proof of that, Melvin Blevins?

Uh, proof?

A letter, some papers, something that says you are who you say you are.

Uh, I,

uh, do you know who that is back there, Melvin Blevins?

Melvin was flustered.

His pickups and drop-offs did not usually come with requests for paperwork.

Uh, I know that that must be Miss Underwood, and you must be her daughter, Miss Jennings.

But do you know who she is?

Nina persisted.

Uh, well, I know Miss Underwood is real important, and I'm to make sure y'all have everything you...

That is my mother, Mr.

Blevins.

That's who that is.

I don't expect you to understand how important she is outside of that, but my job is to get her where she needs to be and keep her safe.

Now, how am I supposed to get in some dirty old truck with the likes of,

well,

with somebody like you when you can't even prove who you say you are?

Nina.

Nina turned in surprise to find her mama standing right behind her.

She hated it when she snuck up on her like that.

What'd I tell you?

I know you don't think it's safe, but it's what we have to do.

But mama, he could be anybody.

Do you know where where we are right now?

What happened here?

I know, baby, but if Brother Bartholomew says we trust him, we trust him.

Nina rolled her eyes in disbelief that her mama was operating on the word of some stranger who just turned up on the porch on her birthday and told her she needed to go down to Tennessee to fight monsters or some such nonsense.

We can ask somebody to speak for him if that makes you feel better.

Mama, you've been traveling all day.

You're tired.

You don't need to be doing no.

Mary Gold Underwood ignored her daughter and stepped forward, looking Melvin Blevins up and down.

My, my.

They make them big down in Tennessee, don't they?

There's plenty that would speak for this man, I believe.

Uh, ma'am.

Melvin was thoroughly off balance by now.

Wait, Mama, I'll do it.

Nonsense, baby.

Here, you take one hand, I'll take the other, and we'll both see.

Mr.

Blevins, would you allow us to hold your hands, please?

Melvin, well acquainted with the things that could happen when someone who moved in the same circles as the Walker women asked permission to touch you, gingerly extended his enormous paws with barely a tremor and only a moment's hesitation.

Mary Gold Underwood wrapped her fine-bone fingers around his left hand as her daughter did the same with his right.

The two women exchanged a look of mutual understanding, then joined their free hands together, closing the circuit among the three of them.

The air seemed to sing with a gentle tension.

Marigold and Nina both bowed their heads.

Uh, ma'am, who is supposed to vouch for me?

I don't know anybody around.

You know plenty of people here, Mr.

Blevins.

They're always with you.

If they'll speak for you, we'll be just fine.

I'm sorry, y'all.

I just don't understand.

The dead, Mr.

Blevins.

The dead can't lie to us.

Hush now.

Marigold closed her eyes and began whispering softly.

Melvin couldn't make out the words, but then she lifted her head and spoke clearly to the gray sky above.

Is there one that would speak for this man?

To give testimony to his heart and the truth of his word.

The air in the deserted lot behind the funeral home grew colder.

The cloud cover seemed to grow denser and Melvin would not have been surprised at all if it had begun to snow.

Nina looked directly past Melvin's field of vision and gasped a little.

Oh, oh mama, look, I see a child.

Mind your madness.

Marigold tilted her head and leaned in as if she were listening to someone telling her a secret.

Mm-hmm.

Marigold murmured, nodding for all the world as if she were listening to a story no one else could hear.

Nina's eyes swam with tears as she stared into the space framed by the three of them.

She didn't utter a word, but the heartbreak on her face at what she saw spoke volumes.

Oh, he's stubborn, is he?

I bet he is.

Yes, yes, daddies can be like that.

They sure can.

But in the end, he did the best he could, yes, child.

Mm-hmm.

I bet he did.

Mm-hmm.

Yes, I hear you, baby.

I hear you.

It's all right.

Shh.

It's all right.

You can go now.

We appreciate you.

And we thank you for speaking with us today.

Thank you so much.

Goodbye now.

Melvin's breathing had grown heavy, and his own eyes were brimming as he looked back and forth between Nina and Marigold, unable to speak.

The two women appeared deeply engaged in a moving conversation with the empty space in the center of their circle, and he was still so confused, but his heart.

Oh, y'all, his heart swelled and ached, and he couldn't say why.

He was just overcome with a brutal sadness that broke and washed into relief as the two women gently slid their hands from his.

And for the briefest moment,

as the cloud cover broke and sunlight began to bleed back into the day,

he could have sworn he heard her voice.

Just the faintest whisper.

Vera.

Melvin squeezed his eyes shut and let the tears fall.

You raised a strong girl, Mr.

Blevins, Marigold said gently, reaching out to give his arm a comforting pat.

Melvin heaved a great shuddering breath, wiped his eyes, and nodded.

Miss Marcy said y'all had a place to leave your car.

Nina's gonna put her pride and joy inside the garage of that old funeral home over there.

We know some people that is gonna keep an eye on it till we get back.

Nina Jennings pulled the flashy Packard around and unloaded their bags, then navigated the car into the garage that must have once housed the home's funeral wagon.

Once the doors were shut and secured with a heavy old chain and padlock, Melvin loaded the bags into the back of his truck, covered them with a tarp, and produced the second picnic basket Miss Marcy had packed.

Uh, if if y'all are hungry, uh, we we we got sandwiches.

Seeing the hopeful glint in Melvin's eyes, Marigold looked at Nina and laughed.

I think we all right, Mr.

Levins.

But help yourself.

Now, I think we should get on the road, don't you?

The Underwoods' arrival at the Walker House came an hour or so after the delegation from Esau County had arrived and went went as smoothly as one could hope.

Melvin introduced Miss Underwood and Miss Jennings, and Marcy introduced Miss Dealey and her cousin Indiana.

Melvin and Indiana hit it off famously and spent the time before supper helping when asked, but otherwise keeping out from underfoot.

Melvin was happy to show off some of the improvements he'd made to the upper veranda, as well as a couple of rocking chairs he made, and Indiana loud that it was right fine work and invited Melvin to come up to the holler sometime and see the wood shop he was working on out back of their property.

Supper was an all-out affair.

If this was the last meal Marcy Walker ever made, it would be one to remember.

The menu featured buttermilk-fried chicken, Melvin's Clara's green beans and fatback, cornbread, collards that sang with just the right kiss of vinegar, mashed taters with a brown gravy that her mama had only made when special company come by, and enough iced tea to baptize the congregation of Rising Creek Baptists to wash it all down.

It was a proper family meal.

Marcy had risen from the table and was about to head into the kitchen to continue the onslaught of cookery with a battery of fresh-baked pies, cakes, and assorted puddings for dessert when she looked up suddenly.

Melvin, she said shortly.

Melvin was on his feet faster than most might credit a man of his size, following Marcy to the door.

Outside, they could see someone making their way from the road to the front steps.

The wards scribed scribed into the very stone and soil of the Walker house sounded a gentle alarm to Marcy ahead of their arrival.

She turned the porch light on and stepped out to peer into the gathering dusk at four people walking up the path to the house.

Melvin lingered just inside the door, just behind her.

Their unexpected visitors stopped at the top of the front steps and seemed a bit confused as to why they could move no further, but after a moment of befuddlement, the leader of the small band recovered themselves and smiled up at them hopefully.

Ladies, my name is Evelyn Burgess, and this is Georgie Triplett.

We're with Good Mother Ministries.

Marcy noticed that the speaker failed to introduce the two men who hung back, one of whom she recognized as Seth Varner, known thief and general troublemaker.

The other was a stranger, but he had the posture of a man who anticipates doing bad things.

Marcy felt the wards thrum in warning as she looked at each of them in turn before speaking.

She'd heard some troubling things about the services up on Peter's Creek and thus was on her guard.

Can we help y'all?

It's a little late for a social call, ain't it?

We're just finishing up supper.

The woman introduced as Georgie Triplett bubbled right up.

Then we're just in time, ain't we, Speaker?

She smiled mischievously at Evelyn Burgess.

We sure are.

We heard you had company come to town, and we we thought we'd bring a sweet treat, along with the blessed news of the good mother.

Evelyn Burgess lifted a baking pan wrapped in a cloth napkin.

Huckleberry cobbler.

Marcy listened with half an ear as the speaker and their companion rattled on about the cobbler.

Her attention fixed more closely on the song of the wards as they reacted to Georgie Triplett's voice.

The two men were trouble for sure,

but that perky little thing was the real threat.

Is everything all right out here?

Came Dealey Hubbard's voice as she came out onto the porch, moving alongside Melvin to greet the group with a smile.

Ooh, is that cobbler I smell?

Dealy inhaled deeply, as if savoring the idea of dessert, but her eager expression quickly turned to confusion.

That's an unusual smelling dish you have there, friends.

What's in it?

Huckleberries, said Evelyn, uncovering the golden brown crust and releasing the aroma of baked goods into into the evening air.

We just wanted to come by and talk with y'all about the miracles of the Good Mother and share with y'all the glory of her gospel.

The speaker of Good Mother Ministries was startled into silence as Granny Underwood abruptly shouldered her way between Marcy and Melvin and stuck her finger right through the middle of the cobbler.

scooping out a healthy sampling of its warm and gooey insides.

Marigold looked closely at the fruit filling, but did not taste it, instead sniffing carefully.

Then flinging the offending substance off into the grass, she frowned hard as she took the napkin that had been covering the cobbler from a stunned Evelyn and wiped the mess from her fingers.

I think you might have made a mistake in your berry picking.

Them's pokeberries, darling.

They'll kill you dead in Tindo nails, especially mixed up with that laudanum you got up in there, too.

Evelyn frowned, shocked at the older woman's display.

Uh, no, ma'am.

Um, Georgie brought me these huckleberries just this afternoon.

I think I know the difference between, but Granny Underwood shook her head.

Honey,

I done had plenty of desserts left on my doorstep that would have put me in the ground quicker and grease lightning if I'd been ignorant enough to eat them.

I know from what grows out the ground and what can put you under it.

You got you a panful of poison there is what you got.

Evelyn sputtered.

no, ma'am.

I'd never make anything to hurt anyone.

Tell them, Georgie, are you sure these were huckleberries?

I just, before anyone could say anything else, the wards of the Walker House engaged the situation.

The air became charged and tingly, like the moment before a thunderstorm kisses the upper limbs of an unfortunate oak tree.

Suddenly, Evelyn Burgess hollered and dropped the cobbler pan to the porch as it grew hot enough to sear her fingers.

The assembled women watched as it blackened and burned as though it had been left in the oven too long.

Marcy stepped forward, her jaw set.

She could sense the energy flowing through the workings that protected her home.

That had been a warning shot.

There would not be another.

I think y'all better go.

If you walk away now, we'll pretend this was a recipe gone wrong and we never have to see each other ever again.

If you don't,

well then,

and she looked down at the scorched pan and gave a slight shrug.

Georgie Triplet bared her teeth and snarled.

Fools, all of you.

You could have gone quietly and let the good mother get on with her work, but now she'll build her altar with your bones too.

Georgie?

Evelyn Burgess seemed shocked and hurt.

Georgie, we just come here to talk, to try to correct their path and show them the mother's mercy.

Did you put something to- Shut up, Evelyn.

The time for talking is done.

You're not fit to leave the good mother's flock no more.

This isn't about her mercy.

It's about her power and her glory.

You came out here to talk.

To talk?

To who?

A bunch of old whores and witches who want to stand in her way?

What blessing did you ever seek, Speaker?

Whose blood have you called for?

Georgie spat on the ground, her eyes wild and and fanatical.

A night sky's worth of darkness and hurt-filled rage swam in that mad gaze as she jabbed her finger at Marcy's face accusingly.

She's going to tear y'all apart and take this world for her glory and her name, and there's nothing any of you can do.

There was a sound, like a branch breaking in winter.

And Georgie Triplett was flung backwards off the porch and into the two men who tumbled to the ground with her in a tangle of limbs, hitting every step on the way down.

Marcy turned cold eyes to Evelyn, who still stood on the porch untouched.

You should go.

I think your flock has gone astray.

And if you don't wrangle them,

I will.

Miss Walker, I swear I never...

Melvin stepped in before Marcy wrangled anyone.

He hadn't seen Miss Walker this angry in a long, long time.

He held his hands up in a peacekeeping gesture.

You need to get on now, with or without them.

Get off Miss Walker's property.

Now.

Marcy raised her voice and spoke loud enough so the two men and young woman getting to their feet could hear.

If y'all are standing here by the time I close that door and turn off the porch light, I ain't gonna feel sorry for what happens to you.

Marcy, Melvin, and the other women turned and went back in the house, ignoring the ranting threats of Georgie Triplett as the two men and the speaker of Good Mother Ministries dragged her away into the dark.

The next couple of weeks were spent preparing the working they'd need to perform at the new moon.

There were herbs and stones and other items that needed to be gathered and blessed.

There were notes that Marcy had taken when she spoke with Bartholomew that she needed to compare with Miss Marigold's.

And there was plenty to teach Dealy, who'd never taken part in any group ritual, much less something on this scale.

Nina, Indiana, and Melvin assisted wherever they could, but the bulk of the work fell to the women who'd be performing the binding, and that burden they'd have to shoulder alone.

Before they knew it, the moon had waned to the thinnest sliver of a glowing white crescent.

And then one evening, as Marcy, Miss Marigold, and Dealy sat around the kitchen table after supper going over their plans for what would be one of the last times, there was a knock at the kitchen door.

Marcy was startled.

Once again, her wards had failed to alert her, but not entirely surprised when she peered through the window to find Brother Bartholomew standing on her back porch.

She showed him into the kitchen and offered him a coffee and a slice of pie, which he declined, and invited him to sit.

He'd come to check on their progress and answer any last-minute questions they might have about the upcoming ritual.

The three women dutifully went over the plans they'd made, the preparations that were just about complete.

Bartholomew offered advice here and there, small tweaks that could make this sigil stronger and that charm more potent, but overall, he seemed pleased with their work.

When he asked if anyone had any other questions that he could answer, Dealey finally found her courage and blurted out,

Well, I'd just like to know,

how did

all this get started anyway?

Who is that dead queen?

Bartholomew nodded solemnly.

That's a fair question, oh, Hope of Bogsholler.

I've asked you to risk your life in this undertaking, and so I owe you an answer.

He stretched, leaned back in the upright kitchen chair, making himself more comfortable, and began to tell the tale.

As you all know, the birth of a child is a miraculous thing.

A portal from one world opens through a body of flesh and bone and out pops a whole new soul, who in the best of times will be loved and held dear.

But when times are hard, another mouth to feed can be the straw that breaks the back of whatever beast of burden you prefer.

In harder times, during the selling of this land, those extra miles sometimes ended up abandoned in the wilderness to be returned to the God that made them.

This

was not the case in our story.

And more is the pity, as many folks would have been better off if it had.

The mother was a young girl who'd fallen under the spell of a much older man who'd promised he'd provide for her and the babe.

And it must be said that he did provide.

For her, he provided a shallow grave behind the place of his work.

For the babe, he provided a long wagon ride to meet its intended family, who waited in deep places between the old mountains.

To him, the babe was not a babe at all, but merely a vessel.

A vessel born filled to the brim with the most vile of unliving shadows.

A shadow older than the stony foundations of the very mountains around them.

Such a shadow, brought into this world by betrayal and blood, was far too powerful to be contained in such a small body for long.

So another was chosen and prepared to take its place, yet another young woman, alone in the world with no one to turn to.

They chose

poorly.

The new vessel refused to be filled.

She resisted and she fought.

Ultimately, she triumphed.

With the father dead and the sponsors from under the mountain scattered, the babe was left at the mercy of the woman who had been meant to be its replacement.

She, of course, saw only an infant.

left alone in the woods amongst blood and darkness and sought to lend it aid and succor.

For her heart was kind.

She took it up not knowing for what it was and it cleaved to her breast and latched onto her bosom and filled her with as much of the oblivion and rage that pulsed within it as it could.

Before finally, desperately, she pushed back her own kind heart and green fire alight in the swallowing maw of the thing's hunger.

The inner dark in the green.

locked in a perpetual struggle over the magic-rich body of an orphaned girl who was not allowed to die.

For seven years, the two souls fought for control, wandering the hills, looking for all the world like a mother and child.

Sometimes, the woman slept and the child brought terror and death to all who dwelt among the hills.

Whole towns vanished in sinkholes.

An entire coven of those who served the beings of the inner dark were laid waste in an evening.

Unthinkable creatures, summoned from the bones of things that had died in the place where she stood, rose to serve her every violent whim.

Other nights, the woman wretched controlled away and forced them to stand stock still in the deep woods for days at a time.

Or at least, managed to seal the force of destruction she'd become bound to, enough to minimize collateral damage.

Occasionally, even do a little good.

turning the fury of the combined powers back on those who had bound her in this form, slaughtering their minions, casting their plans into disarray.

Eventually, witches and hanks and things alike came to council and agreed that the dead queen, as they had taken to calling her, must be put down.

So a council of seven was convened, three witches, three others, and one greater still, to bind or destroy her.

In the end, they managed to bind her in an unmarked grave on nameless ground.

Every seven years, two hanks and two witches would return to show up the binding, where it had weakened over time as she fought against it, a responsibility that rotated amongst the local gifted bloodlines and through the more powerful of the darker things.

It was a terrible fate for a woman who only sought to help an abandoned infant, but she wasn't a complete prisoner.

She was forced to sleep in the grave with the child for one year out of every seven.

on the years when the binding was renewed, but otherwise she was free to walk the land as she chose before returning to the hell of that unmarked grave.

It is a sacrifice few would make, but it is one she has made up until now.

I cannot imagine it was her that broke the cycle.

That poor woman, murmured Marci, who was she?

That is of no concern of yours.

Marcia, daughter of Sheila, just that she would not allow the queen to walk if it was in her power to stop it.

Thank you for sharing that with us, Marcy said.

I think that's all the questions we have.

Bartholomew smiled.

Good, good.

You have all three done a fine job.

Have courage.

We'll have things set to right soon.

And with a few other pleasantries, he departed and left them to their work.

Come the new moon.

The women loaded a couple of bags that held the supplies they need into Melvin's rusty old truck, and the big man drove them deep into the country, down an empty, rutted road that eventually devolved into a dirt track.

Just a couple of grooves worn into the ground across tall, untended grass, and even those were barely visible these days.

It was a road long since forgotten.

On ground deemed too tainted for sensible folks to sow or to try to build a homestead, so eventually even the rutted remains of it faded to nothing just at the edge of the woods studded with pines.

This is where we get out, Mr.

Blevins.

Granny Underwood reached for her cane, and Marcy took up her staff as she opened the passenger's side door.

Are you sure, ladies?

This don't look safe to me at all.

Melvin, we talked about about this marcy said patiently you can't come with us brother bartholomew you said it's just got to be the folks doing the working it's too dangerous for anyone to be outside of the wards we said but miss walker you wait right here for us melvin we'll need a ride back to the house when when this is all over

But no matter what you hear, no matter what, you wait here till we come out.

You promise me?

Melvin sighed.

Yes'm, he said reluctantly.

I promise.

Marcy, Miss Marigold, and Dealy climbed down from the truck, and Marcy and Dealy shouldered the bags.

They weren't heavy, so Melvin's help wasn't needed to carry them into the trees, and Marcy didn't trust that he'd go back to the truck if she let him help that far.

But if he promised to wait here, he would.

He'd wait till hell froze right over if need be.

Marcy hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Hoped they'd prepared themselves adequately for the trials ahead.

The presence of Ms.

Marigold lent her confidence a much-needed boost.

The older woman had decades of experience to bring to bear, having many times been part of the seven years' ride to shore up the bindings they were tasked with rebuilding tonight.

They'd walked a good 20 yards into the trees when they first caught sight of a faint orange glow ahead of them.

Soon they reached a small clearing where a bonfire had been lit alongside a rectangular pit in the ground.

Freshly dug earth was mounted up not far from it,

though the ground along each side of it had been cleared.

A lean, handsome young man with a ginger beard was tending the fire.

He wore a long cloak despite the warmth of the evening.

Skid, Tom, seems I always find you here.

Tom stood, dusting his hands off on his cloak.

You know me, ma'am.

I always look out for my own interests.

In this one case, what's good for the goose is good for the gander, too.

Evening, ladies.

He nodded politely to Marcy and Dealey, and Dealey noticed as he turned his head what looked like a razor-thin red line of a cut.

Stretching from behind his ears and disappearing into his beard, she suppressed a shudder, which she imagined would have been impolite.

Marcy and Miss Marigold had warned her about skint Tom.

It seemed he'd found himself a brand new skin just for the occasion.

Is Brother Bartholomew here?

Marcy asked, glancing around the clearing.

He was, Tom confirmed.

He said he'll be around if we need him, so I imagine he's prowling around the woods doing what bears do.

Granny Underwood gave him a stern look and admonished him to mind his manners as Marcy and Dealey began unpacking their supplies.

Once they had set out all the tools they would need, Marcy and Miss Marigold began scribing wards of protection around the places they would take up around the pit, leaving an open space for each woman to step step inside, at which point she could close her circle.

At the older woman's direction, Dealey carefully placed stones and charm bags at specific points within the complex design, paying close attention to how each was laid out.

She did her best to commit them to memory, copying the sigils into a small notebook she had tucked into her pocket once they were complete.

There was a soft rustling in the trees, and a lithe figure stepped from the shadows and prowled toward their bonfire resolving itself into the shape of a woman as she stepped into the light

she was a tiny thing

just a touch over five feet with pale blonde hair that fell to her waist in silvery waves and green eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness like a cat's

She was also naked, her pale skin glowing in the firelight, at least where it it wasn't painted in a substance that looked suspiciously like blood.

In streaks and whorls, it covered her breasts and her waist down over her hips to a few inches above the knee.

To Dealy's eye, it looked for all the world as if she'd painted herself a dress of blood.

The strange woman grinned as she approached them.

Evening, ladies, Tom.

Dealy saw Granny Underwood's lips thin in disapproval, but the older woman merely nodded politely.

Miss Lavinia,

good of you to join us.

Miss Marigold.

Still alive and kicking, I see, Lavinia said with a wink as she turned her eyes on Marcy.

And you must be one of Sheila Walker's littlins, all grown up.

Still selling your sisters to anybody with two coins to rub together?

Her eyes raked over Marcy and she raised a skeptical eyebrow.

You don't take much much after your mama.

I can see why she never asked you to hitch up your skirts.

Marcy's eyes narrowed, but she didn't respond to the taunt.

She had more important things to worry about than some catty hank trying to get a rise out of her.

Lavinia's gaze fell on Dealy,

and she stopped.

But who is this?

She closed her eyes and drew air in deep through her nostrils as she stepped towards Dealey.

Bogs Holler, she pronounced, peering at Dealey with her strange, luminescent green eyes.

One of Glorianne's line, but not of her power.

No, not one of those teasly bitches at all.

Your Waylands get through and through.

I can smell the death on you, girl.

I wondered why the old bear would tap a mere pup for this, but now I see.

Clever, clever.

Dealey glanced nervously at Granny Underwood as Lavinia turned her attention to skint Tom.

The older woman gave her an encouraging nod and said softly, it's all right.

Don't let her get under your skin.

But don't never turn your back on her either, child.

She's far more powerful and more dangerous than she looks.

Tom,

Lavinia was saying, gazing up at him over one shoulder flirtatiously, Mighty nice suit you got there.

I like this one.

Very handsome.

Skimp Tom smiled and stroked his ginger beard, preening.

I'm pretty fond of it.

Might try to keep this one around a little while.

He dropped Lavinia a coy wink.

It's a big hit with the ladies.

The shadows around them seemed to just

shift.

And suddenly the five of them were joined by another.

And now even Lavinia, for all her swagger, fell silent.

What unfolded out of the near darkness was a creature of old Appalachia.

Before there was even such a name given to this place.

A being of the first people.

the rightful and betrayed keepers of this land and for the moment she wore the form of a near giant, stooped over to the height of a man.

Long, ratty hair hung about her massive head, drifting in the air as if it were underwater.

Her skin was the color of dense stone, and if she allowed you to perceive her in this form, you would see she was dressed in layers of animal hides, and in her left hand,

she held her own beating heart.

The first finger of her right hand was long

and spear-like and dripped with a viscous liquid.

In the next moment, she appeared as someone different to each of the gathered women.

To Dealy, she looked like her mother.

To Granny Underwood, she was a tall man with a winning smile that she married years ago.

To Marcy Walker, her sister Aggie.

She chose to wear the faces of the long dead for the witches.

So they wouldn't get confused or distracted during the ritual, but she'd still get to drink in the sorrow of them seeing the ones they missed most.

No one can say what old Tom and Lavinia saw when they looked at her,

but neither of them looked for too long.

After a few stunned moments, Marcy cleared her throat.

All right.

Looks like we're all here now.

Let's get this over with.

Each of them took their places around the unearthed trench in the soil.

Granny Underwood and their mercurial newcomer stood each at one end of the short sides.

Dealey stood along one long end to Marigold's right, with Marcy across the pit from her at Marigold's left.

Lavinia stood on Dealey's right with Tom across from her.

Like we talked about before, this is your first time doing this working, so you'll take the part of the wool tonight.

Granny Underwood explained to Dealey.

But you're part of this covenant now, and one day you'll be called upon to act as weaver.

So you pay close attention to what Miss Marcy does tonight.

Dealey nodded.

Yes, ma'am.

Around her, Dealey could see the binding coming together, just as Miss Underwood and Marcy had explained during the time they spent preparing.

The ritual was based on the concept of weaving.

With the two at the short ends acting as the loom, anchors providing structure and stability for the spell, Dealey and Skint Tom provided the wool, lending their power to Marcy and Lavinia, who would use it to draw the dead queen back to the grave and weave the binding tight around her.

As the two weavers worked, Dealey could feel their combined power ratcheting up around her, a living web that had an almost physical sensation against her skin.

She could almost see it shimmering in the air.

Across from her, sweat stood out on Marcy's skin as she worked, her attention focused entirely on the work at hand.

The earth beneath their feet rumbles and buckles, nearly knocking Dealy to her knees as a jagged seam split the ground inside the pit and a horde of what looked like monstrous spiders spewed forth.

Nothing like anything she'd ever seen before.

Their jointed limbs composed of thick sinewy vines and half-rotted hairy flesh, their backs armored with what looked like bone.

They opened their colossal mouths in unison, bony mandibles dripping venom and issued forth a keen, high-pitched scream that sent a piercing pain through Dealey's ears.

And then the spider things came running right for them.

Dealey screamed and took half a step back.

Don't you move!

Marcy yelled.

Stay inside your wards!

Dealy steeled herself, remaining rooted to the spot even as one of the terrifying things launched itself in her direction.

She flinched as it seemed to bounce off empty air, just inches from her face.

There was a crack like lightning and a smell of burning hair as the thing collapsed into a pile of ash at her feet.

To her right, Lavinia caught one of the things in mid-air as it leapt at her face, grabbing two of its limbs and wrenching it apart with her hands in a splatter of icker and blood, her laughter ringing through the clearing.

Across from her, Tom had his skinning skinning knife out, putting them down one by one as they came at him.

At the far end of the pit, the shadow-draped woman who wore Dealey's mother's face was skewering them with that terrifying blade-like forefinger and slinging the corpses into the trees.

Suddenly, a shriek erupted from the woods behind Dealey, and she whipped her head around and saw the woman who had come to Marcy's house with the poisoned cobbler, Georgie Triplett, coming out of the trees from the same direction they'd walked in.

She held a knife in her right hand and she was running straight for Granny Underwood.

Look out!

Dealy gasped, but she needn't have worried.

Miss Marigold's cane snapped out fast as a whip and cracked Georgie over the knuckles.

Georgie cried out in pain, dropping the knife and falling to her knees, cradling her injured hand.

You bitch, she snarled.

You can't stop her.

You're all fools to even try.

The good mother will wreak her vengeance on you all.

She will douse this world in blood.

She spun spun about until her eyes found Marcy Walker.

You, you, you whoremonger, you stupid cow, you hide behind your scribbles and scrawls in the dirt like they mean something, like they can protect you from the might of the good mother.

I told you to go home, little girl, Marcy called.

You don't know what you're dealing with out here.

If these wards think you're a threat, you're good.

Whatever Marcy said next was lost in Georgie Triplett's mindless owl as she drew a second knife from a sheath at her ankle and threw herself at Marcy

where she met the wards,

which did now understand Georgie to be a threat,

head-on.

The result was instantaneous.

There was a pulse of orange light.

A sharp metallic scent, like blood spilled on a hot skillet, filled the air.

And the ashes that had once been Georgie triplet wafted gently to the ground.

No body.

No blood.

Not even teeth.

Just...

dust.

Marcy cracked her neck and shrugged, muttering to herself, not even a little bit sorry.

Amidst this chaos.

Almost unnoticed, a woman with tangled dark hair and skin white white as bone had stepped silently into the clearing.

She was thin,

emaciated, really, and her eyes were black as pits.

At her bosom, she carried a swaddled bundle.

The babe.

Its face turned away from her breast now and towards them, eyes glowing green as foxfire and filled with an unmistakable malice, the pair crept slowly,

unhurried across the grass.

Coming to a halt a good 20 feet away, the woman slowly raised her arms, and a sound like the thunder of a dozen horses filled the air as more of the massive spider-like beasts poured into the clearing from the woods all around them.

The wards held them off of the three witches, annoying as they must have been for Marcy, deep as she was in the weaving, but they just kept coming.

The strain began to show on the Haints, who had no such protections in place.

Dealy could feel the binding around her beginning to waver, weakening in places as Lavinia was continually distracted from the working with wrenching things out of the air, killing them, and flinging them away.

Dealey wished she had a knife like Tom's or a cane like Granny's or something to help.

As she squinted at the incoming waves of spider beasts, her vision seemed to almost double for a moment.

And then she saw it.

A thread, pulsing a sickly green, running along the tentacly limbs of the strange creatures.

She remembered seeing something like it before, and how

if she just followed the seam of that thing, she might be able to find the end of it.

And there!

And Dealey snatched at the writhing, wriggling thread of magic that ran through one of the beasts and grasped it tight.

Not with her fingers precisely, though she clenched her fist, but with her gift itself.

And she yanked.

And like a loose thread on a ratty old sweater, the whole thing just came apart.

The thin strand of death magic that held all the creatures around them together unraveling before her eyes.

The spider creatures collapsed around them into puddles of slimy icker, wilted vines, and bones.

So many bones.

Suddenly exhausted by the use of her gift on top of what she was already funneling into the binding, Dealy slumped to one knee, holding herself up off the ground with a hand breathing hard, and a high, furious wail split the air.

The terrifying sound of the dead queen.

The babe itself howling its rage into the night.

The woman's foot stomped once hard on the ground below their feet, and there was a deep, grinding, tearing sound.

The huge rent opened up in the ground below them.

The growing crack raced across the ground toward the small band of workers gathered around the empty grave, tearing through the edge of Marcy's wards.

Marcy was too focused on the work at hand to notice, and another wave of twisted creatures, the reanimated corpse of raccoons, possums, and other critters bound together with vines and twigs and whatever else was nearby to give them form and shape, poured from the trench that had opened in the earth.

Skit Tom saw one of them racing straight for the Walker Woman.

Well,

shit.

He took up his trusty knife and leapt for the encroaching monstrosity, tackling it to the ground just as it tried to launch itself at Marcy.

Now, Tom had never been brave in life.

He'd never been a hero or even what anybody would call a good man while he still wore the skin he was born with.

And he'd been a worse one since his skin was off.

And worse still after that, the night he met something under a bridge that gave him more power than he'd ever imagined in changing his face and taking the blood of lovers.

The dark he'd embraced made him stronger and faster than most things walking.

By all rights, Skip Tom should be much more widely known and feared than he was, but Tom was unlucky at best and cursed at the worst.

So when he tackled the thing that was making a beeline for one of the weavers and plunged his knife into all three of its yellow green eyes until it finally went still, he was hoping that for once in his long life that his luck might hold.

And for a second, it did.

Thanks to him, Marcy managed to sidestep the oncoming horde of rattle bones and resurrected horrors, and she nodded her thanks to him.

Then Tom turned to face whatever was next, which turned out to be a nightmarish cloud of bats that seemed to be made up of little more than wings and wide gaping mouths ringed with jagged teeth.

They descended on Tom like a tornado and within seconds reduced the skinless man to pieces too small to even fish with.

Just like that,

Skimp Tom was gone.

Her wool lost, Lavinia threw herself into the fray, her long pointed nails lengthening and growing still sharper as she tore into the reanimated creatures around them, keeping them away from Marcy so that she could continue weaving the binding.

They were so close.

The work was almost done.

The babe was wailing again, this time not just in rage, but in pain.

The dead queen was slowly, inexorably coming closer, her skeletal feet shuffling across the grass.

But the nearer she came, the more it became apparent that the woman was struggling against the babe's pull.

Fighting for control of her own legs, she held the babe out in front of her, trying to pull it away from her chest, but the thing had locked on to her with its tiny claw-like hands.

When she or they were in range, Lavinia struck.

The dead queen's constructs forgotten, her entire focus suddenly on the real threat.

With a wild shriek of laughter, she leapt at the pair, her long nails rippling toward the babe's grotesque, wrinkled little head, and the pale woman's arm snapped up, catching the little blonde Hank by the throat in mid-air.

And the babe turned its eerie, glowing eyes on her.

And Lavinia

screamed.

Around the grave, Dealey and Marcy cried out at a sudden, horrible pulling sensation in their veins, through muscle and sinew, down to their very bones.

Granny Underwood gritted her teeth, but stood fast, her focused entirely on her own role as the loom, working with the strange, shadowy woman at the opposite end of the hole to keep the fragile binding they'd woven intact.

Dealy could feel her gifts straining against the dead queen's power, knew instinctively that the monstrous child was trying to drain their life away and fought against it.

With a strength none of them could have imagined, the dead queen flung Lavinia across the clearing and she landed in a heap near the bonfire and lay still.

The threat dispatched, the babe turned its eerie glowing eyes on Marcy

and began to advance.

Her steps were sure now.

The efforts of the poor woman bound to this grotesque mockery of a child apparently exhausted.

Marcy gripped her staff tight and kept working fast as she could, desperately trying to complete the binding as the woman's pale, bony fingers reached for her and the woods around them echoed with a furious roar that shook the devastated ground beneath their feet.

The sound of snapping branches and crunching grass reached their ears a moment before the biggest bear Dealey had ever seen bounded out of the very earth near the pines.

A bear seemingly wholly made of the green itself.

Not a raft of animal corpses reanimated into the shape of a monster, but a beast made of living roots, vines, and soil.

A creature that as it charged became muscle, bone, gristle, and teeth.

A titanic bear that leapt over the bonfire, lowered its head, and rushed the spectral figure in their midst.

Its massive head connected with the pale woman in a bone-jarring crunch, tackling her into the pit that awaited her.

Before she had time to resist at all, the bear dissolved back into the green like a landslide, burying the woman and child beneath an ocean of earth and filling the grave with a thunderclap of power that seemed to shake the very bones of the world.

The power the babe had been draining from them snapped back like a spring let loose, the recoil knocking the three witches from their feet.

Marcy recovered from the shock of it first.

We've got to hurry, she snapped.

Lavinia, are you still with us?

From the other side of the clearing, they heard a muffled groan, but a moment later, the blonde Hank came limping back to resume her place.

She was even paler than before, and one of her arms twisted at an angle that made Dealey nauseous to look at, but she resumed her work without complaint.

With Tom out of the picture, all of them would need to pour more of their power into the working, but the most powerful among them, the unnerving shade who wore their loved ones' faces, stepped up to provide most of it.

And finally, after several more nerve-wracking minutes that seemed like hours, the binding tightened into place like lacing up a corset, the power sinking into the ground, anchoring the monstrous vessel safely in the earth.

It was done.

It was quiet in the days after.

The battle had consequences both expected and unforeseen.

All three witches had survived the harrowing night, but Granny Underwood and Dealey Hubbard had been, well,

changed.

Dealey's youth and deep well of a gift had mostly shielded her from the life-stealing magic of the dead queen, but it had turned one of the honey streaks in her hair a deep ash gray.

stole most of the remaining baby fat from her face, and lent her eyes a gaze far older than her years would indicate.

The opposite was true of Miss Marigold, though, who seemed to have absorbed a bit more of her share of power when the green flung it back to them.

She walked upright with no need for her cane.

Her eyes were bright and focused.

The numbness in her left foot that she'd worried about was completely gone.

She had easily shed 10 years,

just like that.

Melvin had borne the Mrs.

Underwood and Jennings back to Withful, Virginia, where their car was still locked away safely, and their journey back to Oak Mountain was quiet and uneventful.

Dealey and Indiana departed last, with many promises to visit soon.

Melvin and Indy had bonded in their time of worry, becoming fast friends, and there would be much wood carving when Melvin made it up to Boggs Holler, Indiana promised.

Marcy had retired to the confines of the Walker house, where she vowed to sleep for at least a week, which meant she'd be up at 8 tomorrow morning doing chores rather than 4:30.

So, family, as these things go,

all

was well.

In the place that has no name,

that does not not exist on any map,

a bear sat patiently by a newly filled grave.

A bundle of clean clothes lay rolled at his feet.

He was a big and handsome beast and showed none of the anxiety that might riddle a lesser creature on a day like today.

He waited and he watched.

His eyes focused on the still earth of the burial site.

And he waited.

Eventually, after a time, the dark earth stirred and the bear rose to his feet.

He watched as a pale, freckled hand clawed its way through the soil, soon to be joined by its counterpart and followed by the rest of the woman they belonged to.

as she dug her way out of the ground in which she'd been buried.

She looked as though she had enough years that none but the most outrageous flirt might call her young.

But she was far from old,

and she certainly wasn't dead.

Her clothes were tattered, coming apart at the seams.

Though the dirt matted it,

her hair still gleamed a vibrant red.

Her gray eyes were tired.

The bear greeted her fondly with a deep and resonant.

Oi,

hey there, old friend.

Tell me,

how bad was it this time?

There is a curse upon my every

waking breath,

and

I cannot escape

the dark.

Well, hey there, family.

Woo!

That was a meaty chunk of something, wasn't it?

That's an hour plus of episode 30, The Dead Queen, thus bringing the conclusion to this season two of Old Gods of Appalachia in the Pines.

We ended up where we started.

Right back there in the pines where the shade is the bluest.

But here in the post-roll where the shade is the bluest, I am not alone.

Usually I am alone in the darkness, but I am joined here to say goodbye to this season with our own Mistress of the Dark, Cam Collins.

Cam, how are you?

I'm doing great.

Good to talk to y'all family.

Yeah, Cam doesn't get to come on the RSS feed very much unless she's playing Miss Lavinia or Miss Dealy.

So it's nice to have her here as herself.

Y'all, this has been crazy.

The entirety of this season was produced

during the pandemic.

I don't even know how to put that into words.

I don't know know how we got through it.

It's twice as long as everything else we've done.

We changed careers.

Did we not, Cam, in the course of...

Yeah,

we both changed careers and had to just completely readapt to working full-time in a very different way than we were used to.

It's insane.

If they want to call it art or podcasting or content creation, it's stressful.

Just going to put it out there.

It's a little bit stressed.

A little bit of stress, y'all.

But I love it.

Y'all think it's easy.

I'm sure.

I was like, ooh, what a great job.

It's not.

It's hard.

But anyway, thank y'all so much for being here with us for season two of In the Pines.

We've got some special shout-outs, of course, because it's the end of the season.

I want to give a shout-out to our agent, Charlie Ferraro at UTA, our attorney, Joel Vanderkloot at Vanderkloot Law.

I know it's weird to thank a lawyer, but I can't tell you everything.

But Joel has made this show, that whole transition to it being our full-time job thing.

Thank you, Joel Vanderkluth.

That's that's our manager.

Shout out to Callum and Alex.

And yes, that's Alex P.

Newell over at the Rusty Quill Network for helping us sell ads.

And on the topic of ads, those were brand new for season two.

So thank you to all of our sponsors from Sucre Bay to Above the Tie and everybody in between.

I totally pulled those two names at random.

Don't get mad at me.

But thank you to all our sponsors who bought space with us and traded ads with us throughout season two.

You too have helped keep the lights on.

Thank you to all of our Patreon patrons.

Holy crap.

Patreon,

you guys are everything.

I stop by the Discord and tell you that in the Patreon channel all the time.

But seriously, seriously, thank you.

And Patreon, patreon.com slash old gods of Appalachia.

You can get Build Mama a Coffin Door under the floor.

Blackmouth Dog, the Build Mama a Coffin prequel, as well as Porchlight.

As well as Porchlight, our new Flash Fiction series, which will feature a bunch of guest authors too, I'm hoping,

is going to be happening very, very soon.

We'll have release dates on those.

And Cam, you got some folks you want to thank as well?

Oh, absolutely.

First of all, just to echo your thanks, thank you so much to all of our Patreon family.

You guys, you keep the lights on.

You keep the cats fed.

You really, you make this possible for us.

And we appreciate every single one of you so much.

Thank you so much for everything you do.

And thank you for being patient.

We're finally getting caught up on all of our rewards.

Thank you for being patient.

And the role, there is stuff at the gaming front that is stirring.

As soon as this season is over, maybe we'll have an announcement.

Maybe, maybe, maybe not.

Now we're very soon after we finish up, after we wrap this up, we're going to take a little vacation time, but then we are actually, we're getting into some gaming-related things.

So

stay tuned.

Yep.

So hopefully those of you who've been waiting very patiently on those upper tiers of Patreon to play some role-playing games with us will have something to do and some things to look at very, very soon.

Kim, who who else you got to thank there?

Oh, gosh.

First of all,

so importantly, the wonderful, just incredibly talented

voice actors who joined us and helped make this season a reality.

Mr.

Yuri Lowenthal, The Buttercream Dream, Mr.

Corey Ryan Forrester,

Stephanie Hickling Beckman, the amazing voice of Grandi Underwood, Dr.

Ray Christian, who played the voice of Bartholomew.

Search for Dr.

Ray Christian on YouTube.

There are a thousand examples of him telling stories for the moth,

for Snap Judgment.

He's been all over NPR.

He is a world-class world champion storyteller.

Just absolutely amazing.

I've been fortunate enough to actually attend

an event where he was storytelling, and he's just, he's phenomenal.

Shaspere Irvin, amazing poet

who played Nina Jennings.

Just absolutely fabulous.

Find Shashapuri on Button Poetry and other places online.

Our cultural sensitivity consultants that we've acquired,

your friends, hopefully, and my friends, I'm getting to know them now.

Catalyst Alsender and DJ Rogers, thank you both so much.

You've just, you've helped us so much

with this season, especially the last couple of episodes.

I'd also like to thank Deep Nerd Media family here.

The wonderful Ms.

Jamie Schell, who helps keep our books and wrangles the Steve Cat,

Brian Gibson, who

is now helping with our Patreon reward fulfillment and wrangles the Cam Cat.

Those two people who keep us, who help keep us sane and like, no, stop panicking everybody

and and that goes with my second brain uh sister heather hawkins who handles some social media stuff and other patreon things for us who uh puts my brain in her back pocket says you can have it back when you stop being mean to it the rest of our facebook mod team uh jennifer klebor and brandon stanborough thank you both so much for helping for helping us moderate everything oh and shannon over on discord yes

thank you thank you so much um and person And on a personal note, I would just love to thank my friends, Kentley Dorgan, David Bierman,

Shelly Toler-Franz, Jennifer Yee, Elizabeth Burial, and honestly, all of my friends from the

BPAL Gusby's group who've been so kind and supportive of

me personally and of the show.

Just, I mean, since we launched,

all of these friends have just, you know, promoted us us and shared everything that I've shared and been just super supportive and thoughtful.

Thank you all so much.

Also shout out to all my friends and the Society for Creative Anachronism.

When we launched Old Gods, I was doing a podcast called the Known World Broadcast for the SCA and a lot of those listeners translated right over to us and into Patreon.

So some of those folks have been giving me money for a long time.

So super shout out to my nerd friends who dress up in medieval clothes and hit each other with sticks in the woods.

Love y'all.

Season two has been wild.

It's been big it's been wandering all over the place telling you a bunch of stories that all wrap up and connect as you're seeing season three is going to be something very special and very different but before we get to season three cam

before season three you can look forward to a very special trilogy by our friend jordan shively none other than at hottest singles dread singles on twitter jordan is an absolute just a pillar and cornerstone and a delight, but he's a pillar and a cornerstone as well as a delight of creepy short fiction on Twitter.

He was, when he became a friend of the show, I was super excited because I've been a fan of the stuff Jordan's been doing on

Twitter for a while and just a super nice human being as well.

That trilogy will announce a release date for it in the very near future, just like anything else in the very near future.

Because guess what?

We're tired.

We're real tired.

It's been a long non-stop ride and we're going to take it.

We're about to take a little vacation.

Yes, we're going to take a little break, and then we will start announcing the new stuff on Patreon for summer and fall very soon.

Shortly after that, the trilogy by Jordan Shively.

And then after that, you'll get the release date for season three.

Until then, go re-listen.

If you haven't joined us on Patreon, patreon.com/slash old gods of Appalachia, Build Mama a Coffin is there, as well as Door Under the Floor.

And there's going to be a ton of new stuff on there very, very shortly.

Going to be a well-worthy,

it's going to be a worthy investment.

That's all I'm gonna say.

And just, you know, just a pro tip, friends.

You absolutely want to listen to Build Mama Coffin before you listen to some of the new stuff.

Yep, yep.

And this is your everyday reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media distributed by the Rusty Quill Network.

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

The voice of Brother Bartholomew was Dr.

Ray Christian.

Granny Underwood was Stephanie Hickman-Beckman.

Nina Jennings was Shaspere Irvin, Indiana Boggs was Brandon Sartain,

Miss Lavinia and Dealey Hubbard were none other than Cam Collins, and all other voices were yours truly.

My name is Steve Schell.

We'll see you soon, family.

See you soon.

See you real soon.

Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratches from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

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

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

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

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

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

A little play can make your day.

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