Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 105: The Builder

Episode Date: August 13, 2026

Old acquaintances come face to face, and a story begins. CW: References to slavery, racism, land theft, genocide of indigneous people, poison, eldritch madness, monster noises.Written by Cam Collins and Steve Shell Produced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellCultural sensitivity consultation by DJ RogersThe voice of Joseph Bland: Willie RepoleyThe voice of Lavinia Thrice Damned, Beast of Lonely Creek: Cam CollinsIntro music: “The Land Unknown (The Where the Light Don’t Reach Verses)” written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: ”Wherever You Go” written and performed by Lunar Grove (download)Special equipment consideration provided by Lauten Audio.LEARN MORE ABOUT OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA: www.oldgodsofappalachia.comCOMPLETE YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA RITUAL: Facebook Instagram BlueskySUPPORT THE SHOW: Join us over at THE HOLLER to enjoy ad-free episodes, access exclusive storylines and more.Buy t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, and other Old Gods merch. CLASSIC MERCH: merch.oldgodsofappalachia.comTOUR MERCH & SPECIALTY ITEMS: oldgodsmerch.com.Transcripts available on our website at www.oldgodsofappalachia.com/episodes.© 2026 DeepNerd Media. All rights reserved. No part of this audio production or its written transcript may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/old-gods-of-appalachia. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Well, hey there, family, if you love Old Gods of Appalachia, I want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment. Well, you can still support us via the ACAS supporter feature. No gift too large, no gift too small. Just click on the link in the show description, and you too can toss your tithe in the collection plate. Feel free to go ahead and do that.

Right about now. Old Gods of Appalachia is a whole, Horror anthology podcast, and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. Paradise, Tennessee, 1993. Jack was parked comfortably on his favorite stool at the end of the bar. His favorite water and hole in Paradise was called Elder Brew, and it was located on a side street a few doors up from his office on the

the bottom floor of one of the city's historic downtown buildings. It was a long, narrow space that featured a bar its owner had built himself in stained black, hanging lamps that gave off an orangey glow reminiscent of firelight, a handful of tables, a turntable rather than a jukebox, and to his satisfaction, no televisions. The man who currently styled himself Mr. J.T. Fields had been a patron of drinking establishment since the first brewer ever hung up a shingle, and to his mind they were the proper place for companionship and conversation for the singing of songs and the telling of tales tall or otherwise. If a man wanted to zone out in front of the tube, he should do so at home and allow someone who appreciated the company of their fellows to have

his seat at the bar. It had been a quiet evening for a Saturday, and the crowd had dwindled to himself, another regular he knew well enough to say hello to, and a couple at the far end seated on the short side of the L-shaped bar. The bartender, a tall redhead with short-cropped hair, and a vintage black and pink dress printed with cats, busied herself scrubbing glasses over the sink. The record collection was eclectic. Running the gamut of styles and periods,

and tonight they were spinning Miles Davis, one of his favorites. Jack was enjoying a pint of Elder Brew's fine porter, brewed in-house by the owner when the front door swung open. He turned a casual glance in that direction and nearly dropped his beer As a tiny blonde figure all but frog marched one of his employees into the bar The young woman scanned the room And when her gaze settled upon Jack

She propelled Tony Crawford across the room Drawn up just short of his perch on the barstool I believe this belongs to you Mr. Fields I'm so sorry I... The young man fell silent flinching as the blonde woman, her eyes glowing a luminescent green, hissed at him. For all the world like a large and dangerous cat. Jack shot a glance at the bartender, who eyed the three of them nervously,

hovering just a step away from the phone tucked under the bar. He gave a discreet shake of his head. We're all right here. Nothing to see, ma'am. No need to summon the police. before turning his attention to the pair of new arrivals. That's all right, Tony. Why, yes, Miss Lavinia.

This young man is indeed in my employ, acts as my envoy from time to time. How kind of you to return him to me. There was panic in Tony's eyes, but at a nod from his boss, he stilled. Jack nodded to Lavinia and gestured at one of the small tables across the room. Why don't we have a seat and chat? Can I buy you a drink? The small blonde woman's eyes narrowed, but after a moment she shrugged and glanced at the chalkboard tap list mounted on the wall behind the bar. I'll have the cider, I suppose. Jack nodded to the bartender, and she began to fill a pint. Miss Lavinia turned and made her way regally to the table he had indicated, steering Tony ahead of her.

Jack finished off his pint in one long draw, and at a raised eyebrow from the bartender held up two fingers. The kid had certainly earned a drink as well. He carried the frosty glasses to the small round table in the back corner of the room and settled into a chair across from his unexpected guest. The two of them regarded each other for a long moment. Tony wisely remained silent. Jack had not seen the deceptively petite, silver-haired woman known as the Beast of Lonely Creek, among other epithets, in more than 60 years.

Though the girl didn't appear a day over 20, Her true age was unknown to him. Though he could hazard a guess. Near as he could recall, he had begun hearing whispers of her sometime in the previous century. Not all beings that walked the earth so long responded well to change. Though Lavinia seemed to be adapting all right. She looked every inch a young woman of the current decade,

wearing a leather jacket, tiny white slip dress, and clunky boots with the relaxed grace of a fashion model. Jack had to admit he was impressed. The last he'd heard, the rather hapless scion of a middling witch family, whose talents were on the wane, had somehow managed to imprison her. That was what? Sixty year ago? Sixty years was a long time in any century.

But the world around them had been completely transformed since the last time anybody he knew of had seen Miss Lavinia. He wondered how she'd managed to free herself, or if the disquieting thought occurred. heard to him, she had ever truly been trapped at all. Maybe she had simply fancied a nice long nap. Best be polite, Jack thought. He favored her with his most gentlemanly smile. You're looking well. Levinia smirked back at him. I always do. Now, can we cut to the chase, Jack? I found your young man here in possession of a certain

item that belongs to me. He told me you sent him to find it. Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Well, yes, I did. Lavinia's eyes flashed, and she leaned forward in her seat. Jack held up his hands in a placating gesture. Now, now, before you get all riled up, I can explain. I've been collecting a few of your things that I heard tell of here and there. You what? I'll be happy to returned him to you, of course. The blonde woman eyed him speculatively, and her hand flexed on the table. Furrows appeared on its wooden surface in the wake of her razor-sharp nails. What good would my personal property be to you?

Jack shrugged and grinned sheepishly. Oh, just to summon you is all. You see, I'd heard you were in a, well, a rather unfortunate situation. and somebody said old Hiram Cook had you locked up somewhere, and that just didn't sit right with me. I figured somebody ought to help get you out. And why would you do that? Well, now, you know me, Miss Levinia.

I'm a businessman. It occurred to me that whoever helped you, well, you know that somebody a favor. And those are my stock and trade. Lavinia smiled coldly, and her voice was as sweet as honeyed poison. But I didn't need your help, Jack. And from where I'm sitting, all you've done, all this boy has done, is steal what rightly belongs to me. Her hand clenped over the back of Tony Crawford's neck as if to emphasize the point,

and the young man squirmed. Jack took a deep breath thinking fast. I extend to you my sincerest apologies, Miss Lavinia. Upon my honor, I meant no harm nor any disrespect. In my misguided attempt to offer assistance, I have instead offered you insult I am so deeply sorry. If you'd be generous enough to release my envoy, this was no fault of his,

I take full responsibility for his actions. I humbly offer you a service to make amends for my unfortunate fo'paw. Laminia raised an eyebrow. What could you possibly have that I want more than this boy's hide? Jack's eyes sparkled, and he leaned back in his chair. A wide smile spread across his face. Why, I offer you nothing less than my greatest source of power.

Jack of the green they've called me, and Jack of the Wood. Jack the Giant Killer, Jack be nimble or Jack be quit. but most importantly, the one most folks seem to forget. It's jack of tails. There is no greater spinner of yarns to ever walk this world or any other, my dear. I don't know your story, though. I must admit I've been curious. Nobody does, as far as I heard.

And with you being, shall we say, indisposed for a while, well, I ain't heard nobody mention your name in quite some time. But if you settle in here for a drink or three and tell me your tale, I'll make sure every hedge, witch, and hate from the Cumberland to the Alleghenies will know it and will tremble at the mere whisper your name. Lavinia drummed her nails thoughtfully on the table. She turned to eye Tony for a long moment, then snapped her teeth at him, just barely grazing the skin.

Tony yelped and nearly fell out of his chair. Levinia laughed delightedly, then made a shoeing gesture. Run along then. this isn't a tale for children. Tony scrambled to his feet, shooting Jack in uncertain glance, ready to sit back down if his boss needed back up. A good lad, and loyal too. That was certainly gratifying.

He should give the kid a raise. He waved the young man off with a reassuring smile and with a relieved look, Tony hustled out the door. Levinia leaned back in her seat and stretched, reminding him yet again of a large cat. She finished off her pint of cider and Jack motioned to the bartender for a refill. Whenever you're ready, just start at the beginning. Those shimmering green eyes bored into Jack's.

For a heartbeat, Jack thought he might need to defend himself, but her demeanor shifted and she blew out of breath. Well, I suppose it's right there in the name. It all started with Lonely Creek. We turn us down In the woods go quiet And you think you told Every tale you know

And no reshape the darkness So you lock your eyes on the trembling glow The faces you find are so familiar They could almost speak The stories fall where the light won't reach And you can feed the fire To curse the darkness

When the voices call But in the end Long shadow to fall The thing that would come to be known as Lonely Creek Was not really a house Though in allowing a fool to build his home there It took on the shape

Of a house like an ill-fitting skin It became the house in all ways that mattered. It was an ancient, and it had worn many shapes across the various dimensions that had traversed over the fathomless span of its existence. During its time in our world, it wore the shape of a place, a bad place, a haunted place, a cursed and forsaken place. It was the kind of place from which unwary explorers never returned.

The kind that sang its siren song to the bold and the curious, and like the sirens, lured them to their doom. Wherever it went, and however it appeared to the native inhabitants, one thing remained the same. It stained the fabric of every reality it touched. The effects of its presence spread slowly and inexorably through these worlds like radiation poisoning. The closer in proximity one came to Lonely Creek, the more its unseen presence tainted their every thought and action. Most could not detect it, at least not consciously, but felt and responded to its existence

all the same. For some, the sense manifested like the crawling dread of being watched by an unknown observer. For others it registered as the subconscious summons, an insistent whisper just the at the edge of hearing, growing unsuspecting souls deeper and deeper into its listing shadows until the way back was lost. For others still, it would appear as an unspoiled land of opportunity. Some would swear they could all but smell the untapped resources lying just below its surface, while others fancied it an uncut gem of a location, a lofty perch where one might build a home

far above the common rappel. Lonely Creek was many things, but it was no one's home. Lonely Creek was not a place one stumbled across by accident. Like calls to like, and Lonely Creek called to those whose hearts beat in time with its steady drum, whose souls rang in tune to the dread chord of its song, and for those unfortunate souls, there was little mercy to be found. While their hearts beat a staccato riding the evening, edge of panic and the fetid air worked their lungs like a failing bellows. Madness began to spread

through their minds like a creeping fungus. Blood-sucking insects with gleaming jewel-toned carapaces that were nothing like the skaters and midges of our world buzzed languidly about, waiting for their next meal to wander, feverish and sweating into their deadly embrace. Those ensnared by Lonely Creek found neither riches nor homestead. Only howling madness before their bones were swallowed down into the maw of that infernal cove, morsels that did a little more than wet its insatiable appetite. It had never allowed anything to survive trespassing upon its environs for long, but when the rich man's son came trekking into the wilds of the recently established Commonwealth of Kentucky,

Lonely Creek found itself mildly curious. It was also, for lack of a better word, bored. At least to ways that's as close as any human mind can come to understanding the motivations of such a being, it was bored. And after all, no harm could result from allowing the man to come and go. The world around it was changing quickly. The strange little insects that inhabited its skin. Guddling over its surface like a rapidly spreading virus, changing the shape of the land, even as they threw the insignificant specks of their lives away in petty little wars that erupted and vanished in heartbeats,

how might the fruits of its labor manifest if the creature were allowed to dwell within Lonely Creek for a time? It called itself Joseph Bland, and it trapped into the clearing by the place where the flowing stream formed a clear pool and stared about itself, its fists on its hips, and it was a filthy, stooping. thinking thing. Its garments and skin coated with the dust of the road, its feet muddied from stomping through the woods. Its two companions followed more cautiously. The surveyor, with its crude implements of measure, so primitive as to be all but unrecognizable to a being that it traversed dimensions and another who carried one of the long iron-barreled contraptions that passed for weaponry on this world. The rich man's son stomped about, waving its arms,

and chattering in its high-pitched insect language, and the other insects chattered back. They shook their heads and gestured back in the direction from whence they had come. The one with the long iron grabbed its arm and attempted to pull the Joseph Bland away, but the stubborn little creature stood firm. The pair began to shout, and there was a brief scuffle,

which was interrupted by the surveyor, who quickly took out its compass and chain once peace had been brokered between the others. While it was about its work, The Joseph Bland removed a flask from its waistcoat, which it dunked into the clear stream. It raised the vessel to its lips and drank deep, gazing about it with the glint of avarice in its eyes. Lonely Creek could feel its hunger, a bottomless well inside it that could never be filled. Lonely Creek did not understand the things the little insect man wanted, nor did it need to.

It understood the language of desire. of craving. And it could read the man's heart like a map. Like calls. Joseph Bland was raised on a sizable tobacco plantation outside Charlottesville, Virginia, the second son of a prosperous farmer and merchant. His elder brother William was only two years older, and being so close in age, a certain rivalry had flourished between the boys which only grew more bitter with touch. time. William, from Joseph's perspective, was doted upon by their father, and the difference made between them had only grown more apparent after their mother died of influenza when the boys were 12 and 14. Edward Bland kept his eldest son close by his side, whether working in his study,

overseeing the family's sprawling plantation or engaging in his favorite pastime, hunting. William would often ride out with his father, coming home with a fat brace of hairs or other small game that the Virginia Hills could provide, and soon grew to pride himself on his prowess. The family and servants would fuss over the pair of them like conquering heroes upon their return. Joseph was never invited on these father-son outings, and in his frustration he eventually enlisted the woodcutter who provided their estate with firewood to teach him woodscraft and hunting in secret. So when his father and brother returned from their final hunt of the season, with their usual bounty of rabbits and woodhens, they found their audience already fawning over Joseph and the eight-point

buck he'd brought down on the other side of the estate. The fact that his hired woodsman had done most of the tracking and finished the poor creature off on Joseph's behalf was conveniently omitted from the recounting of the hunt. Edward Bland had been so impressed with his younger son's accomplishment that he had the buck's head stuffed and mounted in the drawing room. And even William had been happy to dine on venison that winter instead of the usual rabbit stew. The following hunting season, when their father was too ill to weather the great outdoors, William had ventured out on his own and returned with two bucks even larger than Joseph's prize, much to the old man's delight.

In celebration, those great heads were mounted and hung in a place of pride in Edward's study. If the boy's father hadn't died before the next winter, Joseph probably would have found a way to reroute a whole herd of white tails across the front lawn and then kill them all within the side of the house to outdo his brother once more. With Edward's passing, however, there was no one left to judge the wins and losses of this never-ending rivalry. William won, like most men at the time, by the dent of being born first. According to William's drunken confession at his own wedding feast, the hunting trips with Edward had served primarily his venues for the old man to groom him to ascend to the head of the family,

to reassure the aging patriarch that his eldest son was prepared to shoulder the responsibility of managing the family estate. William had sworn to Joseph that was all quite dull, and he would have far preferred to be fox hunting or carousing at the local tavern with his friends. Joseph, of course, believed not a word. Due to a similarity in temperament, or perhaps merely by proximity, William espoused their father's views on most things, including politics, and to Joseph's particular frustration, slavery. Their mother, Amity, had been raised to Quaker, and though she agreed to the marriage with their father, she had never approved of him keeping slaves. Joseph had come to agree with his mother's stance on the practice, and when the old man passed, Joseph had hoped William would be persuaded to see the light and grant manumission to the men, women, and children that he had inherited from their father.

But to his great disappointment, his elder brother refused. While in many families the spare brother would have been expected to join the military unless the heir failed to reach adulthood, Edward Bland had the means to establish a trust that would provide for his younger boy with an income, a tidy sum that would keep him in comfort, if not luxury, for the rest of his life. While many young men would have been satisfied to marry, raise children, perhaps establish a small shop to supplement their income, Joseph had greater ambitions.

He could not abide the notion that William should live in the fine house their grandfather had built, enjoying the wealth that was largely the result of that man's wise investments, whilst he should live in comparable poverty due to a mere accident of birth order. He resolved to turn his meager income into a fortune far greater than the one their father had left. He would establish a fine estate in his own right and build a house even grander than the one William had inherited, without relying on the aberrant practice of using slave labor. He would find a wife more dutiful, more obedient, more virtuous, and most importantly, more beautiful than the local debutante William had wed.

Joseph was determined to eclipse his brother in every meaningful way, and he decided his first step must be to acquire land of his own. Daniel Boone had cut a path through the cumberland gap into Kentucky some years before, and the original passage dubbed the Wilderness Road had become a well-traveled route for wagons bound west. The soil there should be rich and fertile. Both the land and community ripe for cultivation. Joseph decided he would assemble a party to travel there and stake a claim.

His brother had objected. Why risk his life in this untamed land so far from home, William argued, when his family and every comfort he could ever wish for were here in Charlottesville? Really, brother. Kentucky? Is that what they're calling it? Is that even English? Are you trying to get skinned alive by the Shawnee? I believe it's from the Iroquois tongue, if you must know, William. Or maybe it was the Shawnee. Either way, according to what I read in the newspaper, it means land of tomorrow. That's where I'm looking to the future. You and Cynthia can have our father's house and the land we grew up on.

That's all part of the past, and I am done with the past. There's always the risk of running afoul of the natives where everyone makes his home in the new world. I doubt I'd be in high spirits if someone came and ran my people off the land they called home. But this is an age of expansion, of growth and destiny. Come now, Joseph, there's more than enough land on the estate for you to build a perfectly reasonable homestead for you and your bride. Whenever you find one, I'd never begrudge you an acre on the land our grandfather cultivated. You'd never let me forget it either. You'd have me live like a tenant farmer down in the south pasture.

Oh, how kind of you, Lord William, to let your surf of a brother scrape out a living on the fringe. of your domain, I'll not abide it. No, I'll have what I deserve, and it will be earned by the sweat of my own brow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have much to do. What a fool his brother had been. Joseph's claim was nearly twice the size of the Bland family estate in Virginia and situated on the prettiest patch of land he ever set eyes on. The clearing in the woods by the stream, Lonely Creek was its name, he believed, though he could not recall where he had heard it was wide and almost perfectly flat, an ideal location to build the stately mants he envisioned.

Joseph had been prepared for a fight. Surely someone else had already stumbled across this bounty and would challenge his claim when he applied to the land office. He had heard accounts that a man could easily wait a decade to be issued a warrant. But no one had challenged the claim, and within it. months he had received his grant and begun preparations. He consulted architects and stone masons, bricklayers and carpenters, blacksmiths, and glassmakers. He bullied his late father's solicitor until releasing more of his inheritance than the trust usually provided for a year to fund the

purchase of the finest materials and wagons to transport them over the mountains to Kentucky. He hired every able-bodied craftsman he could bully or bribe into following him to this new territory to build a house in a place where nobody with any damn sense should have ever set foot. They broke ground with the spring thaw. And at first, the construction seemed to be progressing just fine, with a little more than the usual setbacks due to delayed shipments, foul weather, and the like. Quickly, however, difficulties on the site began to mount. Digging into the earth proved a simple enough task, but the cement they poured. delay the foundation refused to set.

The Mason adjusted the formula over and over again, attempted to find the correct balance, but to no avail. In the end, it was decided the foundation must be built of stone. Limestone deposits on the far end of the property had been noted by Bland's original surveyor, so a contingent of laborers was dispatched to begin quarrying the stone. Once the foundation was finally in place, the real construction could begin.

or so bland had thought. But when the fine lumber he purchased before leaving Virginia finally arrived, the workers found the entire shipment worm-eaten and dry-rodded. It was an expensive loss Joseph had no hope of recouping, and thus his foreman advised the house be constructed instead from bricks that could be fired from the abundant red clay available here on the mountain. The process of drying and firing enough bricks to even begin was time-consuming, particularly given the damp and rainy spring weather,

and they would require more hands to craft enough bricks for the project. It took nearly a month for the crew of additional workers who had been hired to make bricks to arrive, and they descended upon the outskirts of the workers' camp late one evening, just past supper and began setting up their tents in the woods surrounding the construction site. When the foreman went to greet the man in charge of the crew, he realized to his surprise that many of the laborers under his supervision

were enslaved men. Making his excuses, he hurried to his employer's tent to apprise him of the situation. Damn it all. My letter was very clear on this point. I'll not cast a shadow over my own house by having it built by men in bondage. But it's too late to turn them away at this hour. See that they're fed, would you? I'll speak to the man in the morning to see to hiring another crew.

Confoundingly, however, when Joseph rose early and went to speak to the crew boss, he learned that the man had been found dead in his tent that morning. The cause of his death was a mystery, and the laborers he had brought with him to a man had vanished in the night. Joseph instructed the foreman to send someone down the mountain to fetch a clergyman to deliver last rights so they could give the man a proper burial and assign a few more men to dig a grave. then he returned to his own tent to draft another letter regarding the hiring of more men. As progress on the house and Lonely Creek dragged on, other problems began to arise. In the small community that had sprung up at the edges of the property where the workers' families had set up camp and lived in a collection of tents, one of the mason's wives began to steal a liquor made from local herbs and the clear fresh waters of the stream. It was, to all accounts, a powerful brew.

the sort of elixir that drove some men to weep and turned others mean. A darker thread began to infect the lively convivial atmosphere of the camp on a summer night. There were beatings and brawls, and the quiet sobs of women and children could be heard in the thin gray hours before sunrise. After each such incident, peace would descend upon the site for a time. It seemed to Joseph that even the construction would proceed more smoothly. then something else would go wrong. A shipment of glass arrived smashed. The smithy caught fire.

The cows that provided milk for the community of workers sickened and died. Still, they persevered. Though it had begun to seem that nearly all the fine stock blend had brought with him to Lonely Creek to build his home had been a waste. Over and over, he was forced to turn to the land around him for building materials. Slowly, however, over long months of grueling effort, The house began to take shape. The crew had finished the tower that stood at one corner first

so that Blan could have indoor quarters in which to sleep and work. He established his study on the third floor, from whence he could observe the ongoing construction through its round windows and bedded down on the second. The kitchen was completed next at the back of the house and a cook recruited from amongst the families of laborers to prepare his meals. Other members of staff were enlisted in the same fashion as the construction progressed and the need presented.

Joseph found it remarkably difficult to retain them. The wife of a carpenter he had originally hired to cook fell sick and died unexpectedly. A stable boy was kicked by a horse and had to be carted down the mountain to see a doctor. A scullery made, inexplicably wandering through an unfinished third-room floor whose windows had yet to be placed, fell to her death. Another simply disappeared in the night. It was to this ever-evolving and ill-favored construction that Joseph Bland would finally bring his bride to be in the spring of 1805. Well, hey there, family. Welcome to the beginning of the final story arc of season six of old gods of Appalachia, Long Shadows.

Finally, after years of hinting and teasing, we have arrived at the origin story of one of the most feared. denizens to ever draw the attention of both the green and the dark. Lavinia thrice-damned, the beast of Lonely Creek. I hope y'all are ready for a long journey into a heart of the place that was never a place because I believe Miss Lavinia is, and you don't want to disappoint that one. Speaking of things that are never disappointing, there has never been a better time to join us in the holler. Our paid subscription serviceware for a modest monthly or annual sum, you can gain access to exclusive storylines like Build Mama Cawthon, Black Mouth Dog, Grave Concerns, and the recently completed

five-part expanded version of our 2024 live show story Unhallowed Grounds. Now, there are new and exciting things coming just around the corner, and our family and the holler get first dibs. So head on over to Old Gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler and move in today. Now, if you'd rather support the show and represent your chosen bloodline in a more tangible one-time purchase sort of way, our merch shop is just chock full of t-shirt it's tank tops, phone cases, home goods, and other fascinating items. You can fill your poke with those over at merch.orgods of Appalachia.com.

And this is sure how fast do you think Tony Crawford changed his drawers once he got home reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Eatonard Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Cam Collins and Steve Shell. Our intro music is by Brother Land and Blood. And our outro music is by our new family in Lunar Grove. Check the show notes for a link to download this beautiful new track wherever you go. The voice of Lavinia Thrystam to Beast of Lonely Creek was Cam Collins, and the voice of Joseph Bland was Willie Rappily. Talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.