Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 11: Season Two Prologue

Episode Date: September 10, 2020

O Appalachia: mother and maw that births and devours us, roots sunk deep and winding as gnarled hands clasped in prayer, hold us fast and give us foundation. O knotted cage and vine wrought chains O feast of hills and green, that which feeds our hearts but often starves our blood: Hear us now.Written by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellNarrated by Steve ShellIntro music: "The Land Unknown," written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: "In the Pines" (traditional), performed by Keena GrahamLEARN MORE ABOUT OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA: www.oldgodsofappalachia.comCOMPLETE YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA RITUAL:FacebookInstagramTwitterBlueskySUPPORT THE SHOW:Join us over at THE HOLLER to enjoy ad-free episodes, access exclusive storylines and more.Find t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, and other Old Gods merch at www.teepublic.com/stores/oldgodsofappalachia.Transcripts available on our website at www.oldgodsofappalachia.com/episodes.Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of DeepNerd Media. All rights reserved.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/old-gods-of-appalachia. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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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. Alachia. Mother and ma that births and devours us, roots sunk deep and winding as gnarled hands clasped in prayer. Hold us fast and give us foundation, O knotted cage and vine-wrought chains. O feast of hills and green, that which feeds our hearts,

but often starves our blood, hear us now. We stand atop your crown this day, and we see you, O mother. We see your bent joints and busted sinew. Hips shifted from birth forever changed in the giving of life. We mark these new shapes born from blasted pine and the churned earth of an open grave, a temple reconstructed in burnt nettles, an altar, formed by will and bone.

We inhale the grease and death of the mines, the hot steel and empty promise of the railroad, and we listen to the lies that they tell, these agents of the inner dark, these outsiders, these night-heart shapes that would reach into the breached, ruined gate of us and plant their vile seed, teach our babies from birth that they are only as good as the blood and sweat that can be wrung from them, that their dreams are not more than brittle

branches before the furnace of industry and work. Oh, mother, we beg your mercy. Keep her pray and find way to heal the broken hide of our land. Oh, grove and barons close around them and mislead them, make them understand the true meaning of lost. Sunless hungry soil, oh sleeping chasm, oh, empty, empty belly, be still, be filled, oh, Appalachia. Can't you see, we've come home. If the coal mines of Appalachia are the gullet and belly of the beast, then the iron ribbons of the Clinchfield Railway are its rust-encrusted tongue. stretching out long from holler to hill to valley rolling forth like Elijah's chariot

hauling the bituminous bounty car from the gut of the mountain into a world to be turned into heat light and soot clouds of our swallowed and crushed dead and compressed time burned to keep the darkness away all while sealing in the sky just drawn and closer but as much as they carry coal and the bones of the earth, these rattling cars often ferry forth those who seek bigger dreams outside the cradle of the green and the shadow of shortened days. Those who are loved and prayed for and sent on their way with a sack lunch and a steamer trunk boarding a train that might carry them to live out their dreams or just to pass into the next life or death. And as all roads run both ways, Those iron rails bring forth things and men

Bring them to these hills from elsewhere Some are just good-hearted souls Looking for work and a place to carve out their own And others are not Others who are just that Others Now not in the way of skin, tongue or self But others in the way of being made apart

from the world of sun and light and the green. Others called by those who sleep beneath as acolytes or allies, or in some cases, even can't. So mind who you meet out by the tracks family. Mind well. Somewhere on this mountain tonight, there is a child clenching his teeth against tears like a bear trap. There is a boy who is terrified of being a man

because in his time and place, it is a man's job to die. For that child, there will be no sleep. He will rise knowing he was not meant to, and that boy will go home late to his mama and a supper he cannot eat. He'll watch his daddy ache and groaned his way to his chair on the front porch to smoke. Watch him look longingly at the main road for death to ride up and take away the hurt. See, that's his job. to work and then die.

His child will know he has failed his daddy somehow as he failed to die like a man in the mines or on the tracks or even in some fool's war somewhere else because he has died already. Fell down on a carpet of pine needles in the kaleidoscope shadows of the grove, the water of the reservoir and the gray-green overhead mixing the tini smell of fish and turpentine.

The setting sun, painting everything and almost indigo. And the sound of the rest of him running away, any words they might have left him dissolved into the panting breath of boys who knew there'd be trouble. His body cooling as the lakeside earth leached his bones cold. He should have stayed right there until they found him pale and empty.

Took him home for his mommy and daddy to bury. Let the church not talk about how many children are in the ground out back. It had been a whole year since the last one anyway, but they should have found him and put him with the rest, but he didn't die on their land or in the woods behind the house or in any dangerous place a boy might fearlessly play. He died in the pines, and they never found him.

She did. For sisters, loneliness is a different bird and tire. It nests under the breastbone, a hard but brittle place where the ache for family is born. An ache that runs like rusty bob wire into the blackness trying to connect to the next fence post of blood and shared stories, but it always feels too far. In the valley, there sleeps a woman who dreads the night, but does not fear it. For her, a quiet house is its own kind of hell.

A prison built for ghosts that haven't learned to stop dying yet. As grateful as she is to have it, she'd almost burn it down if it could make her sleeping skin. feel seen paint her bears sweat smeared chest with the ashes and mark her for the common harvest beg the sky to crack and the earth that yield forth a bounty of unbloomed death pine-bound flower bulbs that reach for the cold kiss of the moon for fear that the sun might wither them she knows the name of ever haint in these woods and fears nary one of them but without kin to stand beside her she might as well be one herself the Quiet, though.

Well, that's something else. The quiet has a whole bunch of names. None of them it'll spell for you, so you can't tell it to go home or to hell or anywhere else. It just sits there. Drinking up your sleep like a skeeter sucking blood. Leave an itchy spot you'd scratch you into open wounds if you could reach them. The nights and the quiet are harder for her than most.

Don't worry, family. Ain't nobody going to be sleeping for, too long. As I've told you before, there are places in this world that humanity was never meant to see, but y'all came anyway, y'all and the people before you pushing into the darkness and through the green, carving up the land and parceling it out to outsiders. We cry out in lamentation and calamity and beg the unheeding heavens for mercy so shocked to find what we have so clearly sought. The lands that were meant to remain unseen and unknown shrink. by the day.

And that's where we find ourselves this time, down in the valley where the shadow is the bluest. The pines in the pines, where the sun don't never shine. And we'll shiver the whole night. Let's go, family. Let's go. Welcome home, family.

Welcome to Season 2 of Old Gods of Appalachia. in the pines. It has been a long time coming and it is so good to be in the presence of family once again, is it not? Raise a hand and say amen, church. Yes, indeed. We missed y'all.

Now, this season, we promised you a close and intimate walk with death. And we know what you're saying. Steve, Cam, last season, y'all killed a whole lot of people. And that's true. But this time around, it's going to be a smaller,

more personal story. I think you're going to enjoy yourself. And family, so as it was, so let it be again. Please complete your social media ritual and follow us on Facebook and Instagram as Old Gods of Appalachia. Tweet into the ever-darkening void on Twitter with us at Old God's Pod.

And for the rest of our social media, like our Discord server, you can head on over to Old Gods of Apalachia.com and join every aspect of the family that calls to you. And if you truly want to cast your lot with us, Put your offering in the plate and pass it to your neighbor. Head on over to patreon.com slash old gods of Appalachia where for a few dollars a month you can gain goodies in the mail, creepy, dark, shadowy things that slither into your mailbox,

as well as access to the 17-part epic storyline of Build Mama a Coffin that is exclusively on Patreon. Today's story was written and performed by Steve Shell. Our intro music, that brand spanking new theme song, is by our brother Land and Blood and her outro music is by Kina Graham of Blood on the Heart. See you soon, family.

Stay safe.