Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 87: Say Hello to the Night

Episode Date: August 7, 2025

Hunters of varying stripes take to the highway in pursuit of our young vampire friend.CW: References to historic racism and violence / hate crimes, lynching, threat of violence to crows (that is not carried out, family; you should know us better than that by now), death of a spouse, death of a parent, death in child birth, danger posed to a child during birth, lots of vampire stuff, sexual themes, fire, entrapment in a buring building, death by fire, body horror; sounds of stabbing, gunshots.Written by Cam Collins, Steve Shell, and special guest NitaJadeProduced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellThe voice of Hummingbird Bouknight: NitaJadeThe voice of Troy: Adam KampourisIntro music: “The Land Unknown (The Home is Nowhere Verses)” written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: “Neon Dracula" by Violent Fear (a.k.a. Jacob Danielsen-Moore. Available for download on Bandcamp.Special equipment consideration provided by Lauten Audio.LEARN MORE ABOUT OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA: www.oldgodsofappalachia.comCOMPLETE YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA RITUAL:FacebookInstagramBlueskySUPPORT 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.© 2025 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 horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listening to discretion is advised. Aramenta, Tennessee, 1991.

Hummingbird Bonite. Bird, if you didn't want to be dog walk to Sunday, was a stubborn and logical woman born into a stubborn, and spiritual lineage. She never cared much for the church. The bigotry, hypocrisy, and fear-mongering were enough to make her crawl out of her skin, but she knew the best way to reach any black community in this part of Tennessee was by way of a steeple. She'd managed to talk some sense into a deacon who knew her father boots back when he stood tall. He cut her a key so she could skip the pulpit hypocrisy and let herself in through the basement, where she taught self-defense classes

every Wednesday night. While they worshipped above, she trained below. Her students poured in, practicing their ones and twos, hooks and jabs and uppers. They learned to use their elbows and knees and the effectiveness of a good low kick to attend it, all part of birds unflinching by any means necessary philosophy. When one noble fool protested the use of blunt objects, Bird calmly challenged him to spar. They made a mess of the training mat. Filled the church's basement with sprays of blood and spit until the kid cried mercy.

Walk it off, Titus. Just in case, y'all got something confused. Let me clear it up for you. I ain't teaching y'all how to fight fair. I'm teaching you how to leave every fight alive. Bird bit her tongue to keep from saying too much. She stuck to warning her folks about the human terrors they were used to. not the evil she hunted.

She untied the haint blue bandana from her arm, tilted Titus's head back, and stopped up the blood flowing from his nose. Out there, when you eventually find yourself outnumbered, outmatched, out muscle, you best not be too proud to pick up a brick. Ain't no shame in fighting for your life. Really, there's nothing honorable about fighting in general, bird thought.

Fighting was a matter of fact. of necessity. Attaching anything soft to it, high-minded ideals like honor or fairness could get you killed. After her class, Bird returned to the hollow home of her father, relieving his nurse of her duties for a few hours. Once upon a time, Boots had been a force to be reckoned with.

But then the darkness had come and took all the stay out of him. The best names come with the story. Boots Armstrong could never be seen Without a set of steel-toed or combats on his feet Some whispered even slept in him He'd marched them all the way into service and back again He'd come out the womb wearing a pair of boots, folks said Would probably go up to glory in him

Laced tight and caked with mud and blood Boots made the earth shake and commanded the air Not through intimidation but by way of respect The same boots that dragged the wife-beater off the wife helped Ms. Hesta rebuild her corner store after a fire. The same boots that insisted on constructing his lover's coffin and filling it with honeysuckle had shouldered his little hummingbird. Folks thought him brave for the medals decorating his uniform,

but he never entered a white man's war for accolades or a purple heart. He didn't come from anything close to money and fought for his own so his own might have a fighting chance. Somewhere along the line, the Tennessee boxleys fell out with the Tennessee Armstrongs, and something unspeakable was done to his own. uncle Joe Boxley, so Boots felt it right to abandon last names altogether. Boots would do just fine. Somewhere further down the line, the Bonites flew from Louisiana to South Carolina, and Honey Bownight felt it right to break her family cycle by moving away to Tennessee. Boots and Honeybee met

and fell in love. And one late spring day, Hummingbird decided it was her time to show herself to this ugly world. Hummingbird was an odd little bundle of a baby. Her mother was a mother. Her mother, Honey B, sang to her so much in the womb, family Laura held that she came out humming a melody instead of crying. In reality, she first came out quiet. Folks might expect that a veil and an umbilical cord wrapped thrice around the neck would make any living be in scream when air finally filled their lungs, but not this one. As honey sighed out her last breath, Bird took her first gasp, got used to the notion of breathing and began to hum. The midwife was grief-tickled, but the doctor was so vexed he fixed his hand to slap her and bring some normal tears about.

One look from boots stayed his hand. No one ever laid a hand on bird. Boots made sure of it. She learned how to walk by standing on his toes. Got fitted for a tiny pair of boots as soon as she could stand on her own and started training soon after. She had come into this world so frail she looked like a strong wind could snap her in two. Boots saw fit to fix that. He didn't care too much for bullets.

The blood and mess and noise of him put him off, so he saved firearms lessons for last. He taught her to dance first, to recognize the earth beneath her, whether it resisted or gave in to the weight of her feet, and how to adjust her body's movement from there. He taught her to trust the pivot and crouch and sway of her limbs as much as she trusted her mind.

Next, he taught her to be quick, quicker than logic. quicker than her opponent's thoughts. Before an eye could shift or a cheek could twitch, her blade would be trained at the neck. For a cruel month, Boots tried to get her to practice on crows. He recalled black wings circling before his honey bee went into labor and thus saved all his hatred for them,

but bird felt a certain kinship with those other birds. And her eye, sharp enough for mercy, let the tips of her knives miss each one by hair. It was the only soft-spot boots allowed his daughter. There wouldn't room for much else, not in their stretch of Tennessee. Armenta is a tiny town tucked away in Johnson County. It's one of those towns that used to be all black, but was terrorized or burned or drowned out by a conveniently burst levy

until all that remained of blackness were rumors on the outskirts. There was no room for frailty here, so she wasn't permitted to nurse her weakness too much. They switched from crows to targets, from targets to dummies, from dummies to shadows. The shadows in those parts had a weight about them, moving more like a cluster of holes than an absence of light. Boots took bird with him when he went hunting for smaller things to put down, and by the age of eight, she could hunt them herself and her sleep. Home was home in name and not much else. Anyone who knew boots had been priced out of the area

So when the cowards came they caught him by surprise From behind, alone And knelt to said honeysuckle on his late love's grave no less Certain things ain't fit to ride or say out loud Some evil has no reason or origin Some looks like your neighbor, your uncle, tedious and despicable And searching for a vessel to hold their ire

Or feed their hunger That kind of evil Finds a man in mourning on his knees Beats that man's blood onto his honeybees grave Fits a knot around his thick neck And finds the nearest el That kind of evil dangles death At a beaten man's face

Makes him dance tiptoe on a barrel While they contemplate when exactly to slice off his manhood It appeared they were waiting on something They'd lined a wide patch of earth In ash and bone And stood staring at the ground unexpectedly, waiting for it to give and buckle, waiting on salvation. This was the home the bird returned to.

Her flesh crawl and her jaw buzzed with the urge to hum, and she followed the pull of her gut until the dark thing revealed itself. She found her father on the arm of the elm, the rope too thin to do more than fray against his weight. His shoes were missing. The straps of his boots were tied together, hanging in the branch beside him, caked in blood and mud. The person on the rope was more of an animated corpse than her father.

Where was he hiding? Where was his fight? She had never known boots to be a man with no stay in him. Bird heard whispers of things like this happen in elsewhere. A 21-year-old truck driver found in a tree over in Henderson. A 28-year-old down south hog-tied and tortured and so on. All the murders dismissed as suicides and the headlines. What would they say of boots?

She wasn't about. As the first knife plunged to the first coward's neck, the second flew towards another's temple. A third found the wrist of a coward with a pistol, and a fourth ricocheted off the ground and sunk into the soft gap of flesh underneath his jaw. Bird dislodged a blade from one's eye only to find the lung of another. She picked off the rest with a dead coward's gun, hoping the rounds would bring some light and fury back to her father's eyes, but they remained empty. wider than 50 cent pieces unflinching a gait filled with the moon and staring into that circle of ash and bone. Boots never quite returned to his body and birds heart filled with the most terrifying form of rage. Calm.

Calculating. She made the earth shake and commanded the air. She set shadows to frenzy. She had mouths to feed so she took up teaching self-defense classes and balanced. hunting to keep the lights on and the boredom at bay. She went hunting on the rest of the things that robbed her of a father and robbed her father of himself. Anything that moved like them.

Caused her flesh to crawl or itched her throat to hum. She met with a blade or bullet, simple as that. Hunting down the wife of it all kept her up at night. Her lips curled back. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a knife, eager to extinguish them all. Though it had taken only that one night to turn her mountain of a father into a pebble of a man. Boots had managed to keep some parts of himself intact. He was still the only one who could get Byrd to speak more than a few sentences at a time. Every day she helped him dress and undress,

and every time she reached for the laces of a steel-toed boots, he insisted on an offering. Boots would mutter one five-dollar word, and Byrd would work that word into her thoughts for the day. Tonight's word, egregious. Bird spoke softly to the man that had given her life as she helped him ready for bed. I don't man. Egregious. Hmm. Egregious.

So there's a new something out there I got to go get boots. And yes, she's one of those. At this point, it's less that the dark things exist. and more that they lack ambition. It's an egregious shame to wield such power the way certain folks around here do and stay neutral. In my mind,

it made the slew for the fuckers complicit, don't you think? Had the haints and boogers and whatever else it lurked out there in the dark, zeroed in on the crooked suits who drew arbitrary lines and determined who ate and who starved, who lived and who died?

If they'd done that, she might even summon up a bitter respect for them. Had they used their darkness to bring about more light, Bird might have had a little more tolerance in her heart. But no, they were reckless and selfish. Bird shook her head and pulled her father's boots off. You hear about the latest egregious shame that come over the scanner's boots? They say it's old ruckily. Mm-mm-mm, they ain't gone.

found ashen blue and bug eyeing his old pickup. Wife said he had business in Baker's gap. Made a run, never made a back. That man never bothered nobody. Rucker Lee was the helping time. The foolish time. He'd give a man the shirt off his back before he realized he was cold.

Giving a lift to a stranded hitchhiker was just the kind of thing he would do. This last time was the last hitcher he'd ever offer a ride. the news had come across the CB a half hour ago. There was a new bugger loose in Johnson County, wearing the skin and face of a young white girl. Rucker had been seen offering her a ride just after sunset. Was she the one that done for him?

Maybe. Maybe not. But rules were rules. One of them stepped out of line or did the least little bit of harm. Then the hunters got to kill the ever-living dog shit out of them. Last siding had her headed toward Knoxville Probably on her way back to a nasty little nest Of blood-sucking assholes that made their den in the city No good deed, I'm punished, huh?

Bertha, I'm heading out He should be set for the night But he'll be wanting his honeysuckle tea for bed Don't forget I'll leave you to it Booz Don't be giving Nurse Bertha a hard time now Bird touched her forehead to her father's and murmured.

Every goodbye ain't gone, old man. When Bird got restless, it was for one of three reasons. Either she was thinking about her last hunt, or the humming in her chest wouldn't cease, or she was gearing up for a hunt. Tonight it was all the above. Her mind replayed every step of her last kill. Not to dwell on the highlights,

her guilt trip herself with anything so silly as a pang of conscience, but as a means of feedback. How could she pivot her body for a more efficient stance? Had she flicked her wrist at this angle rather than that? Would the blade found his mark sooner? There was always room for improvement. New humming in her chest, new pulling in her gut, a new target waiting for her in Knoxville.

She loaded up her truck and got on the road, stopping only to refuel. The tools of her trade all razor-sharp edges and well-worn handles concealed in a case that passed easily for a toolbox. Her heavy artillery was likewise tucked away where it would remain unseen in case one of Johnson County's finest decided to pull her over. The CB radio crackled to life from the speaker mounted by the driver's side kickpane. This is Big Daddy Cockroach, coming at you lot. Breaker, breaker, this is lightning bug.

Miss Berg, you out there, over. There was no response. Larry Ayers, better known as Bug, scowled at his little brother Ronnie, wondering if his dumbass was ever going to grow up. He clicked the button on the mic and tried again. Bird wasn't one to be trifled with. Her presence alone made most folks avert their eyes in sheer self-preservation. There were only two people foolish enough to add a mist to her name, and that was the Ayer's boys. The Ayrs were second-generation pest control specialist known throughout the county for their reasonable prices and reliable service.

service. Their daddy had opened Ayer's Pest Solution back in the early 70s, and the Ayer's family currently served homes and businesses throughout Northeast Tennessee. While the majority of their trade focused on termites, silverfish, and creepy crawlies of the mundane variety, old Veldon Ayrs had learned at his daddy's knee that sometimes there were other things out there in the dark that needed exterminating to. He'd passed those lessons down to his own two boys, and they took to the job like piss ants to sugar. While they weren't the sharpest hooks in the tackle box, the current generation could get the job done

against the average run-of-the-mill supernatural menace. Bird snatched up her microphone to respond. Just the contract we spoke about on the phone earlier? You know the one. I've been looking into the details of that particular case, and it ain't worth your time, really. I'd hate to see you waste your whole evening on such small potatoes. Why don't you let us take care of for you?

Over. There was a silence just long. long enough to make the Ayer's boys think they'd been ignored. But then Byrd's voice cut back over the airwaves blunt as a billy club. Show it. Claims a claim. Bird seethed. These cocky bastards couldn't bust a grape standing on it. They had one job and they'd failed.

They'd gotten sloppy and it was her claim now. It was just the thing to cure her blades' boys. Already on my way, boys. But if I need you, I'll call you. But I don't. so I won't And the light gets swallowed A's the face that feels like home

And you cast your eyes Through the winding road Keep your foot on the gas Your eyes straight forward Clear your heart and mind Best leave them ghosts behind It grows cold And home is nowhere

Then your mind is when darkness calls Run like hell The dilapidated ranch-style house and Windsor court. Glenn Shelby hung up the phone gently, working to suppress the tremor in his hands. Well, it seems things have become a bit more complicated, but all is not lost just yet.

We'll just have to go get Miss Miranda and bring her back, or else get her to a safe house within the bounds of Elder Cyrus's domain in Knoxville. Either option is still possible, but we must have quickly. Bird Bonite is not someone to take lightly. She is a skilled hunter and house No love for y'all's kind Glenn paced the worn living room rug The handsome vampire in the peacoats

Lumped languidly in the recliner That Glenn usually occupied on days When Miss Rosalie wanted time alone His eyes following the familiar As he circled the room minutely straightening knick-knacks As though he could bring order to the disheveled house With his nervous pacing

So This bird I think I've heard of her. Black girl from over toward Aramenta? I'm sure you have, Mr. Troy. Most folks in this part of the country that don't abide the light of the sun have. There ain't many like her, and we should be good and grateful for that. With all due respect, Mr. Shelby, I've put my fair share of hunters in the ground,

and some of them had reputations just as storied as Miss Bonite. I bet I could catch up to old Birdy Bird and make sure she don't give Armuranda any trouble. Glenn snorted at the cocky creature lounging in his chair. He didn't like this one. Not one bit. He didn't like his thick black hair. He didn't like his eyes that smoldered like a hearth going cold. He didn't like the way he walked around his mistress's domicile like he owned the place.

He was presumptive and overly familiar and Glenn was tempted to tell him to go try his his luck with Bird. Glenn had seen what that woman could do. A few years back, a vampire from Roanoke had been passing through who thought that he could take any hunter who might hold him to account, so he took a little trip into town to find himself some dinner. Bird sent his body back to Windsor Court in a box. She'd cut off his head, hands, and feet, and stacked them neatly on his chest, and tucked

a crow feather with a wad of haunt blue cloth into the visitor's mouth so that Glenn and everyone else in the trailer park would know who'd done it. On the dead man's forehead, she had written the article and claws of the portion of the treaty that designated unaccompanied visiting vampires as fair game if they were found out after dark. Bird was nothing, if not thorough. Unfortunately, this arrogant bastard was an old friend of Miss Rosalie, so Glenn couldn't just send him off to get dealt. appealing as that prospect might be.

I do not doubt your prowess, Mr. Troy, but in the event that you are underestimating our adversary, I would advise you to stand down for the moment. I will consult with Miss Rosalie and see what she thinks should be done. You don't think I know what she'd do, Glenn? I know it's been a long time since she and I last seen each other, but the Rosie I know wouldn't hesitate to act in defense of a young one under her protection. With prejudice, even.

Mr. Troy, I don't think... Glenn's tongue froze to the roof of his mouth mid-sentence as the malevolent weight of Troy's will swept over him. His limbs locked, his muscles refusing to obey his commands as Troy rose from the recliner. He inclined his head, his eyes boring into the familiar who found he could not look away, could not so much as blink he could barely breathe.

Tell you what I'm going to do, Glenn. I'm going to go wake up the other two in them cracker boxes out back, and the three of us will go collect Miss Miranda. I give you my word that we go only in the spirit of returning one of our own kind to the safety of the fold. If the hunter gets involved and gets her throat torn, that would be on her now, wouldn't it? Gurgled unintelligently.

Oh, sorry about that, Glenn. Just blink twice if you can understand me. Glenn felt the bonds on him relaxed minutely. He blinked, then blinked again. Atta boy. Troy turned toward the door, and the vice he had held the familiar end vanished so suddenly and completely that Glenn fell to his knees,

unprepared to stand upright on his own power. He steaded himself with one shaking hand on the coffee table as he drew in lungfuls of air. The various padlocks that secured the front door shot open of their own accord as Troy neared, and the door swung politely open to allow him egress. He paused on the threshold not so much as turning his head. And, Glenn, if you're thinking about going downstairs to disturb your mistress's slumber over this, I'd think again. It is in your best interest to sit this one out and let the grown folks handle it.

Just sit down in your little chair there and get comfy. We'll be back with your missing princess before Miss Rosie wakes up for supper. Yeah, yes, Mr. Troy, I'll just sit right here and wait. Say that you do. The black ribbon of I-81 spooled out before the 1986 Plymouth. Voyager as Franklin Rutledge steered the minivan south toward Knoxville. He hadn't particularly been in the mood for this little field trip when Miss Rosalie's friend had knocked on the door of the single wide he was occupying during his brief stopover in

northeast Tennessee. The terms of his stay did include undertaking the occasional chore in the service of his sponsor, however, so in the interest of being a good guest, he'd agreed. Troy had handed him the keys to Glen Shelby's van and climbed him back. Mobley Willett, who occupied the trailer two doors down was already in the passenger seat. Mowgli wasn't exactly Franklin's favorite neighbor. For one thing, Mowgli was a kid by any reckoning. He'd been turned only a scant handful of years ago at the age of 22 and was a prime example in Franklin's opinion of all the previous generation's parental failures. He was aimless and apathetic, slothful and shiftless, and showed far too little respect for his elders, let alone the outright fear that in their

world sometimes meant the difference between life and death. For another, the young man didn't know when to shut up. So, uh, how do you know, Miss Rosalie? I hear y'all go way back. Mowgli had been peppering Troy with questions, many of them rather intrusive and in the vein of things one simply did not inquire of an elder vampire from the moment they'd set out from Baker's Gap. To his credit, Troy had thus far shown an admirable amount of patience with the boys nattering. Oh. Indeed we do. I met Rosalie and... I believe the year was 1788?

Yes. We met at a ball held to celebrate the completion of the Virginia State Capitol. She always loved a good party. Ain't nobody in Richmond could throw a party like Rosie. God damn, that's an old friend, all right. Oh, Rosie is more than just a friend, son. Rosalie is my maker. I didn't know Miss Rosalie had any progeny.

I mean, well, I've never heard of any. And there ain't any living in Windsor Park, at least not till you showed up anyway. Franklin cringed at the younger vampire's lack of tact. But Troy seemed to take it in stride. Well, that's because I'm the only one left. The van was silent, and Franklin thought that even Mowgli would have the good sense

to shut the fuck up. up now. The fate of Miss Rosalie's progeny would obviously be a sensitive subject, whether because Troy felt their loss or because he had slaughtered them all himself. Surely he would know better than to keep badgering the man, but the boy blundered on. Dude, that sucks. What happened? Franklin winced and Troy's tone darkened. The Civil War happened. Not that Rosie ever cared about the cattle and their pathetic attempts at playing politics. The problem was they were burning Richmond, and that was her city.

And nobody crossed Bloody Row. They called her Bloody Rose, all right. And she was the deadliest and most beautiful predator in North America. She had come to these shores from France, where she had spent a hundred years or more charming her way through the bourbon courts, thucking and feasting upon the French air. aristocracy until she saw the writing on the wall during the ill-fated reign of Louis XVI.

She had made the acquaintance of a certain diplomat who told her of the newly minted country over the sea whose independence the French had helped secure from England. Rosalie expressed to the king her fascination with his stories and desired to see the places the man described and the king had given his blessing for her to pay a visit. Rosie charged a ship, quietly had all her worldly possessions loaded into its whole, and in the dead of night, she and her two progeny, Giselle and Renee, had set sail for the new world. They reached Norfolk in the autumn of 1785

and made their way to Richmond, where Rosalie had quickly established herself among the wealthy elites of Virginia's capital city. To the human cattle, she was known as Rosalie Ambrose, a wealthy widow who had come to America with her two grown children looking for a friend, looking for a fresh start after the death of their beloved papa. The role of Mary Widow was one she had played many times

during the course of her long existence, and one that served her well in her new home. No one would delve too deeply into the background of a grieving family, after all, or asked too many probing questions about their matriarch's little eccentricities. It was perhaps a bit unusual to be sure that no one saw Miss Rosalie before dusk, but of course, with her husband gone, she must be occupied, with managing the family's business interest during the day. Why, of course, the dressmaker was happy to stay open a bit late to meet with her privately,

especially as her new customer spared no expense on her gowns. The milliner next door could certainly do the same. Why not, for such a generous customer? She had purchased a fine townhouse on the James River and set about having it renovated to her specifications. The basement was sealed and converted to a living space, and a new sub-basement was dug, and, similarly finished, creating comfortable quarters for her family that offered protection from the

deadly rays of the sun. Tunnels were dug as well, secretly connecting the city's existing system of underground passages so they could move about Richmond safely during the day when required. If there was talk amongst the city's laborers that those who worked in that house had a habit of either leaving town unexpectedly or suffer in some unfortunate and fatal accident, it never reached the ears of the sort of folks invited to pay the Ambrose family a visit. By the time the youngest son of a successful tobacco farmer found himself at an otherwise dull ball celebrating the opening of the Commonwealth's grand new capital building, Rosalie had firmly established herself at the top of Richmond's social hierarchy.

Her parties were the stuff of legends. Disgust in whispers behind ladies' lace-trimmed fans and amongst only the most trusted friends over cigars and around card tables. She was known to spare no expense, serving only the finest wines and whiskeys, the most elegant canopays, and bringing in the finest musicians and artists to provide entertainment. The ground floor of the house on the river was arranged in such a way that small alcoes could easily be created around a few pieces of furniture with the strategic placement of room dividers or curtains, resulting in a cozy atmosphere that lent itself to all manner of intimate pursuits. For those who required a bit more privacy, the second floor guest rooms were well stocked with fresh linen's fluffy pillows and doors that locked.

The basement had been converted into living space that offered accommodations for those with more particular tastes and, of course, featured no windows. Troy had never been invited to one of these parties, though like everyone else he was intrigued. They certainly sounded like a lot more fun than the stuffy gathering where he now was. found himself. He was sitting at a table by the fire, slowly nursing a glass of wine,

and watching the sons and daughters of local politicians spin awkwardly to an uninspired waltz when he sensed a presence at his side. Troy had turned to find the most beautiful woman he had ever seen standing on the other side of the table. Her hair was like liquid gold, and her eyes were a startling bright blue. Her delicate pale features were smooth and ageless as if she'd been carved from marble by some master sculptor. She could have been 22 or 42. Troy wouldn't have dared hazard a guess. She wore an elegant gown of deep ruby red velvet trimmed in gold that flattered her coloring,

lending warmth of those bloodless cheeks. Though they had never met, Troy knew instantly who she must be. Tales of her beauty had spread even more quickly than those of her infamous gatherings. He had almost stumbled in his haste to get to his feet, sweeping into a little. a somewhat awkward bow and invited her to join him. Charmed and amused that he had identified her based solely on her reputation. She teased that she could just eat him up and so she had. Once the hour was sufficiently late they could leave the party without giving offense, she invited him back to her house and he had accepted. Already lost at sea, his heart sucked under the waves

by the undertow of her charm. She took him home and introduced him to the many wicked delights to be found under the ground floor of the house on the river and under her wicked sharp. And then she introduced him to the family, his new siblings of the sword, Giselle and Renee, as well as the larger vampire community. Troy had embraced his new life. As the youngest of seven children and the fourth son, his mortal family had little time for him, and his mortal life had held few prospects. There was no inheritance awaiting him, so he was expected to either marry well,

join the military or take up the priesthood, all of which had sounded frightfully dull. Life with Rosalie, by contrast, was anything but boring. He soon learned she was known as Bloody Rose amongst their kind, and not only for the blood-soaked orgies she hosted every new moon, she was as deadly in battle as she was in the bedroom, quick as a cat, lithe as a snake and stronger than a team of oxen. Disputes among their kind were frequently settled via single combat, and Troy had once seen her rip an opponent's head off with her bare hands.

Rosalie was a force of nature, and Troy loved her, feared her, worshipped at her altar. He became second in command, helping to cement her hold over Richmond. By the mid-1800, she had become its undisputed regent by both crushing any rivals and expanding her family. Though she had brought Troy into the fold seemingly on a whim, he turned out to be an insightful strategist. And in the years that followed,

the two of them selected her progeny with greater care. Some were chosen for their strength, others for wealth or political connection. There were ten in total, including Troy, and all displayed unquestioning loyalty to Bloody Rose. When war erupted between the states, Rosalie had paid little attention at first. The disputes of mortal cattle were not her concern,

though the influx of fresh blood in the form of soldiers pouring into Richmond was certainly a treat. So what if a handful of recruits went missing every week? Desertion was rampant after all. They'd probably simply run home to their families and would be rounded up in due course. Rosalie and her progeny bathed in blood,

danced in it and fucked in it, and Troy had never known such feral joy. As it turned out, however, in their hedonism and their hubris, Rosalie and Troy had miscalculated, misjudging the threat that war amongst their prey posed. In April of 1865, the Confederate Army began evacuating Richmond. Then the burnings began. Warehouses and grain silos, anything that might benefit the Union forces, were put to the torch. The city's gunpowdering windows all over the city, and the fires began to spread in earnest.

In the house on the James River, Rosalie and her progeny slipped, unaware as flames licked the walls and kissed the casements. They had no need to breathe, so the smoke didn't disturb them. No one knew what was happening until Giselle began to scream, and by then the house was engulfed, a hellish inferno of blood and heat and darkness and death, though their sight was normally keen, even on the blackest night, the smoke that filled the lower rooms had stung Troy's eyes

and made it nearly impossible to see. He could hear Rosalie screaming, somewhere and he stumbled from room to room trying to find her but found his path blocked by fire and the collapsing rubble of their home at every turn. His skin began to bubble and burn, singed by the unfathomable heat. He called Rosalie's name over and over but couldn't find her. His hair caught fire and Troy began to beat at the flame with his bare arms, desperate to put them out. He had been making his way toward the stairs, thinking to go up, up and out, but it was clear he would never make it. Instead, he staggered deeper into the house, staggering blindly from room to room until he

finally found his way to the tunnels, stumbling out of the flames. He fell to his knees, rolling about in the fetid mud that lined the passage to douse his burning clothes, and then the darkness swept him away for all. My brothers and sisters were lost, consumed by the blaze. Aunt Rosalie was gone as well. I was badly injured myself. It took a while for me to escape what remained of the tunnels, came out near the train yard, and crawled into the first box car came to. I had no idea where it was going. I didn't care. I was delirious, still healing from the burns and mad with grief. I lived on rats and any unfortunate freight hoppers across my path. Eventually I wound up not far from here

Got roused from a car by a pair of mean old bulls They chased me out of paradise rail yard And into the hills I first received my calling It was an odd turn of phrase Something like a preacher might use And for once Franklin didn't mind Mowgli's constant question Your uh calling

I've been skulking the hill outside of town for a couple days. When I ducked into what I thought was just a little hole in the side of the mountain to hide from the sun and rising stones, built by the earth herself, and tribute to the majesty that slipped beneath her skin. I was marveling at the beauty of it all when I heard them. A chorus of voices calling,

ain't going to lie to you, boys. At first I thought I was going crazy. I tried to ignore them. He had wondered for what filings. like an eternity into that mall. Letting the voices wash over him like the cool night breezes he used to enjoy while walking with Miss Rosalie along the jane.

Deeper he pushed into the inner reaches of the dark. He found himself in the presence of those who seemed to know his name and heart better than he. Then darkness fell. And everything changed. Those who slept beneath the mountains were perfectly capable of cooking up their own servants and servitors, beasts of unimaginable horror, hammered into monstrous shapes and dedicated to

carrying out their master's will, but their wet stones could hone a blade already so darkly forged in both magnificent and terrible ways. When Troy left the caves that would come to be known as Paradise Caverns, he had become something new, something and possessed of a whole slew of new gifts beyond the reckoning of his kind. His dark benefactors had asked only one thing of him, a small thing in comparison to all they had given him. Spread the word, share his good fortune with his brethren, and bring them into the fold just as Miss Rosalie had done for him.

And so he had. He had left Virginia, left the South entirely for many, many years. He had merely been making trance. travel arrangements when he learned that he would need to take shelter in Baker's Gap for a night, and then learned who presided over Windsor Court as Rosalie. His beloved maker had survived. He had dropped everything and come to her at once. Troy fell silent.

His tale apparently having reached its end, and for a moment the minivan was quiet. Filled with nothing saved the sound of the wind outside of the gentle sorcerer. of highway traffic, then naturally, mobily popped up. Whoa. It must be great to see her again after all those years. Behind them, Troy shifted restlessly in the back seat. It surely has been. This is taking too long.

We need to find this girl and get her back to Baker's Gap before sunrise Franklin. Can you pull off that next exit? I know a shortcut. Franklin frowned into the rearview mirror, shaking his head. No offense, Troy, but I've made. made this drive a thousand times. Since I was still breathing, there ain't no faster way from... Just do it.

Rage flashed across Troy's face. His tone was that of a general issuing an order he damn well expected would be followed. Franklin flinched involuntarily at that look. In the mirror, Troy smiled the anger flowing out of his expression like it had never been. I promise you there is, son. Just trust me. Franklin shrugged and put his blink around. on, steering the Voyager off the highway and onto a strip of Tulane blacktop that wound off

into the farmland. About a mile from the exit, an old gas station loomed out of the night, its pumps darked the windows of the store behind it covered in plywood. Troy gestured toward the abandoned lot. Pull up over there around the back of those old dumpsters. I'll show you. Franklin rolled his eyes but it was instructed. Once he put the van in park, he spun around in his seat to glare at Troy. What the fuck, man? you got a piss or something was happening in the backseat. An inky, shifting darkness swirled around Troy. Blacker than the night around them, blacker than a starless sky.

It was coming from inside him, pouring from his mouth and ears and eyes to pool around him, and then he closed his eyes and the swirling darkness consumed. Beneath it, Franklin could see Troy's body begin to twist and contort, His limbs buckling, the whole process took only moments. And when it was done, the man they knew as Troy was gone. And his place crouched what looked like an enormous bird. Its feathers black as pitch and shimmering the shadows. When it opened its eyes, they glowed like hellfire.

The creature tilted its head, the orange flicker of ancient flame boring into them as it stared back. Franklin was struck speechless. In the passenger seat beside him, Mowgli was, of course, not. Holy shit! That's fucking rad, dude! How'd you do that? Can you show me? Troy's voice came not from the bird, but somehow directly into the depths of their mind. Oh, yes, man. I have so much.

Well, hey there, family. We hope you've enjoyed this deluxe length episode of Season 5. of Old Gods of Appalachia run like hell. This episode represents a first for us here at Old Gods. The first time that Cam and I have collaborated with another writer to bring you a brand new story, our friend Nita Jade, worked with us to develop the character of Bird and bring her to life for you, folks,

and we're so impressed with the work she's done here. Thank you so much for sharing your talents with us and with the whole family, Nita Jade. You can learn a lot more about Nita over on our website at Old Gods of Appalachia.com. While you're there, be sure to complete your social media ritual and follow us on Facebook, Instagram, Blue Sky, and wherever else you might like to spend your scrolling time. And if you can't get enough of these little stories we tell, well, you can find even more over at The Holler. Where for $10 a month, you can find hours of spin-off tales such as Build Mama, Coffin, familiar and beloved, and so much more.

And this is your, wow, did you know the Confederates were dumb enough to burn their own city? Yes, family, that part is based on actual historical events, reminder that old gods Vapalachia is a production. of Deep Nerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Cam Collins, Steve Shell, and special guest writer, Nita Jade. The voice of Hummingbird Bonite was Nita Jade, and the voice of Troy was Adam Kamporis. Our intro music is by Brother Land and Blood, and our outro music, Neon Dracula. It's performed by Violent Fear, aka Brother Jacob Danielson Moore. You can download it from over on Jacob's Band Camp.

There's a link for y'all on the show notes. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.