Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 95: The Second Death

Episode Date: March 12, 2026

The dead make their case as oblivion lurks in the shadows. CW: Historical hospital settings, discussion of familial neglect and the death of a child, elements of a haunting., death by monster, evil cat and monster sounds.Written by Steve ShellProduced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellIntro music: “The Land Unknown (The Where the Light Don’t Reach Verses)” written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: “Black Mouthed Dog” written and performed by Landon BloodSpecial 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.© 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 lot of the same. a horror anthology podcast, and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them. And they were judged, every man according to their works. And death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death. Revelations, chapter 20, verses 13 through 14.

She had seen ghosts before. Growing up in the company of her mother's contact with spirits hadn't been uncommon, so when the dead of Woodhaven Sanatorium came calling, she was not afraid. She knew both from their lessons and her own experiences that most ghosts meant no harm. Usually the very worst of them were simply confused or frustrated with their current state of being. From time to time, she had encountered ghosts that got tangled up or turned in on themselves so that they grew into something more dangerous. Once in a blue moon, she'd run across one of the dearly departed that had been ensnared by the dark,

and that was a whole other situation entirely. Tonight, she sensed none of those things. The three hazy figures that emerged from the darkness of her chamber seemed more curious and timid than anything else. For the moment, they were merely shifting, vaguely people-shaped shadows drifting into visibility. She didn't know if that was the best manifestation they could manage, so she cleared her throat and spoke warmly and gently to the entities hovering by the foot of her bed. Hail spirits, I see you, and thank you kindly for our last. allowing me to share your space. I mean you no harm. I have come only seeking shelter and rest, and I am sorry for any disturbance my presence may have caused you. I am happy to speak with you,

if you wish, so long as you speak peaceful and true. That fluttering sorceress came again, and she caught the faint scent of iron as the three figures came more clearly into focus. An older man and a middle-aged woman stood at the bottom corners of her narrow bed. The man was Natalie attired in a suit, and his plump gregarious face was framed by bushy sideburns, the hair on his face apparently compensating for its complete absence atop his head. The woman stood straight back in a black funerary gown, her hands clasped in front of her. A gesture that struck daughter Dooley is a bit nervous. The lines on her face spoke of years of hard work and responsibility.

She had the air of somebody who probably raised a whole pack of children while working two jobs and tending a garden besides. She called to mind every eldest daughter the red-haired witch had ever known. The third spirit, between the other two, took a moment to materialize, eventually resolving into the shape of a young man of perhaps 20 years. His face was stubbly and his head was. was topped with a thick, unruly mop of dark brown hair. His clothing resembled something like fancy silk pajamas, giving him the look of a bachelor on holiday.

The letter H had been monogrammed onto a single pocket over his heart. The spectre placed a hand over that embroidery and inclined his head politely. A hell witch. I mean, if you are a witch, I mean no offense, but the people Miss Marjorie tucks away behind the laundry room or usually something like that, I am terribly sorry if I've misspoken. Daughter Dooley smiled to herself, almost impressed. A ghost with manners was a pleasant change.

You speak true spirit, a witch I am. Was it you that came rassling and poking about when Miss Phyllis brought me my water? It was, ma'am. We did not intend to frighten you or raise Miss Phyllis's ire. She's not wanting to be on the bad side of, truth be told. She's got away with the likes of us that didn't. and it wasn't always pleasant. The other ghost shifted nervously at his mention of the elderly nurse

whose gifts had sent them scurrying on their previous visit to room 16. On any other day, we'd simply be curious about a new face on the private wing, but there are urgent matters afoot that require us to seek your help. The spirit scratched absently at his stubbly chin gathering his thoughts, then winced in mild embarrassment. Oh, where are my manners? Here I am running off at the mouth like a schoolboy, And I haven't even introduced myself.

My name is William Harrison Havis, but my friends call me Billy. This radiant beauty to my right is Miss Regina Fletcher. She's only just joined our ranks. And this noble gentleman is Marcellus Moss of the Mosses of Greenbrier County. We are but three of the many dead that walk the grounds here at Woodhaven. And you, daughter Dooley regarded the trio carefully. Speaking with ghost, wasn't as tricky as dealing with haints or other sorts of spirits, let alone beings of the inner dark. But it wasn't wise to go around giving out one's whole name, Willie Nilly.

Dooley is my family name. You may call me Miss Dooley. What is it you would have for me on this night, Mr. William Harrison, Havis? She intoned the spirit's full name with a tingling sharpness meant to relay in the most polite way possible. that she had the upper hand in this interaction. William, my friends call me Billy Havis, merely inclined his head, acknowledging the question whilst bearing the back of his proverbial neck. He knew he was at her mercy, but he didn't seem to mind.

Interesting. The late Mr. Havis turned to his two companions for confirmation, and they each nodded in turn. Marcellus Moss with a fatherly jerk of his chin, and Regina Fletcher with a quick, somewhat impatient bob of her head. Charmed to make your acquaintance, Ms. Dooley. To get right to the point, we need your help staying.

If you'll pardon the expression, alive. See, it seems that the door swung wide as Phyllis Moore made her way into the room, bearing a tray laden with a steaming bowl of vegetable beef soup, a stack of saltines, and a small dish of chow-chow. She came to an abrupt halt when she saw the ghosts gathered around the foot of her patient's bed. soup slopped over the edge of the bowls spattering the crackers, and the dish of Chow Chow rattled against the metal tray. What the world's going on in here? What did I tell y'all?

This woman is a patient in our care, not some side show for y'all to come and gawk at. I said it before. I'll say it again. Phyllis raised her stamping foot. Her eyes alight with all the fury of a disappointed school marm. Phyllis, wait. I told y'all. Get!

The nurse's heels smacked the floor, and there was a lot of the floor. and there was a small burst to power that made daughter Dooley flinch and squeeze her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, the two of them were alone in the room. I'm sorry, dear. The dead around here have no manners. They have a perfectly good graveyard. They could be resting in. I don't know why they're in here bothering you. They weren't bothering me, Phyllis. I wish she hadn't done that. The older woman chattered on as if she hadn't noticed her patient had even spoken. So, Donna Duly let the matter drop.

The soup smelled delicious. A bright orange tomato-y broth full of onions, celery, carrots, macaroni, and bits of ground beef, her stomach growled. And for a moment the plight of the three apparitions fled from her mind, replaced by sudden hunger. It had been a long time since she'd had a proper supper. Don't you worry about them, dear? Anyway, I heard you talking, figured you might want to buy deep before you nodded back off. Oh, no.

Now that you mentioned it, I could eat. When the fire dies down, and the woods go quiet, and you think you told every tale you know, and don't flamethrase the darkness, so you lock your eyes on the trembling glow, the faces you find are so familiar, they could almost speak,

Their 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 shadows Full belly A fluff pillow and freshly turned linens Daughter Dooley fell back into a deep sleep

And once again The dreams came She was in bad Shirley stinking shack out near Goshen Valley. The shell of an old woman was seated as ever in her ancient rocking chair. A rickety contraption covered with runes and sigils that occasionally pulsed with a dull orange light, depending on its occupant's mood. The sour-faced, fluffy giant glared at her from her tutor's lap, while its equally

foul-tempered litter mates watched from the shadows. She wondered again if it was the voice of this battle-scoling. Lord Mane Coon and its sibling, she heard, rather than that of the old woman. There's power in the dead, girl. Not just in death, but in the dead themselves. That down your little book there. I imagine you've seen a ghost or two in your time. Were you scared?

I bet you were. Bet you nearly pissed your petticoat. Pitiful little thing like you. Lucky the master's brought you into the fold. Yes, you are. What I wouldn't have given to seen your face first time some sad old shade drifted up from the floor wanting you to help to find his bloody bones or some such. Daughter Dooley scribbled furiously in her journal,

doing her best to ignore the predatory eyes that filled the old shack's dark corners and block out the rank smell of the plate. There were twelve cats in bad Shirley's quarters at all times. The orange beast held the place of honor on the old Crohn's lap. while the other 11 perched on shelves or stacks of old books or lurked beneath the filthy old pallet that passed for bad Shirley's bed, occasionally springing into the dim light of the lantern to swat at her when the mood struck or when Shirley thought she wasn't listening.

It would be easy for a simpleton such as you to overlook what there is to be taken from those who have shed their corporeal forms. There's powerful magic to be found in the bones of the dead, honey, both in the hard compact tissue on outside, and a delicious marrow within. But you must use proper implements and methods. You do it wrong, you'll end up with a cold and rotted mess. It's neither useful nor appetizing.

And do it right. Honey, you'll have materials for working that are potent beyond your imagining, girl. Oh, but those are just the beginning of what we can take from the dead. Are you listening to me, girl? Are you getting us all down, you stupid little monkey? Daughter Dooley flinched as a particularly large tom, Black as pitch with a notched ear and eyes that shone like murder bounded down from the shadows over the bookcases to knock her notes from her hand.

It hissed at her, its mismatched ears flat against its head. She waited for the beast to withdraw. She had learned early on not to try shewing it away and recovered her journal from the filth-strewn floor. I am, ma'am. I am, ma'am. Please, please, go on. Bones and mare be one thing. But do you know how to draw power from inspectors themselves? I don't imagine anybody ever taught you how to transform the essence of their pathetic afterlife in something actually useful.

Begging your pardon, ma'am. Are you talking about using a human soul to power workings? That surely laughed. And the cats around her trill, mocking me. The gang of particularly nasty school children circling their prey on the playground. The human soul. There's no such thing. Not in a way the god botherers would have you believe.

People are made of parts. Living dead. Don't make no difference. Pards can be repurposed. We worked on that list in last new moon. Or have you forgotten, you wretched little ape? A slim toady with one jet. black foreleg growled at her, scolding her for her poor memory. But she had not forgotten,

could she? She had watched in horror as bad Shirley turned an old pile of dog bones, mingled with dark earth, tree bark, and other detritus from the woods behind her shack into a five-legged monstrosity, covered in patchy fur the color of dry moss. That poor thing had three eyes, two muzzles, and two sets of horrible oversized teeth, it had run in limping circles about the clearing, growling, and yelping before Shirley had withdrawn her power and allowed it to collapse back into the dirt it had been dredged from. It was one of the most unnatural things she'd ever witnessed. Our masters teach us that all things of this world are made to be torn apart and cobbled up to nourish us to serve them. It takes time to acquire the taste, honey, but acquire what we do, while there beets from deep,

for places whose whole diet consists of the succulent spectral flesh, them spirits who have yet to pass through that old black door. It's a natural order of our kind. We consume, but they're never filled. We destroy what was and build a new world out of guts and bones. You'll learn. You follow old Shirley's lesson, and you'll acquire that taste for yourself soon enough, girl. Yes, you will. With all due respect, Mama, I...

I pledged my trough to the black stag so that I might keep this land safe and live forever. Now what to steal him from the dead have to do with all that? She knew the words were a mistake from the moment they left her mouth. She expected violent retribution from feline claws and teeth and braced herself for it. But instead, that surely just rocked in her chair, murmuring to herself as if she'd not even heard the question. Yeah, soon enough, girl. Soon enough, girl.

there was a soft footstep and an old floorboard creaked. When she turned to seek the source of the sound, the world faded away. And she woke in the cozy confines of room 16. Daughter Dooley pushed herself up against the headboard and looked around the room. She found the ghostly form of William Harrison Havis waiting at the foot of her bed. Oh good, you're awake. I hope I didn't startle you. and if I did, please don't call for Miss Phyllis.

We don't have time for that. The ghost looked worn and haggard. If he'd been able to sweat, she thought he would be. Mr. Havis, are you all right? I'm sorry, Phyllis sent you away. That was never my intention, especially since you'd come to ask for my help. Please, call me, Billy. Oh, I know you never meant for Miss Phyllis to do what she did,

but that delay had consequences most dire, as I was trying to explain when we were interrupted. There is something on these grounds that is, well, it's killing us. I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir. The lot of you are already dead. Do you mean something is forcing you to move on, to go through the old black door, as folks call it? No, nothing is forcing us to move on, ma'am.

I know Miss Phyllis wishes she could, but this is far worse. Out by the cemetery where most of us are interred, something has been watching us for some time. At first it was merely unsettling. What did the dead have to fear, right? Dark things pass through all the time. Woodhaven is a place of healing, but it's also a place of sickness and dying.

Bad things are drawn to the scent of death, and the whole countryside is ripe with the stench of it these days. The grounds proper are protected by the workings and Miss Marjorie's family, and that steers most of them around the edge of the property. It's not the strongest barrier, but, But any fence is better than none. Daughter Dooley nodded thoughtfully. She could sense the faint hum of the wards that surrounded the property,

though as the ghost had noted, they weren't particularly strong. She could feel the presence of additional protections around the private wing, however, and these were more solid. To her gift, it was like the difference between a freshly painted and carefully maintained fence to one that had been neglected. The outer wards had loose boards and sagging posts, and even a couple of spots where lively horses had kicked it down altogether. You can feel it, can't you?

The protection is strong in the rooms off this little hallway. The folks who pass through here sometimes feed the wards before they go by way of thanking Miss Marjorie and her husband. Boundary around the house is a little weaker, and those set out on the outer grounds are weaker still. Watch at the cemetery. Ah, therein lies the rub. The place they buried us is a very nice plot,

of well-kept land with lovely greenery and neat tombstones that sits a good 60 feet outside the perimeter. I imagine they didn't think the dead needed such protection, but it has come abundantly clear that we do because something is killing us, ma'am. Something has eaten us, to be precise. So far, it's been unable to reach us when we're within the building, but if we try to visit our graves, or if Miss Phyllis banishes us out there, then we're fair game.

This thing you say has been eating ghosts. What does it look like? I haven't seen it myself, ma'am, no. But I've heard the screams, and I know which of us have gone missing. There's a difference in how it feels to the rest of us when somebody moves on compared to the absence of those who've been taken. The former feels much how it feels when someone passes from life to death.

It's sad, but natural. The latter's. More like a hole torn in the fabric of the veil where that person used to be. It's cold and it's awful. The young ghost in the silk pajamas had begun to pace in agitation. When Miss Fletcher joined our number the other night, I believe she saw it. She said when she woke in the cemetery, still on this side of the veil, she heard terrible growls and a child screaming.

To hear her tell it, she came across some sort of demon tearing a young boy apart, all teeth and claws, a beast with a vast gaping. and mall filled with endless void. She said at first she thought she'd woken up in hell. But then she recognized the grounds. And she fled to the house on instinct before it could get her too, poor woman. That was little Timothy, she saw, by the way. He was here when I was, poor land.

His family's from New York made their fortune on mill towns out in the Piedmont. They sent him here, and when he never got any better, they just left him here to be buried by strangers. He was the youngest of seven, so I suppose they considered in the run of the litter. At least my mom and daddy came to see me be put in the ground. Mama's superstitious, though. She thought the sickness might follow me home if they buried me in the family plot back in Lewiston. She had three other strong, healthy son, so it wouldn't like I'd be missed.

The red-headed woman in the bed furrowed her brow. Don't talk like that, boy. I'm sure your mama, Mrs. you very much. Your daddy too. Billy Havis snorted a bitter laugh. You don't come for money, do you, Miss Dooley? The first son inherits,

and the second son works under his elder brother, learning the family business just in case something happens to the oldest. An heir and a spare. That's what's wanted. If the parents are unlucky enough to produce a third son, he'll be expected to marry well. Any more boys beyond that

are just extra mouths to feed, and God forbid there be daughters. A daughter is an extra mouth to feed with the added trouble of providing a dowry and finding somebody to marry him off to. In my case, Daddy was pushing for the seminary or the military. Less trouble than trying to find me a rich wife. The handsome spirit ran his hand through his hair and sighed, I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to burden you with my trials and tribulations. But back to the matter at hand.

Do you think you can help us? Daughter Dooley looked at the earnest young dead man and tried her best to be honest, without depriving him of hope. I'll be straight with you, Mr. Havis. Please, call me, Billy. I'll be straight with you, William. I've been very ill of late. I do not know how much help I can be.

I sleep the way I do because my body and my gifts have been pushed beyond their limits and I'm desperately trying to recover. Have you tried to let anyone else here know what's going on? The ghost shook his head. Miss Marjorie doesn't have any sense of us. Believe me, we've tried. I think Doc Robinson knows we're here, but he can't see us or talk to us.

Miss Phyllis can see us. She's got some axe to grind with the dead. Maybe she's just had a bad experience with some troubled spirits in the past. I don't know, but I don't think she sees us as proper people anymore. Talks to us like we're house cats that ought to know better than to get up on the table or something. There's no reasoning with her, and if we rile her up, then we end up right back out in the deep water. It occurred to the red-haired woman that while this,

shade had returned to speak to her again. There had been three of them when she last spoke with him. What had become of the other two ghosts? Wait, where are your friends tonight? Mr. Moss and Miss Fletcher? Billy paused for a moment. Frowning. How best to explain this.

We don't all rise at the same time after Miss Phyllis sends us to our graves, nor do we haunt the same places. I usually run into Marcellus in the parlor, at least twice a week. He likes to sit in the chair where he died and recite dirty limericks in the general direction of the nurses. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Miss Fletcher's brand new. She hadn't really settled yet. So I have no idea where to find her unless she finds me. And we're not always active, you might say, at the same time. We're ghosts who happen to have died in the same place, Miss Dooley, not old friends.

There used to be a fair number of us mooning around the old bone yard, but it's not been safe to linger there for a while now. I think whatever this thing is, it's already done for them. There was a shuffling in the hallway, and both the ghost and the witch cast their eyes toward the door. I think Miss Phyllis is coming to check on you, so I'd best be on my way. If there's any way you can help us, Miss Dooley, please do. You might be our only hope. Daughter Dooley nodded in agreement, and before she could open her mouth to speak, she was alone once again. The shuffling in the hall grew louder and closer, so she snuggled down into her blankets, meaning to feign sleep. But within minutes, there was no reason for her to pretend.

Without even trying, she slid beneath the waves of somnolence, and for the first time since she arrived at Woodhaven Sanatorium, she did not dream. In the deep blue hours of the morning, Dr. David Robinson hiked up the shallow rise on the eastern side of the grounds to the neatly tended collection of graves that housed the dead of Woodhaven. When he and his wife had opened the place, they knew they would have need of a graveyard, so they reserved this plot of land for that purpose. They imagined they would have an odd burial here and there for folks who didn't have family, or perhaps the occasional charity case they'd take in from the county for folks who had no

money for a proper burial. They hadn't anticipated that so many people, rich folks especially, wouldn't want to bring their loved ones back home after they died. There was a good amount of superstition around tuberculosis or the white plague, as the papers had taken to call on it, but any medical professional knew it was bullshit. Nonetheless, families from New York, New Jersey, Ohio, Maryland, and points further west had sent their ailing and dying loved ones here.

And once those loved ones had passed, had asked them to lay their people to rest beneath the fertile soil of western North Carolina. They'd shipped in headstones or small monuments, and some had come to attend services or sent representative to see to it that the deceased wishes were carried out, and that was that. As a result, what David Robinson and his wife Marjorie had envisioned as a discreet little potter's field of sorts tucked into a clearing on the eastern edge of the property, had blossomed into a proper cemetery, populated with grave markers ranging from simple plaques

to the marble angel that the Moss family had hauled in to mark their patriarch's final rest in place. There was a little wrought iron fence that wrapped around the space with an iron gate that he kept oiled and well maintained. David knew there were ghosts walking his property. He couldn't see them or communicate with them as those were not his gifts.

He came from a long line of healers. Men who could blow the heat off a burn or talk a cut into not bleeding, he'd been raised in the church, and he and his daddy and his daddy before him were all respected men of God. But he also knew it wasn't as simple as him being chosen by the Almighty to lay hands on the sick. His mama had kept a garden in medicinal herbs. While his daddy had taught him the doctrine of the church, she had taught him the ways of the green. It was his mama who'd insisted that David studied medicine and become a healer not just walking the path of granny medicine,

but that of science and scholarship. Neither of which had anything to do with what he'd come out to do with this ungodly hour. Phyllis Moore, bless her, had been bending Marjorie's ear for the past couple of days complaining about meddlesome spirits troubling the patients. David had felt the cold spots and the occasional rise of the hair on the back of his neck once patients had begun to pass at Woodhaven decades ago. He would have never called those experiences nor the entities behind them troubling or meddlesome. Nonetheless, Phyllis' gifts lay in the matters of the dead,

and she had declared that she was tired of having to shoe them off the private wing this week. She'd asked Marjorie to ask him to do something about it. When David had asked the woman why she didn't just go out to the Eastfield and have a chat with the dead herself, she'd quoted First Timothy chapter three at him and stormed off in the passive aggressive yet gentle way that only a woman with several grandchildren can do. They'd lost so many staff to the new state hospital, and he didn't dare run the risk of one of their best and long-standing employees deciding it was time to retire. Hell, they were pushing the boundaries of their state license running the skeleton crew they had

on the payroll at this point. So here he was, hauling his meaty frame up the side of the hill to perform a working that his granddaddy had shown him years ago. There were ways to encourage the dead to move on, nothing ugly or disruptive, just something to give him a little push, a polite, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here for the disincarnate. carried his materials in an old potato sack, and the implements inside rattled against each other

as he placed it on the ground facing the cemetery gate. He had just been over to extract the kindling he'd carried from his truck when he heard something moving in the trees at the edge of the property. Startled, David Robinson froze for a moment listening, but heard nothing else. He blew out of breath he hadn't realized he was holding and chuckled at himself, for getting spooked at his age. He'd arranged the kindling according to what he could remember from his papaw's lesson when the sound came again.

This time, it was closer. He closed his eyes and strained to hear. The years he'd spit hunting with his daddy told him it was an animal of some sort. Didn't sound loud enough to be a bear or even a deer. He saw a flash of movement within the cemetery and stepped closer to the gate. He heard what sounded like whimpering. Then came a low ground, the sort of sound that accompanied a hungry mouth

tucking into its dinner. And the whimpering stopped. Stepping closer to the gate, David caught a glimpse of a wagon tail from behind the moss monument. It was just a dog. Some stray or perhaps somebody's hunting hound from down the mountain had gotten loose

and wandered up this way. It must have chased a rabbit or a possum through the fence and took it for supper. Oh, now he'd have to clean up rabbit guts as if he needed one more chore. He left his poke and neatly arranged firewood behind and strode through the gate, letting out a friendly whistle. Here, boy, it's no place for you, buddy. Come on, let's get you out of there. As he drew closer, he could hear the dog panting, chewing, and gulping down, whatever unfortunate critter happened across his path that night.

It sounded like he might be a big fella. David crept around the side of the marble angel. Come on, buddy. Let's go. Let the dog lifted its head to glance over its shoulder at the tall man. Its muzzle wet was some form of viscera that he could not identify. It was unlike any dog David Robinson had ever seen. And even if he'd seen every dog in the world, none of them could have compared to this. Big didn't begin to describe this dog. Its muzzle was the size of a grown man's head

And the body attached it was equally amissed As it turned to face him, fear twisted his gut There was something the dog's coat Was a soot black that seemed to drink in What little light that grey pre-dawn sky provided It was hard to see He couldn't quite focus on the details As if his eyes were telling his brain what they saw

but his brain simply could not accept the information inside. The inky blackness of its coat. Shapes mood. It tilted its head's massive chest, vibrated as the beast bared its teeth, a wall of jagged bone dripping a foul icker that spattered on the grass. It's simply over there, family. Oh, my, my, my, where has this trip back into 1928 taken us?

Could be we're facing down a menace that the folks who dwell over in the holler are already familiar with. That outro music should be a clue. For those who may not have heard that particular tale yet, suffice it to say that we are headed into one nasty some bitch of a final episode for the first arc of season six of old gods of Appalachia long shadows. We hope y'all will join us to see how that red-headed witch handles things, and if I were a better man, I bet you will.

Now, if you've never been a resident of the holler and are wondering while your neighbors are freaking out about the song that's playing underneath me right now. Well, there is no better time to make the move. Come on in. Listen to Blackmouth Dog, along with other favorites like Build Mama a coffin, familiar and beloved, grave concerns, and a whole lot more. Head on over and cast your tithe into the collection plate at Old Gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler today. And this is your, the bark is definitely not worse than the bite reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep nerd media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Steve Schellon, edited by Cam Collins, our intro and

And outro music for today is by Brother Landon Blood. We'll talk to you soon, fam.