Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 96: Lessons Learned

Episode Date: March 26, 2026

The black door opens. Who or what will pass through? CW: Historical hospital settings, gore, deaths by monster and falling, monster and monster eating sounds, ghost violence, grief. Written by Steve Shell and Cam CollinsProduced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellThe voice of Granny White: Betsy PuckettThe voice of Brother Bartholomew: Dr. Ray ChristianIntro music: “The Land Unknown (The Where the Light Don’t Reach Verses)” written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: “I Cannot Escape the Darkness" by Those Poor BastardsSpecial 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. a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised.

Regina Fletcher woke in her own cold grave. She wasn't sure how she got back here. She hadn't gotten used to being dead yet. It certainly wasn't what she expected.

The good book had never mentioned all the rules and protocols that govern the afterlife. Regina had been a lifelong churchgoer at North Liberty Presbyterian, and when she finally found herself on the other side of the veil, she'd expected pearly gates, not an old black door. Like a vast black hulled ship emerging from a dense fog that dread portal had appeared, and she'd been afraid. There were no angel, no welcoming saints, just a heavy slab of black wood that stood between,

between her and whatever come next. And at first she was distraught, thinking that this must surely be the gate to hell, and all of her clean living, praying, and tithing had all been for nothing. Then she realized she didn't smell sulfur. Nor did she feel the flames of damnation looking at her feet. Perhaps this was a waystation of sort.

And if she crossed that grim threshold, she'd be reunited with all her loved ones and finally meet the father, son, and the holy ghost. As she reached for the iron ring that hung in place of a proper knob, a flash of orange light had raced around the edges of the door like summer lightning, and she'd snatched her hand back. Was that a hellfire? Oh, maybe this door led to damnation after all.

Before Regina could reconsider, the door had flickered and disappeared. She called for her mother, her father, her husband Homer, for all the folks who were supposed to greet her on that heavenly shore, but none of them answered. She found herself in the cemetery all alone. She thought it was a demon, all burning eyes and monstrous teeth like something that rose from the sea in St. John's revelation. She'd seen her rip a little boy limb from limb,

gobbling the child up in just a few bites. She wanted to help. Truly she had, but fear had consumed her, and she just ran. And then suddenly, before she knew what was happening, and she'd found herself back in her old room inside the tall house with the kind nurses and the handsome orderlies. She'd watched as they'd boxed up all her things to be hauled away. Since then, she had simply been here,

one of dozens of spirits who walked the grounds of Woodhaven Sanatorium. She had met some of the others, Mr. Havis, Mr. Moss, Miss Bernstein, and Miss Hilton had all been very nice and welcoming. None of them had any more idea than she did how to get to whatever come next, but at least they weren't demons sent to torment her. Regina hadn't thought the living could even see them until the lady in room 16 and Nurse Phyllis had proved her wrong, and she wasn't sure what the elder nurse had done to cast her out of the house,

but she didn't think it was right. They weren't bothering anybody. They just wanted help. Why did they deserve to get eaten up by some monstrous dog in the bone yard just because they couldn't move on from this world? Oh God, the dog, she thought in sudden terror. She was in danger. She had to get away from here, back to the house where it was safe.

Regina willed herself to head toward the main building, hoping she would simply appear in her room like she had before. But it was not to be. Instead, she found herself drifting in that general direction. Her feet floating a good six inches over the soil below. Her progress toward the cemetery gate was slow. but steady, and she'd begun to feel a spark of hope when she heard it, the panting of some heavy beast, plotting through the gravestones.

She did not turn around. She kept her eyes fixed resolutely on the path before her, stay in the course. She could see the shape of Woodhaven in the distance, growing closer with every moment. She passed the lovely marble angel where Mr. Moss was laid to rest and started in surprise as the man himself rose from beneath it. Marcellus Moss smiled and tipped an imaginary hat in her direction. Before he could wish her good evening, there was a roaring bark, and the monstrous dog was upon him.

The patriarch of the mosses of Greenbrier County screamed in terror. Regina tried to block out the sounds of rending flesh and the choking sobs as the friendly man with the stylish sideburns met his second death in the jaws of the beast. Keep moving, she told herself, had to keep moving. As she reached the cemetery's Iron Gate, she saw

Dr. David Robinson making his way towards her, carrying a bag of some kind. She waved and called out to him, trying to alert him to the danger. Panic finally gave her the speed she'd been unable to find. She flew at the man, arms waving, spectral voice, shrieking

and passed right through his flesh without even causing the big man to shiver. She slowed and floated back towards him, watching as he dumped a load of kindling on the ground. Then he raced his head. Eyes narrowing with curiosity as the snarling of the dog reached his ears from deeper within the cemetery.

Regina Fletcher watched in horror as Doc Robinson. The man with the gentle hands and the kind voice strode into the cemetery to investigate. She drifted ahead of him, screaming for all she was worth anything to make him hear her, see her to stop what was coming. She watched helplessly as he froze at the side of the beast that had stalked her kind from the moment she had risen from her grave.

The monstrous dog's eyes burned. Its hellish maw trembled with anticipation, and then it lunged. The bulk of its shadowy body collided with the healer, knocking him aside. Regina heard a sickening smack as the soft flesh of his temple collided with the corner of a nearby headstone. And just like that, one of the kindest men she'd ever known left the mortal world behind. His soul fleeing before his body even hit the ground. She could not tear her eyes away from the dead man. Then she heard a low rising, realized with cold dread that the good doctor had not been the beast's target at all.

As she turned back toward the gate to resume her flight, she felt massive jaws close around her left hip and a plague. Down the woods go quiet And you think you told every tale you know And don't fee shape 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 Bozy bed in room 16 Daughter Dooley The night was crisp and cold As daughter Dooley followed the tall figure Leading her down a darkened trail

That ran along the quiet burble of the guest river Somewhere in the untamed woods of Esau County, Virginia Behind her Bad Shirley trudged along. Her precious orange monstrosity perched on her shoulder. The rest of her foul litter scattered through the trees or twined about the feet of their small band as they made their way along the banks of the tiny tributary

of the mighty clench river. They were led by the being who had begun tutoring her in the ways of warding and sigil-making. He was called and he was at least seven and a half feet tall. spindly as a young tree and silent as the grave. He was ever dressed in a black shroud of mourning over a pitch-black suit. His enormous hands were the only part of his body that were visible, unnervingly mobile, like the legs of some nightmare's creature

sired in the depths of the darkest sea. There were too many joints in those alabaster digits, and the middle and ring finger on each hand were tipped in a needle-like, like claw that jutted out of the tip of the creature's finger rather than from the nail bed. He used these protrusions for drawing out the ruins and sigils that he taught her. Each claw was capable of secreting ink, blood, tears, or venom. The widower could summon up whatever the working required. Proud two of his wives.

One might wonder how a widower still had wives, but daughter Dooley had learned better than to ask such questions when dealing with the denizens of the dark. Through careful observation and a bit of outright eavesdropping, if she were honest, she had come to understand that the wives were the undead husks of women who had once been the widower's prize pupils. Dry things in funeral black dresses that rattled like wind chimes made a bone with their every step. The pair were tethered to their dread husband with rusty chains. Their eyes were bound with stained, rotting silk blindfolds, one blue and one red. Bad Shirley had gossiped that this was so their husband might tell them apart, adding that the one in red was called Dorcas, with Damaris in blue.

Each of the skeletal thralls carried a small wooden box, like acolytes bringing tribute to some dark altar. The comparison, Daughter duly mused to herself, wasn't that far. off. When she had turned up at Bad Shirley's shack that night, she'd found the widower waiting on the doorstep, as if he too had an appointment with the old crone and her beasts. Bad Shirley had emerged from her lair wearing a wool winter coat and a thick shawl, leaning heavily on a thicker cane. Her foulest familiar growled at them from her shoulder. Daughter Duly couldn't remember a time when Bad Shirley had left her hut, and the surprise must have shuffled. on her face.

Wipe that gomless puss off your face, girl. I know it must water your mouths to see two of your teachers in one place, but tonight is a special occasion. The master himself has arranged for you to meet with a new instructor and ask that I make introductions.

Not that you deserve such a bone, you rotten, ungrateful thing, but it is a rare opportunity to be a guest of one such as this. Even at the master's behest, so I asked the widower, gentlemen that he is if he'd like to come with us to offer proper tribute. The widower inclined his head slightly, and his wives followed suit, the bones of their spines clacking a dry whisper as they moved.

So are we waiting here to greet them then? Bad Shirley grated out a rasping death rattle laugh. No, child. The one you'll meet on this night, We'll not venture far from its safe place. We must go to it. It ain't close, though. Shoo, no, it ain't.

We'll walk a ways on our side of things till we find ourselves a little shortcut. You know we're a mean, don't you handsome? The man draped in morning rags, nodded again, and his beloved bride set off into the trees, leaving daughter Dooley and Bad Shirley to follow. They'd walked for what felt like an eternity. Though Daughter Dooley knew that time couldn't be measured reliably on the paths they walked,

eventually they had come to a bend in a stagnant creek bed. The air thick with the stench of brackish water and things left to rot. Bad Shirley stepped to the edge of the murky water, and the entirety of her ill-tempered brood suddenly surrounded her. The slender torty with the black foreleg gave the water a tentative smack, a worried expression etched onto her goblin face. Oh, my little man, my, you ain't gonna get wet. Just wait.

Mama'll show you. You won't do the honors, big fella. The widower pushed the sleeve of his coat back from his left hand, allowing a single drop of something dark and rancid to slip from the spiked tip of his left ring finger and splash into the fetid little stream. A sudden, stiff breathed smelled of sulfur. and rotted meat and carried a stinging grit that caused daughter Dewey to squeeze her eyes shut again for a long moment,

and when she opened them again, they stood on the banks of another river miles away, this one flowing strong and sure. Bad Shirley glanced around approvingly. Shirley knelt down, dipped her index finger into the running water and tasted it. North, another three miles. Lay down, ladies. The widower's wives took up the charge, following the gentle flow of the river into the dark heart of Esau County.

After a while, the skeletal women led them away from the river and down into a holler. A small squat house sat all by its lonesome like a tick nestled into the flesh of some great sleeping dog. A subtle hum of powers surrounded the place, a polite warning that promised pain, and worse, if not, Heated, someone gifted had wrapped this place in the power of the green and the blood of their own people. It hadn't been lightly done either. Behind the house, the surrounding brush had been cleared for a solid 30 feet to the tree line. Around the edge of that clearing, at regular intervals, stood trees that had been carved with sigils that seemed to pulse with power.

There were strands of dried peppers and flowers hung from the rafters of the porch, whose interior roof and floorboards had been painted a distinct shade she recognized as haint blue. There was no fence nor other visible barrier between the place where they stood in the house, but if she listened closely, she could make out a heartbeat of power, its quiet pulse running around the edge of the yard. This was a place that had been warded and maintained by green-touched workers who knew what they were doing. daughter duly noticed that both bad Shirley and the widower kept their respective pets well behind them

as they came to a stop at the edge of the property she was wondering what torturous lesson she'd learn here when the regular clump of horses' hooves and the creek of wagon wheels reached her ears she looked to her two monstrous companions to see if they were concerned but neither seemed surprised by the sound The glow of the lantern crested the hill, and Bad Shirley pulled her close.

The old woman's grip like iron around her forearm. You listen to me. Do not speak unless spoken to what's in yon buggy. Could gobble the lot of us up if it so chose. So listen close and do as you're told, girl. Reflect poorly on us, and you won't even have to worry about punishment at our hands. It will bring you more hurt than we ever could. If you know what's good for you, you'll behave as if the master himself has come to call.

A long white-painted wagon with high sides rolled to a stop a few yards from them. Two men climbed from the bench seat in near perfect unison. They were dressed in clean, homespun pants and shirts the color of perfect, unstained eye. Their skin was as pale as the moon and completely hairless. The lack of eyebrows and eyelashes gave them an otherworldly look as they nodded politely to the travelers and said about their business. The taller of the two moved to the rear of the wagon and hung back, his beady eyes scowling out of them resentfully.

The driver strode forward, his mouth lifting into what he must have thought was an approximation of a smile. Well met Granny Stewart, Scrivener, daughter duly blinked. It had never occurred to her that Bad Shirley might have a surname. She was just Bad Shirley. She had similarly never heard the epithet used to address the widower. The formal tone the man used gave it the feel of a title rather than a name. She filed these facts away for future examination knowing she would be punished if either of the two thought she wasn't paying attention.

Bad Shirley spoke first. Her voice taking on an uncharacteristically deferential tone. Bryson? Or is it, Byron? It's been so long since the senior hall. I can't recall which he's the taller one. The bald man chuckled to himself. I'm Bryson. That's my brother Byron.

You'll have to excuse his lack of manners. He doesn't usually leave the property and has become unused to observe him the proprietor. But since this request came from your master, it was appropriate for the eldest of us to give this personal attention. The man's cold eyes, appraised daughter Dooley, and she had the distinct impression he was unimpressed. His voice was skeptical when he spoke again. This is the vessel, then? Oh, yes. The yes, it's Miss Dooley.

The master has requested this lesson specifically for her. He sends his thanks to your granny for making this possible. As her teachers, we also appreciate her taking the time to instruct the girl, and we've come bearing gifts to demonstrate our gratitude properly. Yes, we have. Folded skeletal women scuttled forward, offering the small wooden chests with formal little bows, as bad Shirley and the widow were nodded sycophantically. The man called Bryson, accepted them with a chuff of laughter,

and retreated to the wagon. Byron stepped up and into the shadowy recesses of the conveyance. A moment later, he emerged, carefully pushing a figure in a wheelchair. He stepped down next to his brother, and each of them took one side of the chair, lowering it carefully to the ground between the hunched figure and the chair wore the shape, skinny and gnarled as a crabapple tree, and just as milk pale as the men who had buried her here. The two men were careful to keep her long, trailing, white hair from tangling in the wheels of the chair as it draped onto the ground behind her.

She wore a simple white house dress that stretched taut across a swollen belly that appeared unnaturally, horrifically ripe with pregnancy. She wore tiny glasses with ruby-colored lenses through which she surveyed the three of them sourly. The man called Bryson spoke to her in reverent tones. Granny, this is Granny Stewart and... I know who they are, boy. What kind of fool do you take me for? Do you think I don't know bad, surely, when I smell her?

Good Lord, child. Now, I know you don't care about that body, but do the rest of us a favor and wash it. You smell like somebody made a pot of coffee out of cat. It is truly unpleasant. Who else is over the head? Oh, the widower, is it? Yes, I know you.

Well, I know your work anyway. Blood wards, bone binding in the light. You get out of the house about as much as I do, don't she? You do find. The door placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head at this acknowledgement. Dorcas and Damaris rattled their chains in excitement. The widower snapped them to stillness with a sudden jerk on the links that bound them. I can't say much about your taste and winning, but who am I to judge?

We all do what we must to get by. Yes, we do. We do what we have to do to put food on the table and keep our families fed, don't we? Let them babies, how can we? The thing pretending to be an old blind woman rested her fingers on the uncanny mound of her belly and turned her gaze on daughter Dooley. Go ahead you bring us to this sweet little muscle here? Yes, indeed, I've heard a lot about it.

Yeah, old patron can't say enough about the things y'all gonna do. I trust that musty old buck about as far as I can throw. Which could be pretty far. All things considered, but I digress. Let's just say I'll expect you to prove your worth before I give two twists of your dead mama's titties about you. Are we clear? Any witty replies dried up on daughter Dooley's tongue.

The gravity of the old woman's presence bespoke a level of power she'd only felt in the company of the black stack. The world seemed to bend in towards the withered old things, in the wheelchair as though her very existence was a burden that struggled to bear. She nodded in mute reply. It from old horn is what a small mouth little. He seems to think you're worth the trouble, though. I'm not so sure.

Do you know who I am, girl? It took daughter Dooley a long moment to find her voice. You, you're, you're the hungry mother. The pale daughter. The unsated mouth, the very hunger of those who sleep beneath? Yes, yes. Enough with the flattery. You may call me Granny White.

I appreciate the aggrand eyes and then brown-nosed, but it ain't. Yes, yes, Granny. Turn me around so I can show little miss what we're working with tonight. Bryce and White turned the chair so that the pale woman faced the house and the clearing head on. Yonder is the Wells House. There's an old family around these parts. Ain't many left of the true

line. Last if one trape's on through the old black door earlier this year. Or so we thought these wards should be fading and breaking all over the place. But somebody

somewhere is feet as good as in that house that we want. A whole laundry list of books and trinkets and heirlooms just steeped in old workings. Yeah, I could just have my children post up here and collect them when the time comes. But unlike your master, I don't care for waiting. Don't care for it a bit. Now, when you don't agree, it just makes it so much more.

So, in exchange for whatever we find in the proper way to suck the juice out of a protective work and then use it for your own personal and power, turning lemons into lemonade or some such. How does that sound, girly? That sound useful to you? Yes, ma'am. I imagine it would. Don't bullshit me, girl. There ain't no imagining here. Power is all that there's worth having in this world.

And we do what we must take it. If you don't have a stomach for this business, you will get eaten to lie. Show you how they're going to know. It's going to hurt. But still. Daughter Dooley sat up with a gasp, her heart racing as she rejoined the waking world in the hour before dawn. Her dreams hadn't been invaded by. Granny White and longer than she could remember.

The terrifying old thing had taught her a useful skill or two, but she'd almost trade those back for never having had the displeasure of meeting the old beast face to face. As she rolled her shoulders and shivered off the fading remnants of the dream, she became aware that she was not alone. There was a flicker of ghost light at the foot of the bed. She sat up against the headboard and smoothed the hair from her face, expecting another visitation from William, please call me Billy, Havis.

Instead, the amorphous glimmer resolved itself into the shape of a young woman in a blight funeral gown. Her head was bowed, and her hands hung limply at her size. Her unkempt hair hung in a frizzy shroud about her face. Something dripped from her gown. The lamp on the bedside table flick. And the air buzzed with a different energy from the last time the dead had come to call on her. When William Harrison Havis and company had appeared, the room was filled with a sense of caution and courtesy,

as if they didn't want to scare her off. This apparitioned, the air in the room grew taught as a bowstring with the sense of dread she carried. The sound of liquid pattering to the floor drew her eye, and daughter Dooley saw the spirit was bleeding ectoplasm from a wound at her hip, though the specter didn't seem to notice it. She spoke to her gently as of coaxing a wounded animal. Spirit, what can I do for you this night? By several to graft of cold air blew in from nowhere, trying for a peek at the ghostly woman's face.

Miss Fletcher, is that you? Are you all right, dear? And clenched her fists, her ghostly form beginning to shake more violently, the splattering from the wound at her hip increasing, the room single lantern flickered again, threatening to cast them into darkness. Miss Fletcher? Miss Fletcher, can you hear me, darling? What can I do to help?

What was left of Regina Fletcher threw back her head and howled, revealing the shredded remnants of her face. Her right cheek had been torn away, revealing a garden of bone daggers where her teeth had once been. Her left eye gleamed with a sickly orange light. And she leapt onto the foot of the, bearing that misshapen mouthful of overgrown fangs, and the room began to shake. The cold draft, becoming an icy gale.

Pictures fell from the wall, and their frames shattered. The bed frame felt as though it might shake apart with the force of the tremors emanating from the ruined ghost. Daughter duly robed out of the bed, tumbling to the floor as the spectre lunged at her, clawed hands tearing her feather pillow to shreds. The living woman bit her lip as her knees hit the floor and she tasted blood. She scrambled to her feet again and began inching toward the door. How had something like this gotten past the wards? Regina Flette jaw working like some sort of demented Marionette

as she sprawled on the bed and the spot the witch had occupied only moments before. The ghost pushed herself to her hands and knees. And before daughter Dooley could reach the door, Regina swiped her arm in her direction. Everything that wasn't nailed down on the other side of the room came flying. The wardrobe doors blew open and coat hangers, linens and other odds and ends tucked inside the cabinets, pelted her like buckshot. The metal hook of a coat hanger, Nick Daughter Dooley just above the eye, and the small cup welled with blood. There was a wooden groaning, and she realized the heavy wardrobe itself was about to tear free from the wall. That was enough.

The red-headed witch wiped the blood from her forehead and rubbed it between her palms. Acting on instinct, she reached for a well of power that was drained and nearly dry. The spell came to her lips almost unbidden, and she raised her bloody fingers in the air in a gesture that stilled the unnatural wind and silenced the roaring shade who threatened to bring the roof down over her head. Regina Fletcher begins the binding to no avail. With a wave of her hand, daughter Dooley sent the ghost whirling into the other corner of the room behind the dislodged wardrobe.

She felt exhaustion, and it was all she could do to lurch back over to the bed. Her shaking knees giving way as she dropped back onto it and turned to face the writhing spirit to finish the binding. I do not know what's happened to you, ma'am, but I cannot have you in here thrashing about like this. By my own blood, I bind you. By my mother's names, I give you whatever peace you might know. Here are you bound, and here you will.

will stay, rest now spirit, and be still with a vital twist of her fingers. The tormented spirit faded into the shadows, and daughter duly collapsed into the ruins of her pillow before the tides of sleep. Peggy Rogers was working the morning shift when Phyllis Moore, who normally didn't come until almost midnight, walked in the front door carrying a sheet cake covered in foils. Well, hey there, what are you doing here in the daylight hours? Phyllis smiled and placed the pan on the counter. I took last night off to help the lady's auxiliary get ready for the bake sale this weekend. We made one chocolate cake too many, so I brought it in to share.

I'm covering for Laverna today. I'll have me a little nap and then work my usual. Phyllis walked around the desk and picked up the overnight shift notes. Her brow furrowed and concerned as she read what bird had written there. Saturday, May 7th. The patient had some sort of episode during the night. The furnishings in room 16 were cast about as if a great wind had passed through the ward. The hat rack was broken to splinters.

The wardrobe just launched from its corner, clothing and other items strewn about the room. Peggy, what in the world happened last night? What? Oh, that. I don't know what to tell you. We didn't have the bodies to keep somebody up there last night. Mr. Nelson is all worked up. about the transfer down the mountain, but he kept wandering downstairs to pester us about it.

He had me and Bert tied up for most of the night. Bert got to her whenever he could, checked on her after sun up, and the room was just a wreck. She must have had some sort of fit. Busted her lip and bumped her head a little, but she's all right. Soon enough, she won't be our problem anymore anyway. Phyllis's brow furrowed. What do you mean? it looks like we're done, honey.

Miss Marjorie is down to the state hospital filling out the paperwork on the last of our patients right now. We ain't got enough staff to stay open. And with the new hospital hiring every qualified nurse in a 50-mile radius, there's not really anyone to replace the folks we lost. I imagine she'll make provisions for that little lady in 16, but I wouldn't worry about it. No. Surely Doc Robinson can work something out. Is he here?

Let me talk to him. I can make him see sense. He's here. Gone in around the same time I did. Said he had to do some maintenance or something over by the cemetery. You know how he is about that. I hadn't seen him come back yet, so might be he's still out there. Phyllis headed back out the front doors and began walking east across the grounds.

They couldn't close Woodhaven. They just couldn't. Her work was all she had left. At least she was helping people here. She didn't want to sit around her empty old house all alone, all the time, Phyllis Moore's house had the unusual distinction that it didn't host a single lost soul or wandering spirit. After working long shifts in a place that was chocked full of the dead, one might be tempted to think that coming home to a quiet house would be a relief,

but for Phyllis Moore, it was a misery. Her husband had passed away two years ago this October, and her eldest son had died in an accident at the paper mill. Had either of them, thought twice by what she might need before taking off to paradise. She'd have given anything for just a few minutes more with her husband or to say a proper goodbye to her randall. Once she realized they really and truly weren't going to come and say goodbye, she'd have paid a fair amount for a few more minutes to give each of them a piece of her mind. Instead, all she got were the shades of entitled rich folks.

She couldn't stand it. She felt like she'd had to deal with every ghost in the whole wide world except for the two who actually mattered. Her pace slowed. as she approached the cemetery, feeling the presence of the dead all around. She ignored them and called out for the doctor. Dr. Robinson, David, are you out here? A familiar tingle raised the hair on the back of Phyllis's neck,

and she flinched as a voice spoke behind her. He was here, ma'am. But I'm afraid most of us were indisposed when he came to call. Phyllis closed her eyes and shook her head, holding up a hand to stop the gentleman ghost from coming any closer. No, not right now. Please. Just leave me alone. A different voice boomed from her left, and she startled again. Oh, horse feathers, young, William. You know as well as I do exactly where the good doctor is. The ghosts of William Harrison Havis chuckled.

I guess you got me there, Marcellus, but you'll have to forgive me. I'm not really feeling like myself these days If you know what I mean I know exactly how you feel my good fella I feel like I'm half the man I used to be Both shades laughed heartily at the shared jest And Phyllis felt her temper flare She opened her eyes and turned to face them

Will you two just the words shut up died on Phyllis Moore's lips as she stared at the two ghosts. William Harrison Havis was missing half of his throat and the upper left side of his chest. The ghostly flesh hung in tatters around gaping holes filled with darkness. If young William was a horror, then the late Murray-Marcellus Moss was something straight from the darkest corners of hell. His right arm hung by a thin strand of gristle, and his right leg was torn away at the knee. His belly had been split wide, and inside it a writhing, twisting void, churned wetly in the early morning, screamed and turned to run. She tore blindly through the cemetery, heading deeper into the neat rows of graves.

Her heart pounded in her chest and the fleeting idea that this might just give her a heart attack, raced across her thoughts. When she glanced over her shoulder to see if the ruined ghosts were pursuing her, her foot caught on something lying across the path between the stones, and Phyllis went sprawling. Her ankle gave way with a jolt of pain, and she heard something snap in her wrist when she put her hands out to catch herself. She landed on her belly in the grass with a cry of pain. As she struggled to get up, she saw what had tripped her. Dr. David Robinson lay staring up at her. His eyes lifeless and cold. On instinct, she glanced around searching for his shade,

but there had been no hesitation when this good man perished. His soul had left no confused shadow on this mortal coil. Doc Robinson was gone. Phyllis felt tears well in her eyes. When she heard the voice behind her, she turned to glare that might have curdled milk on the shade of Billy Havis. Shame the old man didn't stick around. I bet he could see us now.

I'd love to have a chat with the old boy about my treatment plan. Would have been nice to connect with someone who actually listened to us. As he spoke, the boy in the bloody pajamas knelt down and reached out to stroke the side of Phyllis' face. She flinched away as she felt his cold fingers on her skin. Not the sensation she normally felt when she made contact with the spirit, walking into a spider web or a cold draft, this was solid, physical. Oh, God, help her, they could touch her somehow. Billy Havis let out a belly laugh at the look of shock on her face.

Around her, the cackles of Marcellus Moss, and at least a dozen others that had been ravaged and tainted by the monstrous dog rose around her. The mutilated ghosts began drifting towards her. Phil escaped at them. In a panic, she lifted her good legs. off the ground as best she could and smacked her foot down once, twice, three times, and in a quavering voice that sounded far too old to her own ears. She spoke the words that had served her so well for so long.

Y'all stay away. Get! I said, get! Exactly, are you trying to send us, Miss Phyllis? We're already home. The tainted dead of Woodhaven descended on Phyllis Moore. None of the skeleton crew that remained to see the facility close its doors happened to be standing outside at the time. There was no one to hear her scream, and none of them had any warning of what was coming. By the time the woman in room 16 woke and ventured from her bed, there were no living souls left in Woodhaven Sanatorium or on its grounds.

The great hound and its horde of corrupted dead had flushed out and slaughtered the remaining staff alongside the handful of patients that had yet to be transferred down the mountain. Daughter Dooley examined the shadowy corner of the room where she had bound the shade of Regina Fletcher and found the malevolent ghost was secure and for the moment quiet.

That sort of blood magic made for potent bindings and in her current state she doubted she could and work it if she wanted to. Glancing around at the destruction the ghost had wrought, she expected someone would be coming to check on her soon. She cocked her head to listen, but the old house stood silent around her. Unusually so.

Frowning, she opened the door and peered out into the hallway. She could smell it before it turned the corner. She'd seen its kind before. With all the death and destruction, she and the child had wrought in these past seasons, it would be a miracle if at least a few of these black-mouthed bastards hadn't followed in their wake. Feasting on the lost and wandering souls,

that type of violence often left behind. It was the shape and dimension of an unnaturally large dog, a mastiff, perhaps. She knew, of course, that it wasn't a dog at all. The human mind can only comprehend so much before it fractures altogether, and thus when it encounters things,

it cannot physically fathom, it will often interpret them through the lens of familiar shape so it can continue functioning rather than collapse under the strange. Now, there are beasts that haints walk in the world that folks could see just fine, and those were frightening enough, but most of them were of this world. The things that came from elsewhere, from the screaming void that birthed the ravenous darkness beneath the mountains, were mostly beyond mortal kin, and thus the human mind would just do its best to keep from getting eaten by something it couldn't even see properly. Mouth dog prowled down the hallway and sat down on its haunches across from her on the other side of the threshold.

Even seated, it was taller than her. The great black canine monstrosity did not growl nor show any form of aggression. Its smoldering crimson eyes met hers, and she felt it push a thought into her head that felt like a blow to the gut in its strangeness. Daughter duly glanced up to the lentil and saw the warding sigils carved above the door of room 16. The power laid down long before and carefully maintained over the years by many gifted hands, a shimmering protective barrier constructed to give the weak and the wounded a safe place to heal. I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? Say it's a juiciest piece of meat for last, did you? Figure you can kill my mortal form and wait to gobble the rest of me down once I return, do you?

The dog sighed and chuffed. Another thought pushed into her mind, bringing with it the taste of spoiled meat. The dog patted down the hall, turned the corner, and was gone. Daughter Dooley blinked. Had a dog, or at least a thing wearing the shape of a dog, just invoked the elder covenant between the green and the dark? In our experience, black-mouthed dogs didn't truck with human beings. They killed them and ate their ghost, but they didn't kill them.

communicate. They were much like the animals they manifested as. She certainly hadn't expected them to know the ancient laws, and she had to admit she was curious. She knew better than to trust something directly descended from the heart of the dark and doubted its grasp of the old packs besides, so she would have to take precautions. She knew it would hurt. It would hurt a lot. She placed her hands on the door frame and reached for the power, just as the ancient thing that clothed itself in the trappings of an old woman had once taught her to, was immediate and gut-wrenching, and it dropped her to her knees for a long moment. But once she had recovered, she rose to her feet and walked out of room 16.

At the end of the hall, she found herself in what must be the laundry room. The door at its other end led out onto the room. the main floor of the second story of the sanatorium. Three bodies slumped back to back in the middle of the common area. Their throats torn out, their white uniforms soaked with blood, and their mangled ghosts hovered nearby. Across the hall, a couple of shades and bloodied robes lingered uncertainly by the doors that must have led to their rooms.

The dog sat by this grisly tableau waiting for her. As she stepped into the common area, it rose to its feet, chuffed softly again, and headed for the stairs. One of the ghosts, a short plump woman in a nurse's uniform with half her face torn away, followed it. The dog glanced over its shoulder as if to make sure daughter Dooley was also following. And so she did. Down the stairs and out the back door it led her, the gore-stained ghosts floating along beside it like a woman taking the family dog out for its morning. constitutional. She was thankful to be spared whatever carnage might fill the first floor,

but knew that every drop of blood spilled, every soul mangled or devoured by this thing, was likely her fault. The dogs sought out the dead and dying, yes, but they also sought power. Consuming the spirits of the gifted and the green touched made them bigger and stronger. The sheer size of the thing that trotted ahead of her Told her had been dying well Caught in her throat as they approached the cemetery It was a precious little plot Surrounded by a pretty wrought iron fence

With lovely marble monuments and well-kept landscaping And a veritable army of the mangling And corrupted dead spilled out of its bounds Filling the eastern lawn of Woodhaven's handsome grounds They couldn't have all come from here surely but she knew there must be plenty of old family burial plots and lonesome wandering spirits between here and the closest town

the dog stopped and turned its smoldering eyes on her again what you brought me all the way out here to show me your kibble did you you want me to throw one of them maybe play a little fetch what are you waiting for it's either have it me and see how you do or let these folks move on it's one or t'other The black beast growled low in its throat, and another sending wormed its way inside her mind that made her feel sick to her stomach. Take.

Take what? The dog looked out over the legion of the dead, and then back to the red-headed witch. I don't understand, Beast. Daughter Dooley held up her hands in a warning gesture. And don't go shoving your filthy paws in my head again. Show me? She regretted the words instantly. The dog turned and tore into the ghost of the nurse that had followed it from the main house,

swallowing down big chunks of her screaming spectral form until it had consumed her entirely. Its eyes burned red, and its swirling black coat shimmered with twisting darkness. It pressed into her mind once again. Realization hit her harder than the stench of bad Shirley's shack. She could do it, consume all these poor souls, and fill herself to the bloody brim with dark and terrible power just like. She had been trained to use the death and suffering of others so that she could become the vessel the old black stag and his masters had wished for. Something inside her, and her face flushed with shame when she realized it felt like hunger. She had subsisted on the power of the dark

For what felt like an age She knew how it felt to be a lonely wandering God Reeking vengeance on all those who dared offend her Without thinking she shifted her arms As if to hoist a child who was not there onto her hip Daughter Dooley squeezed her eyes shut And pushed the ache away She thought of her mothers

Of all the people who'd come before that even traveled to this cursed place all those years ago, she thought of the countless good and kind people who had helped her, those who had fought alongside her for years to keep the dark at bay, and she took a deep breath to the sea and doggie grin of exultation. She walked toward the gate of the graveyard and looked into the faces of those who had been taken and twisted into some perverse banquet,

a welcome home supper held in her honor by those who sleep beneath. She cast down her eyes in shame, and they came to rest on a burlap sack that had been discarded there. Sticks of alder and ash spilling out on the ground. She knelt and rummaged around, finding several satchels of herbs, a box of matches, and a paper to light the kindling. These were the components of a spell. Had someone tried to send the dead of Woodhaven on their way? Had Phyllis done this? It didn't really matter.

She could discern the working's purpose easily enough from its components. A bonfire, with the appropriate materials, would serve as a beacon to lead lingering spirits to the other side of the veil. It was a solid option if you had a middling gift and needed to get Papal's ghost out of the attic. But this was more than somebody's lonesome forebear not wanting to leave their homestead. Daughter Dooley had a bit more than a middling gift. She felt right spry now that she'd had some rest and a couple of good meals in her. It also helped considerably she'd borrowed the power fed into the wards on the private wing, a power that welled inside her now.

This energy poured into those workings for years by green gifted practitioners over the lifetime of a place of healing and kindness. This was power intended to protect and preserve, to stand against the darkness and send it packing. She gathered up the wood, and arranged it in the proper fashion for a small bonfire, just as her mothers had taught her when she was still a child. The matches had gotten a bit damp lying outside on the ground,

but eventually they caught, and she lit the paper. To her knees with the force of its sending. No. There was no time to perform the ritual as intended, adding the various herbs slowly as to draw the spirits gently, the dog would come for her or them if she wasted any time. Instead, she scattered the herbs over the flames at once and reached out with her gift.

infusing the working with the powers she had taken from the doors of the private wing. She heard the dog's paws, racing over the grass, and knew she had run out of time. And then she felt it. As she poured out the borrowed magic from all those healed and helped by the Robinsons and their chosen family, the green rose to meet her, calling her by name. It filled her heart and her body with emerald fire, The same fire that allowed her to walk away from a bloody clearing in eastern Kentucky with a fistful of busted antler and a curse she would never escape. She called out to the dog as that power blazed bright around her.

Oi! Oi! Here, boy! Fetch! The massive dog emerged from the horde of specters, jaws open, eyes burning as the shape of an old, worn black door, materialized in the air just beyond the bonfire she had built. As she watched, the door swung inward, and the flames blazed into a tower of white, hot light, sending purifying energy out in radiating waves, sweeping the dead, the dog,

and all things that belonged on the other side of the veil through the open door. Once it swung shut, the flames died. Just a normal bonfire now. If one made particularly aromatic by the herbs used in the working, she sat. by that fire until it settled into a low smolder, staring into the dying flames and pondering what to do next. In the cemetery, a shadow move, but she was unafraid. She knew the difference between an oversized, dark-touched mongrel and an oversized green-touched bag.

There was a shuffling as four feet became two, and a handsome, dark-skinned man with a dark beard wearing an even darker suit emerged from the cemetery gate, pausing for a moment to close it behind him. Hail, sister, I... Save it, you furry-faced old fool. Why did you bring me here, Bartholomew? You needed rest, daughter of Catherine and Edith. Your walk with the child was long and the cost to bring you home was great.

You needed a place where you would be safe and we could observe. Oh, observed, did you? Watched from afar as these good people living and dead got chewed up by that bloody dog? Waited to see if I'd take its offer and go running back to my old masters, did you? We had to be sure that I was what? Still in my right mind, still on the right side. Its power is seductive, sister. It can lure the best of you into doing its foul work.

You were weathed as a weapon against the whole of the world, and it took the might of the green and the dark together to stop you. We would not have you stolen away again. Stolen away? I'm not an enchanted sword or a charmed amulet. I'm a person. A person with thoughts and dreams and wants and needs. I'm more than just the thing you bury in the ground

to stop that abomination from bringing about the end of everything. You agreed to the pact to make amends for the harm your foolish choices caused when you were a child. That's just it. I was a child. A clever child. But a child all the same, and a child mourning the deaths of her mothers beside. I was angry and sad and I wanted bloody vengeance for what had been taken from me. Where was the green then, eh? Hell, where was the green just now? People died here, Bartholomew. Good people. They took me in and they died for it. The dead asked for my help, and they died for it. The dead asked for my help, and they, And they suffered for it. Most of them didn't even know my name. And they died for what? So that you could test my loyalty.

It was necessary. So say you. And I'll tell you was necessary. Need to live my life. And I need to be alone for a while. I passed your little examination. It's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain. And let me have the years of this cycle to live free.

Go on. Leave me be. If I go, you'll return when it's time to bind the child once more? You'd better hope I do. Sister. I'll be there, you dottie, old beast. Now give me some space. Be gone.

I have a lot to think about. The sun chose that moment to emerge from behind a cloud, and daughter Dooley shaded her eyes against it. The warmth of the green washing over her body and warming her bones like the embrace of a long. absent friend. When she looked around, she was as she had requested. Well, hey there, family, there you go. We come to the end of the first story arc in season six of old gods of Appalachia long shadows. We've got more stories to tell and more miles to go. But I hope you enjoyed your time with good daughter Dooley and that doughty old bear. I truly hope you did. And hey, if daughter Dooley,

a.k.a. The Witch Queen just happens to be your favorite character. You should know that we have a handful of designs that feature her, including one with Bartholomew as well, over on our classic merch store. You can pick those up on a t-shirt, a hoodie, maybe a mug, whatever floats your particular boat, at merch.org.orgh.orgh.com. If this was your first time crossing paths with a certain albino horror and the blackmouth dogs, and for some reason you ain't scared enough,

well, you can find whole storylines featuring them over in the holler. Head on over to Old Gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler today. Hit up Build Mama a coffin for more of that hungry mother. Or listen to the full saga, them mean-mouthed critters and blackmouth dog. This is your granny wide is loose on the main feed, terrorizing everybody, so none of y'all are safe reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep nerd media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written and edited by Steve Shell and Cam Collins.

Our intro music is by Brother Land and Blood, and our outro music today is by those poor bastards. of Granny White was Betsy Puckett, and the voice of Brother Bartholomew is Dr. Ray Christian. Talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.