Rosti Quill presents

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast,

and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So, listen to discretion.

Is it wise?

Frank Tilly was not a nice man, nor one beloved by his community.

What he was was a man who could be counted on to get you something to wet your whistle.

At a time when such things were both scarce and risky to come by.

Frank wasn't a moon shiner himself.

He had no patience for the care and attention to detail that making good shine required,

but through his work in the local yard of Locke Rail.

He had made a number of connections with the bootleggers up north

who were only too happy to pay for properly distilled spirits.

Those that were not likely to make you go blind or even kill you as the bathtub gin and other liquor is made by amateurs

looking to cash in on the black market created by that unfortunate amendment passed in 1920 had been known to do.

Quite a few of the men and women of Appalachia had learnt the fine art of distilling at the granddaddy or Memo's knee,

just as they had learnt from theirs.

They went to generations back, all the way back to their ancestors in Ireland, Scotland or other such far-flung places.

Frank was the man who brought the fruits of their labor to a market only too eager to pay a premium for good spirits.

About half the folks in Baker's gap tolerated Frank because he was useful and other half because they was scared of him.

Frank was a big man.

Had to be six foot four in his boots at least, and meaner than a copperhead with his tail tied to knot,

...