Rusty Quill presents

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast,

and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So listen discretion is advised.

You might not have noticed him if you saw him ambling the town on that first day.

You might have seen the rolled up shirt sleeves and simple brown workpants and simpler black suspenders holding them up

and dismissed the slightly dirty face you'd seen a thousand times over in the crowds of workers making their way through the booms and busts of Appalachian cold towns.

Maybe he took your ticket as you boarded a train.

Or let you hitch a ride on his timber truck.

He was probably the one you lost to at cards and that backwards moonshine or shack you never could find your way back to.

On occasion he was the bartender who served you that one shot too many but you blamed for all your troubles.

He was anyone and he was everyone.

He was ever faced, you'd ever forget but his name was one you'd always remember.

Always family, trust that.

And he'd always wanted to come here to this diamond and the rough wedged in between kissing cousins of a state line, paradise.

A city split down the middle between the Commonwealth of Virginia and the state of Tennessee.

It was a bustling town in the early winter of 1928.

The railroads that brought industry, progress, even tourism to this liminal community whose beautiful new train station was fast becoming a hub for both shipping and travelers.

The previous summer had seen the recording of a number of hit records by young musicians pioneering a new style of music that was becoming mighty popular with folks earbows.

They just called it country.

And although prohibition may have officially closed the doors of paradise as many saloons, it had spawned a number of swanky speakeasies and put money in many pockets from the bootleggers who passed their goods through town.

The little city was just filled with a sense of excitement like it was right on the cusp of something big.

...