Rusty 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 advised.

Oh Appalachia, mother and maw that births and devours us, roots some deep and winding as gnarled hands clasped in prayer,

hold us fast and give us foundation, oh noted cage and vine rot chains, oh feast of hills and green,

that which feeds our hearts, but often stars our blood.

Hear us now.

We stand atop your crown this day and we see you, oh mother, we see your bent joints and busted sinew,

hips shifted from birth forever changed in the giving of life.

We mark these new shapes born from blasted pine and the churned earth of an open grave,

a temple reconstructed in burnt nettles and alter formed by will and bone.

We inhale the grease and death of the minds, the hot steel and empty promise of the railroad,

and we listen to the lies that they tell these agents of the inner dark,

these outsiders, these night heart shapes that would reach into the breached and ruined gate of us

and plant their vile seed teach our babies from birth that they are only as good as the blood and sweat

that can be rung from them that their dreams are not more than brittle branches before the furnace of industry and work,

oh mother, we beg your mercy.

Keep her prey and find a way to heal the broken heart of our land,

oh grove and barons, close around them and missly them, make them understand the true meaning of lost.

Sunless hungry soil, oh sleeping chasm, oh empty, empty belly, be still, be filled, oh, apalachia.

Catch sea, we've come home.

Come with us in so I'm alone, no time to rest these weary balls,

...