Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast

and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So listener discretion is advised.

Thank you. So listener discretion is advised. Oh, Appalachia, we have heard your call, have felt it pull on our heartstrings and tug at our innards anytime we might think of moving away.

We have felt your breath on the back of our necks when we dare wonder what else is out there, and if indeed the grass might be greener there oh Appalachia how quick is your

hand to correct an errant child to blister a backside if we stray from the five

miles to work two miles to church and back routine that was good enough for them

that come before us oh Appalia, the voice of a mother is that of a jealous God at times.

She wants what is best for us, holds us close to her loving bosom so that we can only breathe when she breathes.

Our heart is allowed to beat only because it is in time with hers.

Oh, mother, can't you see that after a lifetime of eating at the same table,

praying at the same altar, hearing the same stories about how things used to be,

and how they were so much better back then.

We can't help but strain our necks to get a look at that wind and blacktop beast

that eventually becomes one with the pounded heart of the highway.

And if we stay, then we've been seduced by that siren serenade as surely as if she stood on our shoulders, whispering that home is where the heart is, while she holds hours clutched, bleeding in her talons.

Oh, Appalachia, you tell us that the road that leads from this place, all asphalt and yellow lines

paved and maintained by the county can only bear us to damnation, but the road that carries

us home, well, blessed be, that well-worn path,

that holy back road, that marriage of gravel and cold earth that calls us back again and again

whether we mean it to or not.

Oh, Appalachia, do you not see that they are one and the same?

...