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- [00:02]
Cam Collins
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 ACAST 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.
- [00:31]
Ryan Seacrest
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- [02:04]
Cam Collins
Old gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. The incursions onto Chip Collins's property began the day following Vincent Albright's late night visit. That was how Chip thought of him. Incursions, no doubt engineered by the man from the cva, though it took him a while to recognize that the strange things he was seeing in the woods and around the house and the figures lurking at the edge of the trees were all connected. Improbable as it seemed it began with the garlic mustard, a pretty and innocuous looking plant with its delicate white flowers and heart shaped leaves, and one that could be easily overlooked by folks who didn't know better. But Chip had spent enough time working on his Aunt Betty's farm in his youth to understand the battle farmers faced if the stuff was allowed to get a foothold. An invasive species that had been introduced to the US to help control erosion, the those who planted it soon discovered that garlic root grew fast and spread faster, choking out native species and, of course, crops. It was even known to smother young oaks and other trees, and Betty had taught Chip to keep a wary eye out for the stuff. It was difficult to detect in the first year, growing in small clusters at ground level at this early stage it was easier to get rid of but harder to spot if it reached its second year's growth before discovery. Its long tall stalks made it easy for the wind to spread its spore far and wide, and woe to the farmer who had to contend with it then. The morning after Vincent Albright had knocked on his door, Chip rose early, as was his habit, pulled on some sweats and laced up his sneakers for a quick run. He tucked his Colt 1911 pistol into a holster he'd strapped on beneath the sweats, and while coyotes were largely nocturnal and the mating season when they were the most aggressive was thankfully past, it was. It wasn't impossible that he and Matt could run into some at an early hour, and he didn't like to take chances. Chip hated the thought of shooting one. They were they were just too much like dogs, but he had to be mindful of the safety of his animals first and foremost. He whistled to Mac and the rangy dog rose from his blanket at the foot of Chip's bed and followed him downstairs out onto the porch. He locked the door behind him and then turned a step into the yard. He instead stopped dead in his tracks. From the edge of Chip's neat and orderly front yard, rows of tall emerald plants fluttered in the morning breeze, the long delicate stalks peppered with heart shaped leaves and white blossoms. His brow furrowed in confusion. He'd cared for this land since he was a boy and he'd be goddamned if you told him there'd be 3 foot high garlic mustard growing in the yard and overnight. Garlic mustard didn't get this high till it had been left to take root and spread for at least a year. And there'd been no sign of the weed even last week. Chip's heart sank as he took in the swaths of it crowding around the edges of the yard proper from the woods. So much for today's run. He'd get plenty of exercise rooting out this infestation and more waiting on him in the future, he thought grimly as he watched the petals swaying in the breeze. It would take hard work to root out the existing plants, but that was just the start of it. Garlic mustard was a nightmare if it got out of hand. Even now, the seeds would be spreading on the wind. He'd be digging up the young clusters that grew at ground level for months. He fetched his heavy duty work gloves from the garage, along with the pruning shears and a box of thick contractor grade trash bags, and set to yanking up as much of the demonic weed as possible. As he waded into the trees and beheld the full scope of the infestation, he had to fight the sense of overwhelm that gripped his chest. There was so much of it winding through the underbrush and ringing the trees. How do you eat an elephant? Chip thought, taking a slow, calming breath the way the counselor at the VA had taught him. One bite at a time. He set his jaw and got busy, beginning with the plants encroaching on the perimeter of his yard. He worked through the day, stopping for only a quick peanut butter sandwich and a glass of iced tea from the fridge. Around lunchtime, as the late afternoon sun painted long shadows across the grass, he stopped to grab a can of Coca Cola from the fridge. He'd made some headway clearing the encroaching flora back from the edge of the yard, but there was no way to get all of it in one day. Eradicating it from the surrounding woods was gonna take time. He could hear Mac skittering around beyond the tree line, racing through the pretty new flowers to make sure nothing was hiding in them. Every now and then the dog would race by where he was working and report in getting quality head scritches for his dedicated patrol work. Chip grinned at the sound of his dopey dog having the time of his life. Despite his misery, his face fell when he heard Mac yelp in surprise. Mac, boy, you okay? What'd you get into, dummy? The sounds of light hearted play ceased and the air filled with a low, threatening growl. Chip set down his Coke and jogged into the trees, following the sound of his dog's voice. He found him circling a thick patch of garlic mustard that had ringed his way around an old oak tree, snarling at something in the dense growth. You okay, boy? Come Here, check you out. Mac did not budge. He remained fixated on a spot deep in the invasive weeds, growling with that low thunder that promised an ass whooping to whatever might be hiding in there. Chip moved to take the dog by his collar and haul him in for inspection, but paused as he got a good look at the plants surrounding them deep in the woods. Now what the hell are you supposed to be? What grew here was different from the plants closer to the house. Their stems grew taller and thicker where normal garlic mustard grew, pale green stalks with serrated emerald leaves. The stalks of these monstrosities were an unhealthy looking dark brown, and their leaves exploded outward in poisonous looking clusters of a green that verged on black, edged in almost neon orange. In lieu of white blossoms, their stalks bore shiny clusters of thorns ringed in oily looking black seed pods. The air around them was a fetid bouquet of fermented garlic mixed with rotted meat and fertilizer. It was enough to make Chip's eyes water. The leaves that held Mac's attention quivered and something darted away through the brush. Mac was off like a shot after it. Chip cursed and let out the short, sharp whistle that Mac understood meant to return to his side. Now the wolf dog drew up short and whined, looking back and forth from his dad to whatever it was he'd chased into the weeds. Here, boy, Mac, here. To Chip's relief, the dog's loyalty and training overcame his instinct and he patted back to his side. Chip knelt down and ran his hands carefully over Mac's coat, checking to see if he'd been bitten or otherwise injured. Mac bore this indignity patiently until Chip was satisfied he was unharmed. After giving Mack the command to sit and stay by his side, he turned his attention back to the strange weeds. Structurally, they seemed the same as the garlic mustard he'd yanked from the edge of his woods. Deviation in color and presentation aside, Chip tried to tear one out by the root, a simple if tedious task he'd performed hundreds of times that day. But the stem wouldn't give. He narrowed his eyes and tugged harder. The stalk bent over parallel with the ground as he pulled, but the root would not yield. With a grimace, he hunkered down and really put his back into it, digging his heels into the dirt for traction. He thought he felt it shift and began to pull free when, inexplicably, it retracted back into the earth, slamming him face first into the forest floor. Mack let out a whine and nosed at him, licking his face and giving his dad a once over of his own. Before Chip could even process what had just happened, something slithered through the underbrush and Mac darted off again. Chip didn't even try to call him back this time. Instead, he shoved himself to his feet and took off after his best friend, delving deeper into the woods he had known all his life. The further he pressed into the trees, the more alien those familiar surroundings became. The strange flame tipped garlic mustard grew taller and denser until Chip knew he wasn't going to be able to make much more progress without a machete or a hatchet. He could hear Mac barking in the near distance and pushed on towards the sound, muscling aside stalks and stems until the strange greenery gave way and he found himself in a clearing where he found the dog furiously sniffing the ground, his prey having apparently eluded him, grateful to have a break from struggling through choking weeds, and Chip slumped over, hands on his knees, stretching out his back while he caught his breath, gazing around him. As he straightened, he realized he recognized the spot where Mac had led him. A narrow path led from its west end past the edge of the trees onto what had once been Aunt Betty's cornfield. The strange plants grew up along the edges of that trail, leaving it mysteriously untouched. Chip followed the path out of the trees to find they bordered the cornfield in the same fashion, leaving a ghostly impression of the old farm. For a moment he just stared at it, dumbfounded. The hateful plants were overrunning his land, but they seemed to be unable to find purchase in the rich soil that his aunt and her family had worked long and diligently for so many decades, according to the old ways. On the other side of the field, against the far edge of the woods where they circled back around, stood the old barn where Betty Collins had housed her plow and tiller. The structure had been built by his grandfather and his half brother, Kevin, and while it wasn't used for much more than storing a few shovels and buckets these days, Chip had kept it clean and tidy out of respect for the folks who came before. It was a solemn reminder of a time when the only work to be had was on the land under your feet. Had the damn garlic mustard spread all the way around to the backwoods? He wondered as he walked slowly across the field, his dog at his heels. A shadow flickered at one corner of the barn and Mac barked, going tense at his side. Chip squinted. Something seemed to wriggle, almost slithering alongside of the structure. The dog let out another bark and charged ahead. Mack no Leave it. Chip thundered after the dog, grateful for all the time he'd put in running over the past few years on the advice of his doctor. Up ahead he could see his dog snapping and snarling at something around the corner of the barn. Mac, leave it. The gray and black dog let out a surprised yelp and Chip felt his heart leap into his chest, afraid that he might have been bitten by some critter. Mac was up to date on all his shots, so he didn't really fear rabies, but infection could easily set up in a bite. He was not prepared, however, for the sight that greeted him as he rounded the corner of the old structure. His dog, stiff legged and growling deep low in his chest, the fur rippling up his spine, faced off with a thick, writhing tentacle, nothing other than kudzu, though it was like no other example of its kind Chip had ever seen. His vines were three fingers thick and of a green so deep it bordered on black, and the hairs that sprouted along its length with the same poisonous orange color he had noticed on the clusters of garlic mustard. Its heart shaped leaves were unnaturally large and edged in that same orange, as if the invasive plant had some sort of infection and it was moving. He could see the stuff growing, its vines spreading over the outer wall of the barn. Anytime Mac approached it, a thick tendril would whip away from the main body of its growth, lashing at the dog as if it knew it had to defend itself from an attacker. The dog let out a vicious snarl, prepared to lunge again. A chip caught hold of his collar, pulled him away from the spreading contagion and none too soon. Kudzu is known for the speed with which it spreads, nicknamed mile a minute and the vine that Ate the South by frustrated farmers for generations. Chip had watched Aunt Betty fight the stuff a time or two in his youth, but this was beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined in his worst nightmares. As he watched in dumbstruck horror, the impossible growth spread up the walls and over the roof, the structure beneath disappearing in a heavy curtain of green and toxic orange. It seemed almost as if the kudzu took a deep breath, its leaves trembling in the breeze as it consumed the old barn and began to squeeze. Wood groaned and metal screamed, and Chip Collins pulled the leash he always tucked into his pocket as a precaution on his morning runs, and clipped it to his dog's collar as the entire structure collapsed, born to the ground under the writhing power of those unnatural vines. Without a second thought, Chip tugged on the leash and started running. The dog followed him without question, rapidly pulling ahead until he was all but dragging his dad through the woods as they raced for the dubious safety of the house. When the walls close in and the light gets swallowed and there ain't place that feels like home the ones you love concerning to strangers and you cast your eyes through the winding road Keep your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward Clear your heart and mind best leave them ghosts behind. When the hearth grows cold and home is nowhere Then you might as well when darkness calls, run like hell. Behind four walls and a sturdy door secured with a deadbolt, Chip took a moment to regroup. He ran his hands carefully over Mac's fur, checking for injuries, but the dog was unscathed. The yelp he had let out must have been more from surprise than any actual harm done. He topped his boy's water bowl off and downed a glass himself before heading upstairs to clean up in the shower. He went over the day's events in his head, his mind struggling to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Whatever was happening was outside of his understanding of how the natural world worked. Garlic mustard and even kudzu simply could not spread so fast, let alone perceptibly grow as he watched it and lash out at his dog. And yet he had seen it. He had spent the better part of the day ripping out the garlic mustard but had made little progress, and if the kudzu was any example, he doubted he would be able to eradicate it by simply rooting it out. As much as he hated the idea, the situation warranted a more drastic approach. After his shower, Chip dressed again and headed out to the tool shed in his backyard, where he stored items best kept away from the garage or any structure attached to the house, such as the industrial grade flamethrower he occasionally used to clear particularly dense and difficult brush. He pulled on safety goggles and a pair of heavy flame retardant gloves and headed back out into the woods. He attacked the kudzu first, considering it the greater threat given what he'd witnessed earlier. He blasted the vine blanketed remains of the old barn with a jet of flame, following the hateful vine across the property and back to its source, at least as far as he was able. He was not surprised to find that the mutant weed originated on the opposite side of the fence that bordered his land. What lay beyond, of course, belonged to the Cumberland Valley Authority. Chip leaned over the fence and burned as much of it as he could without actually setting foot on CVA property, then set about scouring the rest of the acreage for other signs of it or of the garlic mustard. It was strange, he thought, how both seemed to skirt the edges of the fields where he had once helped Aunt Betty plant crops, following the signs according to the old ways as her mama taught her. Who would have been Chip's mama? June, though she had died before he was born. It would take some time for the land to rebound from the devastation he was currently unleashing on the invasive flora, but perhaps he could plant anew in those old fields and help speed its recovery. As the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows stretched long across the grass growing thick beneath the canopy of trees, Chip turned back toward the house. It was growing too dark to know for certain what he was unleashing the flamethrower on, so common sense and safety demanded he pack it in for the night. He hoped whatever sprouts he might have missed didn't gain too strong a foothold while he and Mac slept. He took another shower, washing off the sweat and grime that accompanied wielding the powerful torch, and fed Mac from the big plastic mini Alpo that he kept secured in the pantry, safe from the wiles of clever dogs who might enjoy an extra unsanctioned snack. He pulled a can of Natty Lot from the fridge and popped a TV dinner in the oven for himself, and he ate it appropriately while watching the news in his favorite chair in the den. He had cracked open another beer and was just settling in to watch the Dukes of Hazzard when the sound first came to him, an odd buzzing noise. At first he thought some sort of insect must have gotten in the house, a bee or a fly, and he stood up and flipped on the overhead light, searching for the source of the insistent, but could find no sign of anything. The noise grew louder, and Chip realized it was coming not from within the house but from outside. Mac rose from his position on the rug by Chip's recliner and began to growl. Chip turned the overheads back off and went to the front door, peering for the darkened window on its right side as his hand reached for the switch that controlled the port line. Illumination flooded the porch and he stumbled back in shock as much from what he could not see as what he could. Flies covered the glass, an oil slick black curtain of writhing bodies so thick he couldn't see beyond them to determine what, if anything, else might be outside. Their buzzing filled his ears, and he almost imagined he could hear their tiny limbs tapping on the surface of their windows as they crawled over its surface. Chip shuddered in revulsion his hand slapping at the light switch as he backed away from the door. Disgusted as he was and as little as he wanted to see this, he walked around the house carefully checking every window, both to determine whether this strange phenomenon affected only his porch. It didn't, and to ensure that all his doors and windows were shut tight, which they were. Mac followed close at his heels during this inspection, the ruff of fur on the back of his neck rippling every now and then. He let out a low, menacing growl, and Chip could see the tension in his posture, but he didn't bark. The inspection complete, Chip returned to his recliner, the dog settling back down in his customary spot on the rug, watchful and alert. Reaching for the remote control, he turned the volume up on Bo and Luke's antics to drown out the unceasing buzz. Though he found it hard to concentrate on the show, his eyes strained constantly to the curtain window to his left, though his nerves were thrumming raw with anxiety. Nevertheless, at some point Chip must have dozed off, exhausted by the work and stress of what had turned into a very long day. When he startled awake, the local television news anchors were signing off, advising him to stay tuned for the CBS late movie. A glance of the clock mounted on the wall behind the TV told him it was 11:30. At its feet, Mac let out a growl. Chip used the remote to turn down the volume, his ears straining for that droning hum that had filled the air earlier. It was either gone or he had grown so accustomed to it that he was having trouble identifying it now. Reluctantly, he turned to the window by the door and drew back the curtain. The flies were gone. Through the now blessedly clear glass, he could see the vague outline of a pair of tulip poplars in the front yard, silhouetted in the moonlight. Chip slumped in relief. He wasn't a particularly squeamish man, but flies had creeped him out ever since he saw the Exorcist, and whatever was going on out there tonight had been pure nightmare fuel. He gave an involuntary shudder at the thought and drew the sheer privacy curtains back into place. He double checked the locks on the door, then proceeded into the kitchen for a glass of water. He wasn't sure what had awakened him, but it was time for bed. He had another long day ahead of him. There was little doubt of that. He poured his usual glass of water to take to bed, then went to double check that this door, too, was locked. Just as his hand touched the knob, something slammed in the door from the outside, rattling in its frame. Mac raced to his side barking furiously. What the fuck? Heavy footsteps clattered down the back steps, and a high pitched cackling noise rose on the night air beyond the door. It sounded bizarrely similar to footage he had seen in nature documentaries of hyenas, but it wasn't quite like that. There was a certain piercing register to it that even those strange critters didn't quite reach, but it was the closest comparison that came to mind. At Chip's side, Mac snarled. Above them, the upstairs floorboards rattled as something, something big from the sound of it, landed on the roof. His heart and his throat. Chip ran upstairs to verify its structural integrity. What even was that? But everything appeared intact. At his side, Mac barked furiously at what were clearly a series of scuttling steps that thundered across the roof above their heads. Thinking of the windows to either side of the front door, would they hold against such an onslaught? Chip raced downstairs to the gun safe tucked in the corner of the hall closet. Chip pulled an M1 Garand, a weapon he had become proficient with during his time in the army, from the safe, double checking that it was loaded and the safety on. Something slammed at the front door. Glass rattled, but it didn't break. Not yet, anyway. Heavy footsteps scuttled across the porch, claws skittering as if something like a raccoon or opossum the size of a St. Bernard were racing across the wooden planks, and whatever it was hurled itself at the door again. The frame groaned. From the kitchen, he heard the phone began to ring. Keeping his eye on the front door for as long as possible, he backed towards it, his hand reaching blindly for the spot where it hung on the wall, the long cord drag over the floor as he pulled it back with him into the den where he could watch the door outside. Whatever was out there continued its assault. Hey there, Rog. Chip was not surprised to hear Vincent Albright's oily, gratingly chipper voice when he raised the phone to his ear. How's your night going? I spect you already know. What do you want, Mr. Albright? Oh, I just thought you might be able to make time for that little chat I mentioned. Say, first thing tomorrow morning? Chip's thoughts raced. Tomorrow morning would be too soon. He needed time to prepare. Gritting his teeth, he forced his voice to a steady, polite register, a necessity he had perfected both over his years in the military and his time working with the public for the Department of Social Services. I have to work in the morning, Mr. Albright. Would tomorrow evening work for you? Why, that would be Fine. I'll even pick up dinner. And please, Rog, do call me Vince. Sure. I'll see you then, Vince. I look forward to it. There was a soft click as Albright hung up the phone. The house fell silent, though Mac continued to growl his furrow standing up down the length of his back. Chip walked quietly to the front door in his sock, feet avoiding the spots in the floor he knew were prone to creak, and peered around the edge of the curtain. Seeing nothing from that vantage, he flipped on the porch light and drew the curtain aside. The porch was empty. Mac let out a whine and Chip shushed him, listening intently. Nothing. Shouldering his rifle, he turned off the light, drew the deadbolt, and turned the lock on the doorknob, easing the door open to step cautiously onto the darkened porch. The Garand was equipped with a flashlight mounted on its barrel should he need it, but for the moment he preferred not to make himself such an easy target. He peered into the shadows surrounding the house, seeing nothing. With careful steps he made a circuit of the house, searching for any sign of whatever the hell had attacked it and surveying the doors for any damage. He saw no one and nothing. The house appeared secure. Finally, he retreated inside, locking the door behind him. Come on, Mac. The rangy dog followed him upstairs to his bedroom. Settling onto the comfortable cushion at the foot of the bed where he spent his nights still grumbling anxiously, Chip leaned the rifle against the wall by his nightstand, where it would be close at hand should the need arise, though he didn't think it would. That wouldn't satisfy a man like Vincent Albright. No, he wanted the pleasure of wearing chips down, of turning the screws until he agreed to sell. He was a closer, as he said, he prided himself on closing the sale, on getting his way. Well, then, pride goeth before a fall, as his Aunt Betty used to say. Chip was up before the sun the next morning. He was not on shift today, as he had told the CVA lawyer, but he did have a few errands to run. He first paid a visit to an old friend whom he knew to be an especially early riser, a habit like so many of Chip's own that he had picked up on during his time in the military. Joseph Archibald Pierce was the proprietor of Joe's Surplus and Sundries, the army surplus store out on Route 60 near the county line. While its shelves were stocked with the usual array of goods one came to expect from such an establishment field jackets and duffel bags, combat boots and hunting knives, not to mention all manner of quality camping equipment. Chip knew that for a price, Joe could provide certain other items that were a trifle harder to acquire. Joe had what Chip needed and then some. He'd anticipated swinging by Mavisdale Hardware in town once the store opened, but as it turned out, that would be unnecessary. And wasn't that a stroke of luck? He was home before the first rays of morning sunshine kissed the mountains with shades of pink and gold. Chip unloaded his supplies in the garage and went into the kitchen to feed Mac and Clementine their breakfast. He let the dog out to do his business and locked both of them in the house. Ms. Clem could avail herself of the litter box today. He had work to do, and they would both be safer inside. It was another long, hot day of backbreaking outdoor labor, but by the time the sun began to sink below the treeline once again, Chip had showered and dressed in black canvas pants, a black long sleeve tee, and his trusty old combat boots. From his gun Safe he pulled a 9 millimeter AR15 with a sling attached, a rifle favored by many veterans as it was based on the same platform as the M16s they'd carried into combat and was thus both reliable and familiar. He loaded extra magazines into a sturdy tactical backpack he picked up at Joe's that morning and secured his favorite pistol, a Browning High Power, in a holster at his waist. As a backup, he tucked his Colt M1911 into a shoulder rig. He pulled on a pair of gloves and a lightweight black balaclava, slung the AR over one shoulder and the backpack over the other and let himself quietly out the kitchen door. Mac whined in protest at being left behind, but Chip was firm. The dog would be safer inside. He circled around the side of the house, blending into the shadows cast by Aunt Betty's rhododendrons and other shrubs, and scaled one of the old tulip poplars at the edge of the driveway. From this vantage point he could see the front porch bathed in warm, welcoming light as well as a long stretch of the drive. Positioning himself so that he was both as secure and as comfortable as possible, he settled in to wait. The first explosion came, unsurprisingly, from the woods at the southern end of the property, the same direction in which the Collins land bordered that which had been acquired over the decades by hook or by crook, by the cva. Inside the house, Mac began to bark. Chip held his position, pulling a pair of binoculars equipped with night vision from his backpack. A minute or two later, a second blast echoed up the drive from the north. He was not surprised to hear subsequent detonations from the east and west. Chip scanned the shadows with the binoculars, searching for any sign of movement for a few moments. Seeing nothing, he shinnied down the tree and headed into the woods behind the house. Let's see who's come to dinner. It laid a series of traps near Chaplain's Creek, where he'd first encountered the strange man from the cva. They were, in essence, pit traps rigged with stun grenades, commonly referred to as flashbangs, situated far enough from the fence line that it was indisputable. Anyone unfortunate enough to encounter them was certainly an intruder. Chip had walked the property line early that morning, ensuring that the no Trespassing signs posted every few yards on his side of the fence were still present and intact. They weren't intended to kill, though in a confined space, the flashbangs would certainly incapacitate anyone unlucky enough to fall into the traps. Chip's backpack held, among other things, a medical kit containing a proper field tourniquet and other supplies he might need to patch up some thug brought in by Vince Albright to coerce him into signing over his aunt's land. What he found when he reached the site of the first explosion was not that. When he pulled a flashlight from his pack and cast its light over the sunken pit maybe 50 yards from the creek, he came. He couldn't quite make sense of what the hell he was seeing at first. There were what appeared to be bones for sure, or pieces of them, at any rate. One long section looked to be part of a femur here. There was a dome piece that might have been a skull fragment, but that didn't seem right. The charges he'd used should not have been strong enough to tear a body apart this way. The bones themselves didn't look right either. Chip was no doctor. Hell, he only knew a little first aid he'd learned in the field. But these bones looked. Oh, they were yellow and brittle and pitted in places. There was also no sign of the blood, which frankly, should have painted the dirt if one of his traps had managed to blow some poor bastard to smithereen. There was more of that noxious black sludge he had seen the first time he encountered Vincent Albright. The smell rising off it was like some unholy combination of tar and the portable toilets you might find at an outdoor festival, and in that tarry substance, something white rippled like maggots. Chip felt his gorge rise, and he clicked off the flashlight, backing away. Whatever this was There was clearly no one here. He needed to summon medical aid for creeping carefully and quietly through the woods. Using his night vision specs to avoid the other traps he had set out that day, he made his way around to the other areas where they had been triggered. He found nothing but bones and stinking black ichor writhing with insects. Insects, he noted, watching them struggle helplessly in the dirt, attempting to drag themselves south towards CVA land that were clearly dying. Chip was circling back around, skirting the edge of the treeline, following the path of his driveway, when he heard a cacophonous from the direction of his house. Glass shattered and Mac's furious barking rose on the night air. Someone screamed. Abandoning his backpack, Chip gripped his rifle and ran for the driveway. Sprinting down the narrow gravel lane toward home, he found the man from the CVA sprawled across his front porch steps, two slabs of seemingly ancient stone onto which had been carved the same sorts of sigils that adorned stones marking the four corners of the family property, placed there long ago by his grandmother, June Norris Gilbert Collins, according to Aunt Betty. Cursing furiously, Albright was buried beneath another 300 pounds of rock dredged up from Chaplin's Creek that Chip had rigged up in a deadfall trap. That morning the front door stood open, the windows to either side blown out by the impact or by something Albright had done himself. Mac stood in the doorway, blocking the entry, teeth snapping just shy of the man's nose where he lay prone. Oily black sludge reeking of decay oozed from beneath the rubble. Evening pants. Rog. So good of you to join me for our appointment. Vincent Albright spat out a mouthful of stinking black fluid. Something writhed in it like larva. Beneath the surface of his cheek, Chip could see something long and thin, like a worm or a centipede, crawling. A moment later, he watched as it writhed over the surface of the man's eye, disappearing under his eyelid. Chip swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. I could use a little help here, Rog. I can make it worth your while. Oh, yes. I can make you a very, very sweet deal in me. Doesn't look to me like you're in any position to be offering anybody a goddamn thing, Vince. Chip raised his rifle to his shoulder, peering down the side of the struggling thing, bleeding out black on his porch. Rog, what are you doing? You don't. You don't want to do this. I'm a very important man at the cpa. You'll only bring more troubles for yourself, Raj. Please, nobody calls me Raj, boy. My name is Chip. Chip's finger tightened on the trigger and he put the thing writhing on his porch, an avatar of the swarm that had hollowed out the skin of a young man named Vincent Albright and made him part of its hive out of its misery. The next morning was a Sunday, though there would be no rest for Chip Collins. There was, after all, more work to do. With bucket and shovel and the flamethrower in his tool shed, he erased what remained of Vince Albright and the other things sent onto his property by the Cumberland Valley Authority. He searched for more of the garlic mustard and the strange mutant kudzu vine that had destroyed the old barn by what had once been the cornfield, but could find no trace of it. He had felt sure it would take time to root out the last of the invasive species and he would keep a weather eye out, but for now it appeared to have been eradicated by the first scorching. In the afternoon he drove into town to buy a new door and some plywood to board up the windows till he could get the glass replaced, and that evening met his old friend Gary Jesse at Jocko's for a burger and a few beers. Maybe a shot or two. Or something stronger. You. You heard any more from that dude in the cva, Vinnie whatever his name was? No. Last time I spoke to him, I made it pretty clear I'm not interested in selling. I don't expect I'll be hearing from him again. Gary chuckled. So what you're saying is you cussed the man out? Who, me? When have you ever known me to be anything less than polite? I am a gentleman of manner, sir. Gary Jesse hooted with laughter. You keep telling yourself that, bud. Maybe one day it'll even be true. Chip signaled the bartender for another round of shots, and the two of them clinked glasses and knocked the tequila back. The liquor burned all the way down. Maybe if he drank enough of it, Chip mused, he could burn away the memory of the things he had seen the night before. On Monday, a letter appeared in his mailbox, mixed in with the light bill and usual stack of ads, circulars, and catalogs. The return address was a local P.O. box, and the smooth heavyweight stationary within featured the logo of the cva. Its message was brief and to the point. Any and all previously tendered offers from the Cumberland Valley Authority to purchase the property found at the location to which the letter was addressed were hereby rescinded. No reply was necessary. Well, hey there, family. How's that for wrapping up the penultimate arc of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia. Run like hell. You think old Swarmy would know better than to keep trying those thresholds protected by the blood of Walker women, now wouldn't you? Let's give it up for Cam Collins for taking us back to Mavisdale where the women are strong, the land is corrupted and the children are probably cursed. So don't go buying any of that fundraising chocolate from them. Family, this does bring us to the home stretch of season five. Our next episode kicks off a brand new story arc in a brand new time, but once again in some very familiar places. We hope y' all will join us as we put this season to bed. And this is your y' all had to ask what was worse than evil pumpkins 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 produced by Cam Collins and Steve Shell. Our theme song is by brother Landon Blood and our outro music Stone's Throw is by John Charles Dwyer. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. To Be Good I'm not sure if I need a smaller heart or thicker skin? Cause I'm tearing apart I've choked down so much blood to make myself worth it that I don't know the difference in hunger and purpose anymore? So I'm finding myself outside at midnight with all the same questions that I've carried my whole life and I lost how I get here but always know I always know My stones throw to the window the person I'm trying to be I'm trying to be I'm trying to be I'm trying to be good I'm trying to be I'm trying to be I'm trying to be good? Oh, all that I want is to fade with grace.