Episode 95: The Second Death

Summary

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Old Gods of Appalachia – Episode 95: "The Second Death"

Release Date: March 12, 2026
Host/Production: DeepNerd Media / Rusty Quill

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Episode Overview

In "The Second Death," Old Gods of Appalachia plunges once more into the shadow-filled 1928 mountains of North Carolina. This episode explores the troubled grounds of Woodhaven Sanatorium where Daughter Dooley—a witch with a family legacy—finds herself surrounded by restless spirits pleading for help. Something unnatural stalks the sanatorium’s dead, and the episode weaves chilling hauntings, Appalachian folklore, dark magic, and a fresh threat that tears at the very fabric between the living and the dead.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Daughter Dooley and the Spirits of Woodhaven

• Daughter Dooley’s Background:
  Raised among witches, Daughter Dooley is familiar with ghosts and spectral presences. She’s comfortable around spirits, distinguishing “confused” or “frustrated” ghosts from the dangerously “snared by the dark” (03:15).

• Initial Ghostly Encounter (03:15 – 10:33):

  • Three spirits manifest in her room:
    • William Harrison “Billy” Havis (polite young man in silk pajamas, monogrammed “H” over his heart)
    • Ms. Regina Fletcher (a dignified woman in black funeral attire)
    • Marcellus Moss (older, jovial man with bushy sideburns)
  • Billy requests Dooley’s help, hinting at a threat to the spirits’ continued existence.

• Phyllis Moore Interruption (10:33 – 12:09):
  Nurse Phyllis enters, scolding the ghosts and using her power to banish them. The relationship between the living staff and the haunting dead is tense, with Phyllis acting as a stern “school marm.”

2. The Witch’s Education and Philosophy of the Dead

• Dream with Bad Shirley (13:03 – 19:34):
  • Dooley dreams of lessons from her brutal mentor, Bad Shirley, in a shack teeming with ominous cats.
  • Bad Shirley on the Dead’s Power:
    “There’s power in the dead, girl. Not just in death, but in the dead themselves. Write that down in your little book there.” (14:14)
  • Grim Magical Instruction:
    Shirley schools Dooley on extracting power from bones, marrow, and even the “essence” of the departed.
    “You must use proper implements and methods. You do it wrong, you'll end up with a cold and rotted mess that's neither useful nor appetizin’. Do it right... you'll have materials for working that are potent beyond your imagining, girl.” (15:23)
  • Shirley dismisses the idea of souls, treating people as “parts” to be “repurposed” (17:11).

3. The Ghosts’ Plight and Supernatural Threats

• Billy Returns for Help (19:40 – 21:01):

  • Billy explains that something is “killing” the ghosts—a fate worse than being forced to move on to the beyond.
    • “Something is killing us, ma’am. Something has eaten us. To be precise, so far it’s been unable to reach us within the building. But if we try to visit our graves...we’re fair game.” (21:02)

• Sanatorium Wards & Protections:

  • Dooley and Billy discuss the layered magical protections around the building, with the outermost (around the cemetery) being weakest—the source of catastrophe.

• Attack Details and Losses:

  • New ghost Regina Fletcher reportedly witnessed the attack: a monstrous “beast with a vast gaping maw filled with endless void”—devouring a ghost-child named Timothy in the cemetery (around 23:30–24:40).

• Personal Histories and Grief:

  • Billy reflects bitterly on family abandonment and the impersonal disposal of loved ones in the sanatorium cemetery, giving the story emotional resonance.

4. Descent into Dread: Dr. Robinson and the Cemetery

• Dr. David Robinson’s Perspective (32:01 – 36:53):

  • Robinson, a healer by heritage, treks to the cemetery to perform a “polite” ritual meant to encourage spirits to move on, in response to staff complaints about hauntings.
  • Carefully detailed account of the cemetery as a place where locals, as well as abandoned wealthy patients, are interred.

• Supernatural Confrontation:

  • Encounter with the Beast (35:08 – 36:53):
    • Dr. Robinson sees what he thinks is a large stray dog, only to realize it is a monstrous, otherworldly creature:

      “Big didn’t begin to describe this dog. Its muzzle was the size of a grown man’s head, and the body attached to it was equally immense...Its massive chest vibrated as the beast bared its teeth, a wall of ch. Jagged bone dripping a foul ichor...” (35:08–36:35)

    • The beast attacks him—leaving his fate uncertain.

5. Prophecy, Atmosphere, and Foreshadowing

• Bad Shirley’s Chilling Rhyme (36:53 – 37:47):

  • “In the black. I see another witch running. It’s a black dog that she smelled coming...Child, cry for your mother. Oh God, tell the hunger, witch run now for deep green and cover.”
    (36:53)

• Building toward Season Finale:

  • The episode closes by foreshadowing the “final episode for the first arc of season six: Long Shadows,” with references to previous tales—especially the “Blackmouth Dog”—and teases of high stakes for Daughter Dooley and the spirits of Woodhaven.

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

“There’s power in the dead, girl. Not just in death, but in the dead themselves. Write that down in your little book there.”
— Bad Shirley (14:14)

“Something is killing us, ma’am. Something has eaten us. To be precise, so far it’s been unable to reach us within the building. But if we try to visit our graves...we’re fair game.”
— William “Billy” Havis (21:02)

“Big didn’t begin to describe this dog...Its massive chest vibrated as the beast bared its teeth, a wall of ch. Jagged bone dripping a foul ichor...”
— Narration (35:08–36:35)

“In the black. I see another witch running. It’s a black dog that she smelled coming...”
— Bad Shirley, prophetic verse (36:53)

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Important Timestamps

| Timestamp | Segment/Topic | |-----------|--------------------------------------------------------------------| | 03:15 | Dooley encounters the ghosts; introduction to their personalities | | 10:33 | Phyllis Moore banishes the ghosts; poignant kitchen table moment | | 13:03 | Dream sequence: Dooley in Bad Shirley’s shack | | 14:14 | Shirley’s lesson on death’s magical power | | 21:02 | Billy describes the existential threat to the ghosts | | 32:01 | Dr. Robinson’s approach to the cemetery | | 35:08 | Dr. Robinson’s first glimpse of the monstrous “dog” | | 36:53 | Bad Shirley’s prophetic rhyme and dark closing | | 37:47 | Outro – season finale foreshadowing and note for Holler subscribers|

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Episode Tone & Atmosphere

True to the series, the language is lyrical, rich with Appalachian cadence, and carries the weight of burial soil and mountain secrets. The horror here is understated yet suffocating, rooted in heartbreak as much as otherworldly terror. The episode balances familial tenderness (the ghosts, Dooley’s memories) with brutal lessons from past witches and the spectral threat itself.

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Conclusion & Forward Look

"Second Death" blends haunting character studies, Appalachian supernaturalism, and the terrifying spectral (and corporeal) dangers that gnaw away at the edges of Woodhaven. As the boundary between living, dead, and “what comes after” grows thin, Dooley must find the strength (despite her frailty) to save the spirits from utter oblivion. All threads pull toward a final, fateful confrontation—leaving listeners hanging in dread and anticipation for the arc’s conclusion.

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For more on Blackmouth Dog, Build Mama a Coffin, and additional exclusive tales, visit Old Gods of Appalachia: The Holler.

Transcript

[Daughter Dooley]

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.

[Darina]

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[Daughter Dooley]

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. And the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them, and they were judged every man according to their works, and death and hell were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death Revelations, chapter 20, verses 13 through 14. She had seen ghosts before. Growing up in the company of her mother's, contact with spirits hadn't been uncommon, so when the dead of Woodhaven Sanatorium came calling, she was not afraid. She knew both from their lessons and her own experiences that most ghosts meant no harm. Usually the very worst of them were simply confused or frustrated with their current state of being. From time to time she had encountered ghosts that got tangled up or turned in on themselves so that they grew into something more dangerous. Once in a blue moon, she'd run across one of the dearly departed that had been ensnared by the dark, and that was a whole other situation entirely. Tonight she sensed none of those things. The three hazy figures that emerged from the darkness of her chamber seemed more curious and timid than anything else. For the moment, they were merely shifting vaguely, people shaped shadows drifting into visibility. She didn't know if that was the best manifestation they could manage, so she cleared her throat and spoke warmly and gently to the entities hovering by the foot of her bed. Hail spirits, I see you and thank you kindly for allowing me to share your space. I mean you no harm. I have come only seeking shelter and rest, and I am sorry for any disturbance my presence may have caused you. I am happy to speak with you if you wish, so long as ye speak peaceful and true. That fluttering sorceress came again, and she caught the faint scent of iron as the three figures came more clearly into focus. An older man and a middle aged woman stood at the bottom corners of her narrow bed. The man was Natalie, attired in a suit, and his plump, gregarious face was framed by bushy sideburns, the hair on his face apparently compensating for its complete absence atop his head. The woman stood straight back in a black funerary gown, her hands clasped in front of her, a gesture that struck Daughter Dooley as a bit nervous. The lines on her face spoke of years of hard work and responsibility. She had the air of somebody who probably raised a whole pack of children while working two jobs and tending a garden. Besides, she called to mind every eldest daughter the red haired witch had ever known. The third spirit between the other two took a moment to materialize, eventually resolving into the shape of a young man of perhaps twenty years. His face was stubbly and his head was topped with a thick, unruly mop of dark brown hair. His clothing resembled something like fancy silk pajamas, giving him the look of a bachelor on holiday. The letter H had been monogrammed onto a single pocket over his heart. The specter placed a hand over that embroidery and inclined his head politely. Hail, Witch. I mean, if you are a witch. I mean no offense, but the people Ms. Marjorie tucks away behind the laundry room are usually something like that. I am terribly sorry if I've misspoken, Daughter Dooley smiled to herself, almost impressed. A ghost with manners was a pleasant change. You speak true, spirit. A witch I am. Was it you that came rattling and poking about when Miss Phyllis brought me my water? It was, ma'. Am. We did not intend to frighten you or raise Miss Phyllis ire. She's not one to be on the bad side of, truth be told, she's got away with the likes of us. That isn't always pleasant. The other ghost shifted nervously at his mention of the elderly nurse whose gifts had sent them scurrying on their previous Visit to room 16. On any other day, we'd simply be curious about a new face on the private wing, but there are urgent matters afoot that require us to seek your help. The spirit scratched absently at his stubbly chin, gathering his thoughts, then winced in mild embarrassment. Oh, where are my manners? Here I am running off at the mouth like a schoolboy and I haven't even introduced myself. My name is William Harrison Havis, but my friends call me Billy. This radiant beauty to my right is Ms. Regina Fletcher. She's only just joined our ranks. And this noble gentleman is Marcellus Moss of the Mosses of Greenbrier County. We are but three of the many dead that walk the grounds here at Woodhaven. And you, daughter Dooley regarded the trio carefully. Speaking with ghosts wasn't as tricky as dealing with haints or other sorts of spirits, let alone beings of the inner dark. But it wasn't wise to go around giving out one's whole name willy nilly Dooley is my family name. You may call me Ms. Dooley. What is it you would have for me on this night, Mr. William Harrison Havis? She intoned the spirit's full name with a tingling sharpness meant to relay in the most polite way possible that she had the upper hand in this interaction. William. My friends call me Billy. Havas merely inclined his head, acknowledging the question whilst baring the back of his proverbial neck. He knew he was at her mercy, but he didn't seem to mind. Interesting. The late Mr. Havis turned to his two companions for confirmation, and they each nodded in turn. Marcellus Moss with a fatherly jerk of his chin, and Regina Fletcher with a quick, somewhat impatient bob of her head. Charmed to make your acquaintance, Miss Dooley. To get right to the point, we need your help staying, if you'll pardon the expression, alive. See? It seems that the door swung wide as Phyllis Moore made her way into the room bearing a tray laden with a steaming bowl of vegetable beef soup, a stack of saltines, and a small dish of chow chow. She came to an abrupt halt when she saw the ghosts gathered around the foot of her patient's bed. Soup slopped over the edge of the bowl, spattering the crackers, and the dish of chow chow rattled against the metal tray. What in the world's going on in here? What did I tell y'?

[Darina]

All?

[Daughter Dooley]

This woman is a patient in our care, not some sideshow for y' all to come and gawk at. I said it before, I'll say it again. Phyllis raised her stamping foot, her eyes alight with all the fury of a disappointed school marm. Phyllis, wait. I told y' all get. The nurse's heels smacked the floor and there was a small burst of power that made daughter Dooley flinch and squeeze her eyes shut, and when she opened them again, the two of them were alone in the room. I'm sorry, dear. The dead around here have no manners. They have a perfectly good graveyard they could be resting in. I don't know why they're in here bothering you. They weren't bothering me, Phyllis. I wish she hadn't done that. The older woman chattered on as if she hadn't noticed her patient had even spoken, so Don or Dooley let the matter drop. The soup smelled delicious, a bright orange, tomatoey broth full of onions, celery, carrots, macaroni, and bits of ground beef. Her stomach growled, and for a moment the plight of the three apparitions fled from her mind, replaced by sudden hunger. It had been a Long time since she'd had a proper supper. Don't you worry about them, dear. Anyway, I heard you talking. Figured you might want to bite to eat before you nodded back off. Oh, now that you mention it, I could eat.

[Bad Shirley]

When the fire dies down and the woods go quiet and you think you told every tale you know, and the old flame blooms to reshape the darkness, so you lock your eyes on the trembling glow. The faces you find are so familiar they could almost speak. Their stories fall where the light won't

[Daughter Dooley]

reach,

[Bad Shirley]

and you can feed the fire to curse the darkness when the voices call. But in the end, long shadows

[Daughter Dooley]

fall. With a full belly, a fluff pillow, and freshly turned linens, Daughter Dooley fell back into a deep sleep. And once again the dreams came. She was in Bad Shirley's stinking shack out near Goshen Valley. The shell of an old woman was seated as ever in her ancient rocking chair, a rickety contraption covered with runes and sigils that occasionally pulsed with a dull orange line depending on its occupant's mood. The sour faced fluffy giant glared at her from her tutor's lap while its equally foul tempered litter mates watched from the shadows. She wondered again if it was the voice of this battle scarred Maine coon and its sibling she heard rather than that of the old woman.

[Bad Shirley]

There's power in the dead, girl. Not just in death, but in the dead themselves. Write that down. Your little book there. I imagine you've seen a ghost or two in your time. Were you scared? I bet you were. Bet you nearly pissed your petticoat. Pitiful little thing like you. Lucky the masters brought you into the fold. Yes, you are. What I wouldn't have give to seen your face first time some sad old shade drifted up from the floor, wanting you to help you find his bloody bones or some such.

[Daughter Dooley]

Daughter Dooley scribbled furiously in her journal, doing her best to ignore the that filled the old shack's dark corners and block out the rank smell of the place. There were 12 cats in bad Shirley's quarters at all times. The orange beast held the place of honor on the old crone's lap, While the other 11 perched on shelves or stacks of old books or lurked beneath the filthy old pallet that passed for Bad Shirley's bed, occasionally springing into the dim light of the lantern to swat at her when the mood struck or when Shirley thought she wasn't listening.

[Bad Shirley]

It would be easy for a simpleton such as you to overlook what there is to be taken from those who have shed their corporeal forms. There's powerful magic to be found in the bones of the dead, honey, both in the hard compact tissue on the outside and in the delicious marrow within. But you must use proper implements and methods. You do it wrong, you'll end up with a cold and rotted mess that's neither useful nor appetizin. Do it. Do it right, honey. You'll have materials for working that are potent beyond your imagining, girl. Oh, but those are just the beginning of what we can take from the dead.

[Daughter Dooley]

Are you listening to me, girl? Are you getting this all down, you stupid little monkey daughter? Dooley flinched as a particularly large tom, black as pitch, with a notched ear and eyes that shone like murder, bounded down from the shadows over the bookcases to knock her notes from her hand. It hissed at her, it's mismatched ears flat against its head. She waited for the beast to withdraw. She had learned early on not to try shooing it away, and recovered her journal from the filth strewn floor. I I am, ma. I am, ma'. Am. Please go on.

[Bad Shirley]

Bones and marrow be one thing, but do you know how to draw power from the specters themselves? I don't imagine anybody ever taught you how to transform the essence of their pathetic afterlife in something actually useful.

[Daughter Dooley]

Begging your pardon, ma', am, are you talking about using a human soul to power workings? Bat? Shirley laughed and the cats around her trilled mockingly like a gang of particularly nasty school children circling their prey on the playground.

[Bad Shirley]

The human soul? There's no such thing. Not in the way the God Botherers would have you believe. People are made apart. Parts living dead don't make no difference. Parts can be repurposed. We worked on that lesson last new moon. Or have you forgotten, you wretched little ape?

[Daughter Dooley]

A slim tortie with one jet black foreleg growled at her, scolding her for her poor memory. But she had not forgotten. How could she? She had watched in horror as Bad Shirley turned an old pile of dog bones mingled with dark earth, tree bark and other detritus from the woods behind her shack into a five legged monstrosity covered in patchy fur the color of dry moss. That poor thing had three eyes, two muzzles, and two sets of horrible oversized teeth. It run in limping circles about the clearing, growling and yelping before Shirley had withdrawn her power and allowed it to collapse back into the dirt it had been dredged from was one of the most unnatural things she'd ever witnessed.

[Bad Shirley]

Our master teach us that all things of this world are made to be torn apart and gobbled up to nourish us that serve them. It takes time to acquire the taste, honey, but acquire it we do, while there are beasts from deeper places whose whole diet consists of the succulent spectral flesh. Them spirits who have yet to pass through that old black door. It's the natural order of our kind we can sell, but they're never filled. We destroy what was and build new worlds out of guts and balls. You'll learn. You follow old Shirley's lesson and you'll acquire that taste for yourself soon enough, girl. Yes, you will.

[Daughter Dooley]

With all due respect, Mama, I pledged my trough to the black Stag so that I might keep this land safe and live forever. Now, what does stealing from the dead have to do with all that? She knew the words were a mistake from the moment they left her mouth. She expected violent retribution from feline claws and teeth and braced herself for it. But instead that Shirley just rocked in her chair, murmuring to herself as if she'd not even heard the question.

[Bad Shirley]

Yeah, soon enough, girl. Soon enough.

[Daughter Dooley]

There was a soft footstep and an old floorboard creaked behind her. When she turned to seek the source of the sound, the world faded away and she woke in the cozy confines of room 16. Daughter Dooley pushed herself up against the headboard and looked around the room. She found the ghostly form of William Harrison Havis waiting at the foot of her bed. Oh, good. You're awake. I hope I didn't startle you. And if I did, please don't call for Miss Phyllis. We don't have time for that. The ghost looked worn and haggard. If he'd been able to sweat, she thought, he would be. Mr. Havis, are you alright? I'm sorry Phyllis sent you away. That was never my intention. Especially since you'd come to ask for my help. Please, call me Billy. I know you never meant for Ms. Phyllis to do what she did, but that delay had consequences most dire. As I was trying to explain when we were interrupted, there is something on these grounds that is. Well, it's killing us. I'm not sure I understand your meaning, sir. The lot of you are already dead. Do you mean something is forcing you to move on? To go through the old black door, as folks call it? No, nothing is forcing us to move on, ma'.

[Rippling Representative]

Am.

[Daughter Dooley]

I know Miss Phyllis wishes she could, but this is far worse. Out by the cemetery where most of us are interred, Something has been watching us for some time. At first, it was merely unsettling. What did the dead have to fear, right? Dark things pass through all the time. Woodhaven is a place of healing, but it's also a place of sickness and dying, and bad things are drawn to the scent of death, and the whole countryside is ripe with the stench of it. These days. The grounds proper are protected by the workings of Ms. Marjorie's family, and that steers most of them around the edge of the property. It's not the strongest barrier, but. But any fence is better than none. Daughter Dooley nodded thoughtfully. She could sense the faint hum of the wards that surrounded the property, though as the ghost had noted, they weren't particularly strong. She could feel the presence of additional protections around the private wing, however, and these were more solid to her gift. It was like the difference between a freshly painted and carefully maintained fence to one that had been neglected. The outer wards had loose boards and sagging posts, and even a couple of spots where lively horses had kicked it down altogether. You can feel it, can't you? The protection is strong in the rooms off this little hallway. The folks who pass through here sometimes feed the wards before they go, by way of thanking Ms. Marjorie and her husband. Boundary around the house is a little weaker, and those set out on the outer grounds are weaker still. What of the cemetery? Ah, therein lies the rub. The place they buried us is a very nice plot of well kept land with lovely greenery and neat tombstones that sits a good 60ft outside the perimeter. I imagine they didn't think the dead needed such protection, but it has come abundantly clear that we do. Cause something is killing us, ma'. Am. Something has eaten us. To be precise, so far it's been unable to reach us when we're within the building. But if we try to visit our Graves, or if Ms. Phyllis banishes us out there, then we're fair game. This thing you say has been eaten. Ghosts. What does it look like? I haven't seen it myself, ma', am, no. But I've heard the screams, and I know which of us have gone missing. There's a difference in how it feels to the rest of us when somebody moves on. Compared to the absence of those who've been taken, the former feels much how it feels when someone passes from life to death. It's sad but natural. The ladders more like a hole torn in the fabric of the veil where that person used to be. It's cold and it's awful. The young ghost in the silk pajamas had begun to pace in agitation when Ms. Fletcher joined our number the other night. I believe she saw it, she said. When she woke in the cemetery, still on this side of the veil, she heard terrible growls and a child screaming to hear her tell it, she came across some sort of demon tearing a young boy apart, all teeth and claws. A beast with a vast gaping maul filled with endless void, she said. At first she thought she'd woken up in hell, but then she recognized the grounds and she fled to the house on instinct before it could get her too. Poor woman. That was little Timothy she saw, by the way. He. He was here when I was poor lamb. His families from New York made their fortune on mill towns out in the Piedmont. They sent him here, and when he never got any better, they just left him here to be buried by strangers. He's the youngest of seven, so I suppose they considered in the runt of the litter, at least. My mom and daddy came to see me be put in the ground. Mama's superstitious, though. She thought the sickness might follow me home if they buried me in the family plot back in Lewiston. She had three other strong, healthy sons, so wouldn't like I'd be missed. The red headed woman in the bed furrowed her brow. Don't talk like that, boy. I'm. I'm sure your mama misses you very much. Your daddy too. Billy Havas snorted a bitter laugh. You don't come for money, do you, Miss Dooley? The first son inherits and the second son works under his elder brother, learning the family business just in case something happens to the oldest. An heir and a spare, that's what's wanted. If the parents are unlucky enough to produce a third son, he'll be expected to marry well. Any more? Boys beyond that are just extra mouths to feed. And God forbid there be daughters. A daughter is an extra mouth to feed, with the added trouble of providing a dowry and finding somebody to marry him off to. In my case, Daddy was pushing for the seminary or the military. Less trouble than trying to find me a rich wife. The handsome spirit ran his hand through his hair and sighed. I'm sorry, ma'. Am. I don't mean to burden you with my trials and tribulations. But back to the matter at hand. Do you think you can help us, daughter? Dooley looked at the earnest young dead man and tried her best to be honest without depriving him of hope. I'll be straight with you, Mr. Havis. Please, call me Billy. I'll be straight with you, William. I've been very ill of late. I do not know how much help I can be I sleep the way I do because my body and my gifts have been pushed beyond their limits, and I'm desperately trying to recover. Have you tried to let anyone else here know what's going on? The ghost shook his head. Ms. Marjorie doesn't have any sense of us. Believe me, we've tried. I think Doc Robinson knows we're here, but he can't see us or talk to us. Ms. Phyllis can see us. She's got some ax to grind with the dead. Maybe she's just had a bad experience with some troubled spirits in the past, I don't know. But I don't think she sees us as proper people anymore. Talks to us like we're house cats that ought to know better than to get up on the table or something. There's no reasoning with her. And if we rile her up, then we end up right back out in the deep water. It occurred to the red haired woman that while this shade had returned to speak to her again, there had been three of them when she last spoke with him. What had become of the other two ghosts? Wait. Where are your friends tonight, Mr. Moss and Ms. Fletcher? Billy paused for a moment, frowning. How best to explain this? We don't all rise at the Same time after Ms. Phyllis sends us to our graves, nor do we haunt the same places. I usually run into Marcellus in the parlor at least twice a week. He likes to sit in the chair where he died and recite dirty limericks in the general direction of the nurses. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Ms. Fletcher's brand new. She hadn't really settled yet, so I have no idea where to find her unless she finds me. And we're not always active, you might say. At the same time. Were ghosts who happened to have died in the same place, Miss Dooley, not old friends? There used to be a fair number of us mooning around the old boneyard, but it's not been safe to linger there for a while now, I think. Whatever this thing is, it's already done for them. There was a shuffling in the hallway, and both the ghost and the witch cast their eyes toward the door. I think Ms. Phyllis is coming to check on you, so I best be on my way. If there's any way you can help us, Ms. Dooley, please do. You might be our only hope, daughter. Dooley nodded in agreement, and before she could open her mouth to speak, she was alone once again. The shuffling in the hall grew louder and closer, so she snuggled down into her blankets, meaning to feign sleep. But within minutes there was no reason for her to pretend. Without even trying, she slid beneath the waves of somnolence, and for the first time since she arrived at Woodhaven Sanatorium, she did not dream. In the deep blue hours of the morning, Dr. David Robinson hiked up the shallow rise on the eastern side of the grounds to the neatly tended collection of graves that housed the dead of Woodhafe. When he and his wife had opened the place, they knew they would have need of a graveyard, so they reserved this plot of land for that purpose. They imagined they would have an odd burial here and there for folks who didn't have family, or perhaps the occasional charity case they'd take in from the county for folks who had no money for a proper burial. They hadn't anticipated that so many people, rich folks especially were, wouldn't want to bring their loved ones back home after they died. There was a good amount of superstition around tuberculosis or the white plague, as the papers had taken to calling it, but any medical professional knew it was bullshit. Nonetheless, families from New York, New Jersey, Ohio, Maryland, and points further west had sent their ailing and dying loved ones here, and once those loved ones had passed, had asked them to lay their people to rest beneath the fertile soil of western North Carolina, they shipped in headstones or small monuments, and some had come to attend services or sent representative to see to it that the deceased wishes were carried out. And that was that. As a result, what David Robinson and his wife Marjorie had envisioned as a discreet little potter's field of sorts tucked into a clearing on the eastern edge of the property had blossomed into a proper cemetery, populated with grave markers ranging from simple plaques to the marble angel that the Moss family had hauled in to mark their patriarch's final resting place. There was a little wrought iron fence that wrapped around the space with an iron gate that he kept oiled and well maintained. David knew there were ghosts walking his property. He couldn't see them or communicate with them, as those were not his gifts. He came from a long line of healers, men who could blow the heat off a burn or talk a cut into not bleeding. He'd been raised in the church, and he and his daddy and his daddy before him were all respected men of God. But he also knew it wasn't as simple as him being chosen by the Almighty to lay hands on the sick. His mama had kept a garden of medicinal herbs while his daddy had taught him the doctrine of the church. She had taught him the ways of the green. It was his mama who'd insisted that David study medicine and become a healer, not just walking the path of granny medicine but that of science and scholarship, neither of which had anything to do with what he'd come out to do with this ungodly hour. Phyllis Moore, bless her, had been bending Marjorie's ear for the past couple of days, complaining about meddlesome spirits troubling the patient. David had felt the cold spots and the occasional rise of the hair on the back of his neck once patients had begun to pass at Woodhaven decades ago, he would have never called those experiences nor the entities behind them troubling or meddlesome. Nonetheless, Phyllis gifts lay in the matters of the dead, and she had declared that she was tired of having to shoo them off the private wing. This week she'd asked Marjorie to ask him to do something about it. When David had asked a woman why she didn't just go out to the east field and have a chat with the dead herself, she quoted First Timothy Chapter three at him and stormed off in the passive aggressive yet gentle way that only a woman with several grandchildren can do. They lost so many staff to the new state hospital, and he didn't dare run the risk of one of their best and longest standing employees deciding it was time to retire. Hell, they were pushing the boundaries of their state license, running the skeleton crew they had on the payroll at this point. So here he was, hauling his meaty frame up the side of the hill to perform a working that his granddaddy had shown him years ago. There were ways to encourage the dead to move on, nothing ugly or disruptive, just something to give him a little push, a polite you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. For the disincarnate carried his materials in an old potato sack, and the implements inside rattled against each other as he placed it on the ground facing the cemetery gate. He had just been over to extract the kindling he'd carried from his truck when he heard something moving in the trees at the edge of the property. Startled, David Robinson froze for a moment, listening, but heard nothing else. He blew out of breath he hadn't realized he was holding and chuckled at himself for getting spooked at his age. He had arranged the kindling according to what he could remember from his papaw's lesson. When the sound came again, this time it was closer. He closed his eyes and strained to hear. The years he'd spent hunting with his daddy told him it was an animal of some sort. Didn't sound loud enough to be a bear or even a deer. He saw a flash of movement within the cemetery and stepped closer to the gate. He heard what sounded like whimpering. Then came a low growl, the sort of sound that accompanied a hungry mouth tucking into its dinner. The whimpering stopped. Stepping closer to the gate, David caught a glimpse of a wagon tail from behind the moss monument. It was just a dog. Some stray, or perhaps somebody's hunting hound from down the mountain had gotten loose and wandered up this way. It must have chased a rabbit or a possum through the fence and took it for supper. Oh, now he'd have to clean up rabbit guts. As if he needed one more chore. He left his poke and neatly arranged firewood behind and strode through the gate, letting out a friendly whistle. Here, boy. This is no place for you, buddy. Come on, let's get you out of there. As he drew closer, he could hear the dog panting, chewing and gulping down whatever unfortunate critter happened across his path that night. Sounded like he might be a big fella. David crept around the side of the marble angel. Come on, buddy, let's go. Let.

[Bad Shirley]

Let.

[Daughter Dooley]

The dog lifted its head to glance over its shoulder at the tall man, its muzzle wet with some form of viscera that he could not identify. It was unlike any dog David Robinson had ever seen, and even if he'd seen every dog in the world, none of them could have compared to this. Big didn't begin to describe this dog. Its muzzle was the size of a grown man's head, and the body attached it was equally immense. As it turned to face him, fear twisted his gut. There was something wrong about the thing. The dog's coat was a soot black that seemed to drink in what little light that gray pre dawn sky provided. It was hard to see. He couldn't quite focus on the details, as if his eyes were telling his brain what they saw. But his brain simply could not accept the information. Inside the inky blackness of its coat, shapes moved and writhed. It tilted its head and began to growl, its eyes brimming with smoldering red light. Its massive chest vibrated as the beast bared its teeth, a wall of ch. Jagged bone dripping a foul ichor that spattered on the grass.

[Bad Shirley]

It did not bark.

[Daughter Dooley]

It simply opened its jaws and lunged.

[Bad Shirley]

In the black. I see another witch running. It's a black doll that she smelled coming. And here comes another. Child. Cry for your mother. Oh God, tell the hunger which run now for deep green and cover.

[Daughter Dooley]

Well hey there, family. Oh my, my my. Where has this trip back into 1928 taken us could be we're facing down a menace that the folks who dwell over in the Holler are already familiar with. That outro music should be a clue for those who may not have heard that particular tale yet. Suffice it to say that we are headed into one nasty some bitch of a final episode for the first arc of season six of Old Gods of Appalachia Long Shadows. We hope y' all will join us to see how that red headed witch handles things. And if I were a betting man, I bet you will. Now, if you've never been a resident of the Holler and are wondering why your neighbors are freaking out about the song that's playing underneath me right now, well, there is no better time to make the move. Come on in. Listen to Blackmouth Dog along with other favorites like Build Mama a Coffin, Familiar and Beloved, Grave Concerns, and a whole lot more. Head on over and cast your tithe into the collection plate@old godsofappalachia.com theholler today and this is your the bark is definitely not worse than the bite reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Steve Schellen, Edited by Cam Collins. Our intro and outro music for today is by brother Landon Blood. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. Foreign.

[Adam Grant]

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[Daughter Dooley]

Hey.

[Adam Grant]

Russell just launched a fitness app and he needed to get the word out to busy professionals looking to stay fit. So I turned to Acasta.

[Rippling Representative]

I used their Smart Recommendations feature to easily find shows that talk about health and fitness.

[Daughter Dooley]

Booking sponsorships through their platform was a

[Rippling Representative]

breeze, and just like that, my app was in their ears during their morning run.

[Adam Grant]

Sounds like a smart move, Russell. How's business looking now?

[Rippling Representative]

Sweat is pouring and so are the installs.

[Adam Grant]

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