Old Gods of Appalachia and the Need for Bone-Chilling Horror
October is here, and that means it is Spooky Season! It’s a time when many bring out the cobwebs and ghosts, collect pumpkins, and prepare for Halloween—a holiday built around fear.
On the suggestion of a friend, who informed me she could only listen during the daylight hours, I checked out a podcast called “Old Gods of Appalachia.” Both she and I are from West Virginia, who then moved to New York City. Like many transplant friends, even though we’ve put down new roots in faraway places, the stuff that mountains and hollows are made of never leave our bones. A part of me always longs for the twisted roads, the deep forests, the closeness of kin, and the mystery of the hills.
As October arrives with the first cool days and blushing leaves, it’s appropriate that I begin a new scary podcast.
image from: https://www.oldgodsofappalachia.com/
“Old Gods of Appalachia” is an Eldritch Horror anthology. It’s set in the distant past, around the 1890-1930s in rural Appalachia. The story is close enough to our time that things still feel familiar but long ago enough that the strange could be real.
From the opening eerie theme music to the rich and captivating voice of the narrator and creator, Steve Shell, “Old Gods of Appalachia” is a delightful horror epic that twists like dark dirt roads and leaves the skin crawling like someone is watching-- because they are.
Steve is a talented storyteller, his voice reminding me of campfire tales of childhood. He weaves together multiple narratives, filled with a vast and exciting cast of characters and dark evils, into a story that, although set in an alternative world where monsters lurk and fear clings like morning dew, I could believe to be true.
What draws me to this podcast and story is how it embraces Appalachian folk’s unique feelings and identity. As someone who grew up there, we are often the punchline of a joke, the anger of political activists, or the sad shake of the head from environmentalists and educators. Stories about this neck of the woods are often about the despair, poverty or escape from these conditions.
“Old Gods of Appalachia” invites outsiders to the mountains and in from the cold. It provides gold old-fashioned hospitality, served with a side of monsters. The show draws on the folklore and superstition of the area, twisting together Christian and older European traditions to create a bone-chilling experience that is not easily forgotten.
Image from Unsplash: Neven Krcmarek
But what about horror draws many of us closer when we should look away? There are many dark parts of everyday life, yet many of us seek it out in our entertainment for fun. Psychologist Kirk J. Schneider suggests in “Horror and the Holy” that horror is the endless infinity. It is the beyond, the unknowable.
He writes that horror is “both ecstatic and terrifying.” The infinity or “the holy” is the basis for this condition. As we pursue the ecstatic further, we unveil its terrifying context—the unlimited. Finally, “the encounter with this context (as opposed to the denial or passive acceptance of this context) promotes vitality and social sensitivity.”
Anything can be horror. Take, for example, a coffee date with a friend. One date at one hour has a clear ending and is enjoyable. But remove that ending and place that date into an endless infinity, and suddenly, it becomes horror.
Much horror comes from feeling unrooted. Our simple fear of the dark is not being able to see. The sublime awakens a sense of being unattached, floating in the endless. There is no escape. Horror offers a way to confront this feeling. Counterintuitively, experiencing the horror genre helps welcome wonderment, which contains both our ability to be amazed and excited and fearful and disgusted. It is a way of living that is both curious and vigilant.
Consider this: We live by a dark wood. We know wolves live there. To actively accept the sublime is to accept that there are wolves and bring a flashlight. We can wonder about them, remain vigilant and curious, but also be cautious and able to handle the endlessness of the night.
Horror provides us with a flashlight. It both shows the rootlessness and how to handle it while we find new ground.
Many old myths and stories have a degree of horror and fear. Think of our youngling fairytales, such as the "Three Little Pigs". The concept of a wolf stalking each pig from house to house and destroying their homes is horrific. In some stories, the wolf devours the first two pigs. It is terrifying. Yet, for all its ability to bring fear, it also brings comfort and knowledge about the world. It lets the listener, held in the safety of a story, experience the worst and come out better.
But, there is one major difference. Good horror is marked by the degree to which it contradicts expectations. If the story is already in the realm of the unbelievable, the horror (except when done well) is not the strangest part of the story. When the horror arises from the ordinary, it becomes otherworldly. Horror invites us to ponder. It invites us to reflect on the possibilities and limitations and then allows us to make choices.
Image from Unsplash: Jr Korpa
Whether we actively seek it out or avoid it, horror and fear have their place in our stories and offer ways of knowing. I am new to the genre. Up until a few years ago, I refused to watch anything. But, for some unknown reason, my tastes changed, and I started craving it. I am slowly working my way through the classics, letting myself experience fear and discovering why so many love it. I feel safe, unlike when I watch historical documentaries or fiction, which often leaves me unsettled about the human capacity for hard. However, for me, the framework of horror creates a soft cushion to land when it’s over. I feel stronger and proud of myself.
If you are a fan of scary stories, then I highly recommend flavoring your spooky season with a bit of the Eldritch Horror that is Old Gods of Appalachia.
Old Gods of Appalachia is available on all podcast services and on their website.