Episode 93: The Woman in Room Sixteen

Well, hey there, family. If you love old gods of Appalachia and 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. Prime Video Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. Woodhaven Sanatorium, 1928 Wally Gentry hummed a jaunty tune as he slid his time card into its numbered slot on the wall and walked to look himself over in the staff locker room mirror. His white slacks and white button-up shirt were immaculate. His shoes were shined, his hair perfectly coiffed, and his tidy mustache groomed and waxed. relaxed. He could have passed for a waiter in a fine restaurant up in Tipton or down the mountain in Asheville, bringing fancy food to rich folks and just raking in the tips. To be fair, he did serve some of the richest folks in the whole US of A here at the sanatorium. They just happened to be choking on their last breaths rather than choking down fancy cocktails and caviar. Wally had been working out here in the middle of nowhere for so long, he was almost ready to start waiting tables just for a change of pace. Almost. Normally, clocking in at four on a Wednesday would fill him with dread, as it meant he was here till midnight and would have to make the lonely trip back down the mountain in the middle of the night. After dinner, he'd help settle the residents into their rooms for the night and send them off to dreamland. Then he would scrub, mop, and tidy up all the common areas of the facility for the next day. As an orderly, keeping things in tip-top shape was his job. With the exception of the occasional call for restroom assistance or Miss Havisham in room seven needing her fifth glass of water, Wally would spend the rest of his evening sitting at the nurse's station with Wanda and Peggy, gossiping and playing cards until Phyllis and Bert showed up to relieve them. On the whole, the job was a cakewalk, and he knew he should be grateful to have it. All the same, he'd given his notice to Miss Marjorie two weeks ago. Tonight was his last shift here at the glue factory as he'd come to think of it. The place where wealthy families sent their thoroughbreds when they'd run their final miles. Doc Robinson and his wife Marjorie had opened the place 15 years ago when sanatoria had been all the rage in western North Carolina. The clean air of the Blue Ridge had been touted as a cure-all for various and sundry afflictions. In the middle of the tuberculosis pandemic, the papers were calling the white death due to the bloodless pallor of folks suffering from it, people were willing to try anything. At one point, there had been 900 beds available across the region and over 25 properly outfitted sanatoriums and sanitariums in Cone County alone, not to mention a number of boarding houses that lacked proper medical staff but offered access to sun decks and that allegedly magical mountain air. During the years when the disease ravaged lives across Appalachia and the country as a whole, Woodhaven had provided the best care possible given their remote location, managing to stay afloat despite rising competition from folks with far deeper pockets than a country doctor and his wife. In the years following the Great War, the Army had established a TB treatment facility in the East Asheville community of Oteen, which the state eventually took over and built into a truly impressive facility, buying out old Doc Gruner's place and three other treatment centers in East Asheville to make room for its new campus. As the new state hospital grew, so did the need for qualified staff. And that was where Wally Gentry's future lay. His starting pay was five whole cents more per hour than he made now, and he'd be working alongside of some of the state's best qualified doctors and nurses. Hell, maybe he'd even get to witness them find a cure for this awful plague. Sure, he'd still be washing out bedpans and wheeling people to and fro, but a facility that size offered opportunities for advancement, and Wally planned to start climbing that ladder. Soon enough, he reckoned, he'd be managing the folks doing the scrubbing and the wheeling. Anything would be spinning his wheels up here on the mountain, playing cards and waiting for the next sickly old bird to die so he could plant them in the boneyard out back. With the sort of deep and contented sigh that is only possible on the last day of a truly hated job, Wally walked out the locker room and headed down the hall around the corner to the nurse's station. Nurse Peggy was already there, speaking with a smartly dressed woman that Wally didn't recognize. From Peggy's rapt expression, whatever the newcomer was sharing had her riveted attention. Wally found himself looking forward to one last juicy bit of gossip as he strolled up, leaning against the nurse's station countertop to greet the pair with a smile. Evening, ladies. If you's a swapping stories, you're going to need to back up and fill me in. Oh, hey, Wally. No, you've not missed anything, honey. This is Miss Carter from the state hospital. She's here to pick up any personal effects we have in storage for Mr. Blackburn, Ms. Garner, Ms. Rubenstein, and Mr. Webster. They're all transferring down to the new respiratory ward in Oteam. Well, y'all are just cleaning us out now, ain't ya? I would say I'll miss them, but I'm heading down there myself. Kind of nice they'll have a familiar face to help them feel at home. I don't think they have a treatment for the chronically smart-ass. Wally put a hand to his chest in mock offense. I'll have you know my condition is untreatable, but no, I mean to say I've accepted a position at the new hospital. I'll start next week. The tall woman Peggy had introduced looked Wally up and down, her expression unimpressed, and her tone dismissive. Hmm, we do need more janitorial staff. I'm sure they'll be glad to have you. She half turned her back on the orderly and returned her attention to Peggy Rogers. Miss Rogers, if you could sign here, acknowledging that you've released these patients' personal effects. An initial here? Mm-hmm. Please. Perfect. All right That all I need We have a transport up here in the next couple hours to collect these folks Thank you Miss Carter took the clipboard she held into her bag then turned and proceeded down the hall to the front doors without a backward glance Wally scowled after her. Janitorial staff, my big toe. I'm an orderly, damn it. That was just rude. Wally snatched the page she still held from Peggy's hand and turned the transfer paperwork over. Shoot, that clears out rooms one, two, four, and six. Mm-hmm. And Miss Letcher passed over the weekend. Oh, she did not. She seemed like she was doing a little better, the poor thing. She did? So that's room number nine empty. Getting a little lonesome around here. Doc, say anything about it? I bet Ms. Marjorie has a bee in her bonnet. Oh, she has, but not about any of this mess. We had a new admit yesterday. On the private wing. We did not. We did. Wally hurried around to the other side of the nurse's station to peer over Pecky's shoulder. looking for any sign of admission paperwork. Is this another one of her charity cases? Nope. I think this one has money. Like money, money. She was dropped off by a chauffeur, I think. Miss Marjorie's been all hush-hush about it, though. You know how she can be. Oh, she had a driver, eh? Was it a fancy car? I always loved seeing them bring them big shiny cars all the way up the mountain. They just stand there looking at all the dirt that gets on them like they don't know what to do with themselves. tickles me to death. I didn't see the car. Did see the driver, though. Big fella. Uh, darker complexion? Peggy drawled, running her fingertip across the back of her hand to make sure Wally got her drift. Shoot, they just got the help to bring her up here? Not even a family member to see her off? That's cold, but that's money for ya. What's her name? Wally Gentry casually picked up a manila folder from the desk and had just begun to peruse the admittance sheet within when a voice stopped him dead. Put that down, Mr. Gentry. That is confidential patient information. It is no business of yours. I was just asking her name, ma'am. I want to make sure to get off on the right foot with the new patient. Marjorie Robinson ignored the mustachioed orderly for the moment and turned her simmering fury on the nurse behind the counter. Nurse Rogers, would you care to explain to me why you're sharing private documents with a member of the custodial staff. I'll do respect, ma'am. I'm an orderly, not a... Do you treat patients, Mr. Gentry? Are you trained and licensed to administer treatment to those entrusted to our care? Well, I... While I appreciate your hard work, you are not a nurse, and you are certainly not a doctor. Therefore, all information provided to you is on a need-to-know basis. When it comes to the patient in room 16, all you need to know is that she is outside your purview. The nursing staff will see to her needs. Are we clear? Yes, ma'am. Good. Nurse Rogers, please see to it that the patients being discharged are ready for transport well before the people from the state hospital arrive. Understood? Yes, ma'am. We didn't mean no disrespect, ma'am. But Marjorie Robinson had already stormed off down the hall, heading upstairs to the second floor. Well, what crawled up her ass and died? You know how she is about folks coming on that private wing. I guess you'd think we had gosh darn royalty stashed up there. Wait, do you think the new ad met somebody famous or something? Wally Gentry held up his hands, palms out, and shook his head. Don't ask me, girl. It's my last shift, and I've already got on her bad side. That's one headache I do not need. So, like she said, I do not need to know. guitar solo 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 reach And you can feed the fire to curse the darkness When the voices call But in the end Long shadows Fall Marjorie Robinson was simply trying her level best to make it through the day. With the state hospital swooping in to poach four of their clientele and two more nurses, not to mention the cheeky but competent Mr. Gentry, and a hellish handbasket full of bills that needed paying, one might be tempted to think that the prospect of a new admission represented a bright spot in an otherwise dreadful week. The private wing never really brought in any money, though. Granted, those three little rooms tucked away in the back hallway off the laundry room on the second floor hadn't been meant to turn a profit. But what they usually did bring in was trouble. And she simply did not need that right now. What they referred to as the private wing had been built to provide care for folks who served the green. As well as those in the region who otherwise could not afford medical care. The land Woodhaven was built on had been in Marjorie's family for at least four generations. They had built a cabin on this land that had served as a gathering place for some of the most powerful green-touch bloodlines in all of Appalachia. And Marjorie had inherited it from her grandmother, Henrietta Sargent. Marjorie had been raised in the ways of granny medicine before she went off to school to become a nurse. When she married her husband, a man of science and an M.D. to boot, they dedicated their lives to helping ordinary folks in the mountains as well as aiding the servants of the green in their struggle against the many faces of the inner dark. It was in this spirit they had built Woodhaven in an effort to give folks a place to heal and recover from whatever plague had laid them low. It was a sanatorium founded on the bones of folk healing and constructed on the principles of curing the sick through science and medicine. The three beds on the so-called private wing served those suffering from the sort of ailments the average physician couldn't begin to comprehend. Their cases ranged from practitioners who overexerted themselves to the point of needing care to recover, to hapless locals who been attacked walking in the woods at night bleeding out from bites of things with too many mouths and venomous teeth The staff most of whom didn need to know the finer points of these cases were simply told that these patients had requested privacy and would be tended to by only one or two members of staff Everybody knew that good old Doc Robinson and Miss Marjorie kept rooms for folks who didn't have anybody to look after them or couldn't afford care elsewhere, so it was assumed that these patients simply felt embarrassed by the necessity of accepting charity. Usually, Marjorie and her husband had some sort of connection to the patients requiring this level of discretion. They either knew the patient's family or someone in the community with whom they were acquainted had referred them to the Robinsons. In any case, there was usually some point of contact they could reach out to should things go sideways. This was not the case with the woman in room 16. She'd been dropped off by a tall, well-dressed black man. He'd bypassed the reception area altogether, somehow finding Marjorie as she'd emerged from the dining room after lunch. He had not spoken. He merely reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and handed her a folded note. Marjorie could see her name written on it in sharp, blocky letters. When she looked up from the note, the man was gone. She walked onto the front porch to search for a vehicle of some sort, but there was none. Instead, she found a woman in a wheelchair who sat dozing quietly, wrapped in a quilt. The note that the man had given her read only, She has done much. She will sleep and heal on her own. Keep safe. and keep watch. The woman had looked as if a stiff breeze might knock her over. Marjorie could have easily believed the poor thing was recovering from one of the many wasting sicknesses they often treated, and there was a shadow about her that said she wasn't out of the woods just yet. In her estimation, however, the man's note was more or less correct. What the patient needed now, more than anything, was rest. Raising as little commotion as possible, she'd instructed two of her most trusted nurses to take the woman up to room 16. Now, as the sun set on the 7th of May, Marjorie stared at the woman sleeping there with both pity and unease in her heart. There was something about this new patient that unsettled her. The other two rooms on the short hallway were empty, and she couldn't help but feel that was for the best. She had ordered round-the-clock observation for the woman, and that was the best she could do for now. Her husband would be done with his work soon, and she knew he was more than ready to drive them down the mountain to the home he had built for her when they married. It had been a long day, and with their rapidly dwindling staff, tomorrow promised more than the same. In the peaceful dark of room 16, Woodhaven's newest resident dreamed and suffered. She was walking through the woods in the darkest part of night, moving deeper into a holler somewhere she could not name, though if you pressed her, she would have guessed somewhere in Kentucky. Briars and brambles clung to her skirts, picking and tearing at the dirty fabric. Her feet were bare, but the cold earth did not seem to slow her pace. Stones, thorns, another sharp bit stabbed at her feet as she trod, but she felt nothing. Onward, she trudged, her body lumbering forward like a puppet on strings or like one of those great stilt walkers she'd seen at a fair as a girl. She was inertia now. She could not stop if She wanted, and oh, how she wanted. Her hair hung lank and swung about her face in a ragged mourner's veil. She was bathed in sweat and grime, and her breath rattled through her chest like the winter wind down a smokeless chimney, her insides as cold as its unlit hearth. The burden she carried in her arms had been still and cold as a stone on her way through the woods. Now it writhed, causing her steps to slow. Panic flared in her chest. She thought if she was careful enough, quiet enough, it would sleep through the night. She wanted to stop. She wanted to rest and be still to prevent what she knew was coming. It had never worked before, but tonight could be the first time, couldn't it? There was a first time for everything, her ma always said. She held on to that hope, willing herself to stop, to refuse to take one more step. There was the briefest moment's hesitation, but then her body lurched forward again, emerging from the trees with a crack and a clatter. In the clearing ahead lay a small homestead. A two-room cabin, a chicken run, the shadow of a barn outback. It was no doubt home to one of a countless number of families trying to carve out their place in these mountains. Simple folks just doing their best to get by. She'd had a place like this herself once, but that was so long ago now. She looked about, her eyes wide in the dim starlight, then stepped into the yard, waiting for the stinking crack of power to wash over her to be thrown back into the trees scorched and smoking. To her horror she felt no resistance at all. She could feel her face stretch into a rictus grin as her feet carried her toward the house. The things she carried nuzzled against her seeking succor in her breast. A wave of revulsion washed through her and she managed to squirm away from it for a moment before something seized her spine, and she lost all sense of her body. To her relief, she did not feel the thing latch onto her flesh, did not feel its awful bony fingers, her thin, bloodless lips. It shifted again, turning to face the settlement, and began to wail. a rattling, high-pitched scream of deep, primal huddle. A light flickered to life beyond the windows of the little house, and she told her hands to cover the thing's mouth, to silence it, to smother it in the throes of its own foul mewling, but her hand hung limp at her side. Deaf to her commands, the door of the cabin opened crack. No, no, no, she screamed inside her head. Do not come outside after dark. Do not answer if you hear something crying outside your house, not even if it calls your name. Do the people who live here have no sense Who there The woman in the doorway wore a flannel night dress and her bushy brown hair was pulled back She held a lantern high peering into the night and looked back over her shoulder calling to someone in the house Michael? Michael, get up, dear. There's somebody in the yard. I think they need help. I hear a baby crying. A man appeared beside the young woman, a handsome lad pulling on a shirt and looking past his wife into the darkness of the yard. His eyes squinted into the night, searching them out. What are you on about, Julia? Oh, hello there. Are you lost? Do you need help? The thing on her hips stopped crying. Silence stretched across the thin scrim of light radiating from the woman's lantern. For a moment, no one made a sound. What happened next was over in the blink of an eye. It was like that sometimes. Other times it was drawn out and slow, like some perverse play staged merely to taunt her, to rub her nose and her inability to stop any of this. But this time, thankfully, it was fast. She lunged at the couple, closing the distance at an impossible speed, the fingers of her left hand lengthened into gnarled, petrified roots, black as coal and sharp as spear points, and she shoved them into the handsome man's face. She hooked his eyes with her middle tooth and his mouth with her thumb, which had grown as thick as a sapling. Teeth shattered, and the meat of his soft palate came apart like cheese as her hand found purchase in his skull. Before his wife even had a chance to scream, she slammed him to the ground by his head again and again. A child punishing a misbehaving ragdoll. Bones shattered at the man's head tore free from the broken and bleeding stalk of his neck. The sickly wet sound of her husband's body tearing free from his head unlocked the woman's scream. She stared uncomprehendingly at the bloody specter who had butchered her husband and the strange mewling creature she carried on her hip. It was shaped like a child, but it was clearly something else, some horror beyond imagination. Julie, who had been married to a handsome young man named Michael, who had come to live with him here on this quiet farm to earn their living from the soil and raise a family, fell weeping to her knees in a puddle of her bridegroom's blood as the ground began to shake, twisted creations emerging from it like a tide of tangled vines, bones, and dark, dark earth. Julie began to whimper and beg, and she woke, sweat-soaked and panting, her heart racing, her mind all tangled up in that awful place. It took her a moment to realize she was somewhere else. She was in a proper bed in a tidy little room far from the homestead in eastern Kentucky. There was a polite knock at the door of her chamber, courtesy only, she realized, as the door swung inward before she had time to muster a response. A woman in starched nurse's whites backed into the room, carrying a tray with a ceramic pitcher and cup balanced upon it. She turned to set her burden down on the nightstand, and her face was kind. How you doing, hon? You've been tossing and turning all evening. Then I heard you cry out and figured you must have woke yourself up. Bad dreams? Nurse Phyllis offered up her most sympathetic smile, and the woman in the bed nodded warily. Oh, those are the worst, but you have nothing to fear here, sweetheart. You're safe, and your folks are going to look after you until you're feeling better. I'm Nurse Phyllis. I'll be with you on the night shift this week. So if you wake up and need something, I'm your gal. Would you like a glass of water, hon? The woman in room 16 closed her eyes and put her face in her hands for a moment and pushed them through her thick red hair, smoothing it away from her face. She gave a tremulous smile as she raised her head again. Thank you, Phyllis. Yes. Yes, that would be lovely. Last night I dreamed of darkness. Last night I dreamed of home. I tried to call my father My father's dead and gone sick there Well, hey there, family. Welcome to the first full story arc of season six of Old Gods of Appalachia, Long Shadow. I guess you heard that accent correctly. And I assume you were picking up on all those breadcrumbs along the way, connecting all those red threads to bring us to our first full Daughter Dooley story since Season 1. If you wondered what happened to our beloved Miss Dooley in the wake of the events of Season 2, then you're about to find out. I hope you're ready, family. I truly hope you are. Now, if you're really eager to find out what happens next, you can always get your episodes a day early and ad-free by subscribing to The Holler. Kick that tithe up a little bit more and you'll gain access to a whole library of exclusive stories, including Build Mama, A Coffin, Black Mouth Dog, Familiar and Beloved, and a whole bunch more. Head on over to oldgodsofappalachia.com slash the holler and move into the holler today. Family, this is your how-do-you-think-a-certain-bear-would-take-to-being-called-a-chauffeur reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Steve Schell and edited by Cam Collins. Our intro music is by Brother Landon Blood, and our outro music is by Those Poor Bastards. The voice of Wally Gentry was Don Martin. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. I crawl into my basement And lock away my thoughts Stick! Boom.nu sempre poke man l Tet be é膽 strong equal sing Super you