Untold Podcast

A corrupt Catholic priest is unexpectedly offered the chance of redemption in the antebellum South.

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When Father James McLaren opened his eyes from the grand sleep of death, it was not upon the heavenly throne room. His was not the celestial vision of the enthroned Deity, but a bag of hay seeds and a pile of manure. He rose from the wheelbarrow in which his body rested and took the measure of his situation.

The first observation was that he was not in hospital garb. Instead he was wearing his clerical collar and all the accoutrement of his calling. His right pocket even contained a bottle of anointing oil and a small cross.

The second observation was that he was in no pain whatsoever and he could breathe like a kid of sixteen. All of this was remarkable because the last thing he knew of himself was that some ten minutes earlier —and for about eight years—he had been killing himself with alcohol and cigarettes. But now, the cirrhosis and the lung cancer were apparently gone.

His thoughts turned from himself to his surroundings. He was obviously in a shed or a barn. He had awakened to find a horse’s rear end in his face and had been thrown onto a pile of manure in a wheelbarrow.

Obviously, the Almighty had a sense of humor.

After moving into the Deep South, Wallace's neighbors tell him to leave an offering for the Death Angel, or face the consequences.

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Heaps of dead leaves lined the streets of Smith’s Junction. Scarecrows, crudely fashioned out of broomsticks and old clothing, stood watch over the neighborhood. Fake spider-webbing clung to the eaves of each house like a fine layer of graveyard mist. White garbage bags filled with confetti had been made to look like ghosts floating above each roof. Stray strands of toilet paper dangled from a tree here and there-the remnants of teenage mischief.  There was no denying that this was October country.   

Wallace piloted his Buick through dark streets like the ferryman’s skiff through black waters. He kept waiting for his headlights to outline the small moving shape of a superhero or ballerina or a zombie with a meat cleaver buried in its head, but there didn’t seem to be any kids out yet. He checked his watch. Nearly 7:30.  Weird. 
He turned off on the boulevard, hoping to dodge as much Halloween traffic as possible. Above all else, he didn’t want to get trapped in a convoy of mini-vans. That didn’t seem to be a problem. The street was deserted, but it was far from empty.

Although they had lived in this town for a month now, Wallace still hadn’t gotten used to the way people in the South piled their trash at the edge of the street. Normally they just put out the customary bags of garbage in black bags. Tonight, however, the people of Smith’s Junction had put out everything but the kitchen sink…and upon closer inspection there were even one or two of those as well.

Old freezers, rusty wagons, wheelbarrows, galvanized metal buckets, trash cans, and a few discolored Igloo ice chests flanked either side of the blacktop.