Ain't At Home | A Southern Gothic Folktale — Sasperela Rue

A Southern Gothic Appalachian dark-folk tale of a family barring the door against a sinister collector who’s come to claim more than money. “Ain’t At Home” turns poverty, debt, and inherited fear into a haunting reckoning where escape may only pass the curse along. A new single. Sung in the voice of Sasperela Rue. Songs by Elizabeth Ola Belle Fontaine. Every word written by hand — the grief is real. Listen on Spotify. ============================== AIN'T AT HOME Fifty-two hours logged last week. Three Sev’nty-seven I’ll never see. Money man comin’ for my pay, Pennies on a dime-store ash tray. And the math, it don’t ever add To dollars I ain’t never had. I seen a tall man coming down The road that leads into the town. He wore a silk stovepipe hat. He asked me where you’re at. What do we do, Mama? Oh, my hands are shakin’. Tell me the truth, Mama. I can take it. Close the gate, honey; push the catch. Shut the shutters, hon; bolt the latch. Say I ain’t at home, child. Lord, say I ain’t at home. Tie one red ribbon to the tree. When that false Angel calls for me, Lady Crow claims her own. You say I ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home. Lord, say I ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home. Then Eli came at half past ten. “That tall stranger’s about again. A Flatland man from Pittsburgh way, Fancy pants from Philly, they say. He don’t cast a shadow, I won’t lie, And the dogs won’t look him in the eye.” “Come feast me, dearies; bring me wine. I’m half-starved—let us drink and dine. I’ll rest my bones here a short while; So sit with me and laugh and smile. Before the morning sun can shine, You’ll settle up on what is mine.” What do we do, Mama? Oh, my hands are shakin’. Tell me the truth, Mama. I can take it. Close the gate, honey; push the catch. Shut the shutters, hon; bolt the latch. Say I ain’t at home, child. Lord, say I ain’t at home. Tie one red ribbon to the tree. When that false Angel calls for me, Lady Crow keeps my bones. You say I ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home. Lord, say I ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home. We kept the lantern burning bright And sat the long side of the night. “Don’t show him fear, don’t show a sign.” His knock fell heavy on the pine. And through the boards, that hollow voice: “I’ve come to collect what is mine.” “I ain’t at home, son,” Mama says, Though I saw her hands were shakin’. “And you got troubles here besides.” “Oh, do tell.” “Well, this here’s taken. Claim’s been made at this address. Do you know who you’re a-wakin’?” He read that ribbon, lost his grin, Turned his cane and left again. Down the road before the dawn— Mama sang out, “Lord, he’s gone.” Open the gate, hon; spring the catch. Throw the shutters wide; loose the latch. Well, she ain’t at home, child. Oh Lord, she ain’t at home. Red ribbon dancin’ on the tree. That false Angel couldn’t get me. Lady Crow kept my bones. We said she ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home. Lord, say I ain’t at home. Ain’t at home, ain’t at home— No, she ain’t at home. I seen a tall man going down The road that leads into the town. He wears a top hat, swings a cane; He laughs and says he knows your name. “I’ve business here with you,” he says. “My price weighs more than all your days.” He knows my name. He knew it then. I sent him down this road again. Gold cufflinks gleam below his tie; Blood runs hungry in his right eye. The Money Man comes at his heels With crooked books and crooked deals. He’s coming now to take your pay— Pennies on a dime-store ash tray. And the math, it don’t ever add To dollars you ain’t never had. — These recordings involve generative AI. #folktale #gothic #americana #folksong #singersongwriter