There’s something about Appalachian murder ballads that stops you in your tracks. Maybe it’s the eerie calm with which tragedy is told, or the way a gentle guitar can carry the weight of a centuries-old crime. When Cassidy Dickens joined us for Creepalachia’s first-ever live in-studio performance, she brought that spellbinding blend of storytelling and song to life in a way that left the room still.
A singer-songwriter raised in Raleigh County, Cassidy grew up at the crossroads of music and myth. One grandmother played gospel music with soul; the other spun stories steeped in Appalachian folklore. That lineage—part songbird, part storyteller—set Cassidy on a path that led her from the hills of West Virginia to the neon-lit stages of Nashville. But her heart never left the mountains.
“I’ve always gravitated toward story songs,” she told us. “Especially the ones with a darker twist.”
The Bloody Ballads of Appalachia
Murder ballads are not new, but the way Cassidy sings them makes them feel urgent. These are not just relics of the past; they are warnings, testimonies, and sometimes, hauntingly beautiful acts of remembrance. In the interview, Cassidy unpacks their roots—how these songs crossed the Atlantic from Britain and Ireland, shedding their original forms to become part of Appalachian oral tradition. The versions we hear today are more visceral, more brutal, shaped by isolation, hardship, and a culture that uses story as survival.
During her performance, Cassidy sings Knoxville Girl—a chilling tale of a lover lured, murdered, and discarded in a river. Its origins trace back to a 17th-century murder in England, but the Appalachian version hits harder. The violence is sharper. The consequences clearer. Her voice carries the weight of every woman who’s been betrayed and every town that’s buried its secrets in song.
It’s not just performance—it’s invocation.
A Story Worth Sitting With
Throughout the interview, Cassidy speaks with the kind of quiet conviction that makes you lean in. She shares how murder ballads evolved from “news in verse” into morality tales. In communities where newspapers were scarce and trust was sacred, these songs did the work of both cautionary fable and communal grieving.
“There’s this theory,” she says, “that they became more brutal because people needed to remember them—to be affected by them. These stories were warnings.”
Her knowledge of the genre is deep, but she never makes it feel academic. It’s personal. Passionate. Alive.
And by the time she strums the last note, you won’t just have heard a few old folk songs—you’ll feel like you’ve brushed against something ancient and ghostly.
Press Play—If You Dare
This session isn’t just an interview or a performance. It’s an experience. Cassidy doesn’t just sing about murder—she gives these stories breath, shape, and place. Whether you’re a longtime lover of Appalachian folklore or new to the haunting beauty of murder ballads, this is a conversation that’ll stay with you.
Watch the full interview now—if you’re brave enough.
And if you have a story of your own—true, legendary, or somewhere in between—we want to hear it. Submit your tale to Creepalachia and help us keep these mountain voices echoing.
