When asked about Cornell & Diehl's Small Batch: From Beyond (returning Tuesday, October 21 at 6:00 p.m. EDT), Head Blender Jeremy Reeves explained: "From Beyond is very dark and dense. It tastes like nighttime; it tastes like shadows in the woods." In the spirit of the Halloween season, and in honor of Jeremy's description of From Beyond, I bring you a tale from the foothills of Appalachia of two sisters and an unusual encounter they had at the witching hour.

When I was young, every fall my family would visit relatives in Appalachia. My Mamaw and Papaw lived up on the mountain, with a long, winding driveway that seemed to stretch and twist the passing of time as it snaked up the landscape. There were certain luxuries that came with being secluded from the rest of the town; you never had to worry about nosey neighbors or loud traffic late at night, but if you forgot milk or flour, you'd be living without 'til the next trip down the mountain. The grandparents were used to it. They didn't forget much, and with the way Papaw smoked, trips for his tobacco were a twice-a-week excursion.

We spent our days on the mountain chasing the family dog, being tricked into laborious chores under the guise of games, or losing terribly at Rummy. While our grandparents were playful yet stern during the day, any good humor walked out the door come sundown. At the snap of their fingers, when dusk began to fall, they started barking orders. We were to come inside that moment, shut and latch the windows, draw the curtains closed, check the doors, and dim the lights.

Papaw would sit on the porch smoking his pipe, his eyes fixed on the treeline as we rushed into the house. As kids, we didn't understand why the old folks were so uncompromising in this specific routine, but every visit they had us repeat the rules aloud: Don't look outside or open the doors no matter what we hear, don't respond, and never invite anyone back into the house. Never be in the woods between dusk and dawn, and never go off the trail. It was an odd set of rules to us. We never quite understood why we shouldn't open the door for kin or let the dogs back in, but they made sure we followed the rules no matter what.

The house was always intensely silent at night; even a loose floorboard would crack like a gunshot. Everyone sat quietly: Mamaw would knit, Papaw would smoke bowl after bowl of his personal blend, and we kids would read or draw until our eyes grew heavy. The nightly chores remained a mundane oddity as my sister and I entered our teenage years. We still didn't understand its importance but we were so used to the routine that we never thought to question it.

On the rare nights when we couldn't sleep, we'd sit with Papaw and he'd tell us the family history: How our ancestors came to settle in the mountains from Europe, the many generations this land had seen, and memories of him and his dad hunting and exploring the woods. Sometimes he'd start a story and before he finished, he'd trail off. At first we just assumed it was old age, but as we grew older we noticed a common thread: It always seemed to happen during stories about the woods.

We'd sit in silence for a bit while he puffed on his corn cob, blowing smoke to one side while he anxiously gnawed on the stem. He went through a lot of corn cobs. He saw little point in a nice briar when he'd just destroy the stem. He knew his flaws, and nobody could fault him for that.

When Papaw passed away, our hearts were heavy and we became concerned about Mamaw being alone on the mountain. It was decided that she'd come live with us, and the house and land would be sold.

It was a bittersweet time to lose both a loved one and a major setting of our childhood, but we understood it was necessary. We planned to drive up in three cars and load what we could from the old house. Mom would take Mamaw and the essentials; Dad would take non-essentials; and we teenagers would stay overnight to clean up the place before heading back the next morning.

After the cars were packed, we said goodbye to Mamaw and our parents, and watched as their cars bumped down the road with the setting sun. The perspective felt strange, being the ones standing on the porch waving goodbye. It was just my sister and me now, alone in the boonies. Noticing the fading light, we filed inside and, without a word, began preparing the house for nightfall.

My sister was the first to break the silence: Why hadn't we ever pushed to learn the secrets behind the nightly lock-up? We both had assumed that, when we were old enough, all would be revealed; standing alone in that empty house, that naive trust felt a bit foolish. We fell back into silence, both exhausted from cleaning and packing to bother with what-ifs or idle conversation. As soon as the house was secured, we fell into our beds and into a deep sleep.

It was 3:00 a.m. when I woke in a cold sweat. The air was still, the heat oppressive, and it felt like the world was spinning. I needed water. I stumbled into the kitchen and fished around in a box for a cup. After fighting to muffle the cacophony of crinkling paper and scraping cardboard, I chugged a few glasses of lukewarm water from the tap, my attention drifting to the kitchen window, where a sliver of night knifed through a gap in the curtains. The moon was bright, and between its long shadows and my lingering vertigo, the outside world seemed to take on the warped, uncomfortable perspective of a surrealist painting. The world kept spinning as my eyes rested on the treeline.

I'd just reclaimed my bearings when I noticed something — barely visible beneath the canopy — moving in the dark. It was large. I would have guessed it was a wounded bear the way it awkwardly ambled on, but that didn't seem quite right. It seemed spastic and jittery, like an exaggerated cartoon character who drank too much coffee. My eyes followed the "bear" as it lumbered along the treeline, slowing as it reached the center of my view between the curtains. Then it stopped. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Something felt wrong.

The creature just sat there, twitching and jerking. A glance at the oven's clock showed only a minute had passed, but it felt like an eternity before either of us moved. I watched the bear quake and lurch to face the window. It felt like it was gazing right back at me. The bear's eyes didn't reflect light like your average animal. They were stark white and beamed like flashlights, abnormally bright. Our stalemate continued until my eyes began to burn and I was forced to blink.

In that fraction of a second, the animal had moved. It was now standing, surprisingly tall and lanky, its body jittering all the same and its eyes still locked on my own. I covered my mouth to muffle a yelp and, terrified that the creature would reappear against the window should I take my eyes off it for even a second, I backed up into the hall. Feeling my back finally hit the wall, I sidestepped into the bedroom and wasted no time waking my sister, shaking her awake as I held back tears. First annoyed, then concerned by my panicked state, she listened as I tried to explain the "bear" out there, but I stumbled over the words. Convinced it was just my terrible attempt at a joke, she had already rolled over to go back to sleep when we heard the words.

"Sam...Sarah..."

We froze in place. It was the familiar voice of our Papaw, and sounded like it was coming from outside the bedroom window. Without thinking I almost responded, but Sarah covered my mouth. We sat there, petrified and holding our breath.

"I'm outta tabback, Sam. 'et me in."

The voice was nearly identical but harsher and more gravelly, as if his throat had been rubbed raw with sandpaper the way it croaked. We could hear it stumbling outside, crunching leaves and branches underfoot, walking without any rhythm, stopping and starting again as it circled the house. Eventually the creature stopped outside the window, tapping it like water drops from a leaky faucet.

I was holding onto Sarah's arm like a vice grip when it began moving again.

"Yer not 'n trouble, just 'et me in."

As it tested the perimeter, the creature dragged something against the cabin, leaving a deep, scraping sound like wood being carved in its wake. It stopped at the backdoor. We could hear its raspy breath, shallow and hoarse, panting outside. The doorknob began to jiggle, and we could smell the "bear" now, an acrid putrescence like sulphur and rotting. We held our breath as the knob continued to rattle more and more violently, but the lock held true. Never had I been more thankful for our diligence in the nightly routine.

For an eternity we stood in anticipation, the silence interrupted only by shallow, raspy breaths from just outside the door. We remained paralyzed, our eyes watering from the smell, as the creature started to move again, this time more frantically — tapping on windows, peeping through gaps in curtains, trying the doors over and over, and dragging whatever it had along the way. At some point, we sank to the floor with blankets and pillows, and cowered under the bed as the "bear" taunted us over and over again. No matter how silent we were, it persisted. Daylight couldn't come fast enough.

Then a familiar smell began to drift into the room. We'd know that scent anywhere. It was the aroma of Papaw's tobacco, bold and smoky. It was comforting and we felt our panic begin to recede. Despite the persistence of the "bear," we were still exhausted, and the nostalgic smell of tobacco afforded us enough peace to slip off to sleep.

We would have considered it all a bad nightmare if we hadn't awakened on the floor. Still shaken and confused, we skipped breakfast, hurriedly packed what we needed into the car, and prepared to leave. We performed a quick inspection of the house. The outside of the house was covered in deep, disturbing scratches, and patches of matted fur and blood were scattered around the perimeter. We swallowed down an eruption of questions and entered the cabin for one final walkthrough.

There was a lot left. We simply couldn't take everything they had accumulated over the years, but we stopped when we got to Papaw's corner. We couldn't take his chair, but there on the table next to it was one of his corn cob pipes, still faintly warm to the touch.

Some things are beyond our understanding and better left alone. The bumps in the night are often better left unseen and some questions are meant to be unanswered, but sometimes we still ask. Small Batch: From Beyond is for those curious in the midnight hour, who dare to explore the unknown. Featuring a special grade of heirloom Cyprian Latakia from 2004, this year's edition is complemented by a selection of matured Virginias, aged Orientals, and pure St. James Perique that begs you to open your mind to infinite possibilities. This full-bodied English blend is rich, spicy, and naturally sweet, with notes of campfire, earth, stewed figs, woodsy spice, deep citrus, and charred oak that dance across the palate like the mindless and amorphous dancers who prance around the slumbering Azathoth.

While Sam and Sarah may never know what came to visit that night, you can anticipate From Beyond when it arrives on-site on October 21 at 6:00 p.m EDT.