Episode 98: Generation of Vipers

Well hey there family. If you love old gods of Appalachia, I want to help us keep the home fires burning. But maybe you 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. This Tuesday, Amazon brings the unmissable UEFA Champions League match. Unbelievable! Arsenal vs. Atlético Madrid. What a strike! Absolutely incredible. The UEFA Champions League, Tuesday from 6.30pm. It's on prime. You've got social dialed in. Search is doing its thing. So why do your marketing results look the same as six months ago? That's because you're fishing in the same pond as everyone else. Podcast listeners are a different audience entirely. More engaged, harder to reach through traditional channels and ready to act when someone they trust makes a recommendation. We're ACAST and we put them right in front of you. Browse thousands of the world's leading podcasts, book host reads or run your own ads and track every conversion in real time. Same skills you already have brand new results. ACAST. ACAST.com forward slash advertise. Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listen to discretion is advised. Lexington, Kentucky. 1951. Rain fell in sheets and swept through the gutters as a yellow dodge with black and white checkered stripes pulled to a stop outside Lexington Union Station. The cab driver glanced back at his passenger in the rear view mirror as she fished around in her pocketbook. She was a skinny little thing. He always said he liked him with a little more meat on the bone but pretty. Her hair was black as a ravens wing and her dark eyes were large and luminous. She had a wide mobile mouth with full lips she'd painted a deep red. One corner of it tugged up in the ghost of a smile as she pulled a dollar from the depths of the bag and passed it to him over the sea. Get the change. Thanks for the ride. The driver returned her smile and tipped the brim of his flat cap to her. My pleasure miss. Let me help you with that bag. Oh, thank you. While the driver pulled the young woman's suitcase from the trunk of the cab, the young woman settled a wide brimmed black hat onto her head. She opened the car door and pushed her umbrella out first, opened it to keep the rain off as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. April had been a cold wet month so far and this morning was no different. She shivered and pulled the collar of her trench coat closer around her throat as the driver set her suitcase by her feet he tipped his hat again. Have a nice day miss. Safe travels. She flashed him a tight smile and nodded back and picked up her suitcase and began walking toward the train station at a brisk cliff. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Rachel Harlow looked over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the street. She didn't see any sign of someone following her, not that it was any guarantee. Her pursuers were silent and swift and much better at hiding than she was. Though she'd learned to spot the subtle clues to their presence over the years, Rachel had been running for a very long time. Things had been okay for a while after her friend Skeeter came to her rescue from the cavern beneath the mountain where the men of the rock had imprisoned her. The night folk were a kind people, though their diet was a little off-putting, and Skeeter's family had welcomed her into their home with open arms. The time she spent there was the happiest she could remember in spite of the nightmares that plagued her in the aftermath of all she and her friends had endured when their guardian, Granny Anbury, passed away. The holler where the night folk made their home was well hidden and well guarded, and the safety it offered gave her time to process the horror of it all, as well as an ample opportunity to fret over the fate of the boy they had known as Jonah Hellbender. But Skeeter worried for Jonah as well, and a worry shared as the burden lightened by half. Her bad dreams had grown less frequent, and she found reasons to laugh again. To hope again. The security she found with the night folk had lasted until she turned 18 and went to town to apply for a driver's license. Rachel didn't own a car. But she had learned to drive the trucks Skeeter's people sent into town when they needed supplies they couldn't easily make for themselves. She had planned to offer to take over that duty since it would be easier for her to move through the world outside. She wanted to give something back to the community that had helped her so much. Nothing significant had happened the day she got her license. Skeeter's cousin, Bo, who was the current driver of the truck and who had taught her how to drive had driven her into town. She'd filled out the paperwork, taken her drive and test, and been awarded the little paper card with her name typed on it. She and Bo had done the week shopping afterwards and he let her drive them home. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No one appeared to pay them any mind. Someone had been watching though. Someone had followed them. She and Skeeter were picking blackberries in the woods the next day when the first of the hunters came for her. Two men were what looked like men at first. In long coats and glasses with round dark lenses there was something about the way they moved. The way their joints bent under the fabric that looked wrong and when they spoke. The two of them in unison. Their voices were strained. Their cadence odd and halting as if their tongues were not made for human language. We have come to the doctor of Helena McCoy. Do not interfere and we'll leave you in peace. Night's fun. Skeeter's smile was full of needle sharp teeth when he'd launched himself at the pair of them. They'd broken his jaw in one of his arms before help arrived. Skeeter's family killed him both. But as the second lay bleeding he spat and cursed at her. She was only the first. Or will come. You will never know peace girl. Rachel knew she'd never be able to forgive herself if any more harm came to Skeeter or his kin because of her. She had packed her bags that night and slipped quietly away while her friend slept in the local healer's cabin. She'd been running ever since from one thing or another. From what she'd been able to piece together sometimes from lesser things she was able to capture and hurt for information. There were a handful of different factions that would like to get their hands on her. It seemed her mama had been back dealing with any number of dark powers for all her avowed devotion to the disciples of Holy Incarnation. Helena McCoy's ambition had known few limits. It was easy enough for them to spot her. The dark hair and eyes reflected back at Rachel through the glass of the train station's wide double doors were her late mothers as were her lips and her chin. The long thin nose must have been inherited from her daddy, whoever the hell he had been. Rachel walked up to the ticket counter and purchased her ticket. Then settled down to wait for her train and a chair at the back of the terminal near a sign pointing the way to the restrooms. She was so tired. She'd been waiting tables at a diner in Louisville for the past six months and things had been relatively quiet. Then yesterday she'd spotted one of the hunters watching her from across the street when she left work. She'd taken a long, circuitous route home on foot over the course of several hours in an effort to shake her latest pursuer. It had given her just enough time to pack a bag. She'd taken a bus to Lexington in the early hours of the morning, then the taxi here. She hadn't slept and was half afraid she wouldn't be able to keep her eyes open. The hard plastic seat would see to that, she imagined, as she shifted uncomfortably. She pulled a book from her purse and pretended to read it while keeping a careful eye on the people around her. The men who came for her. They were men this time, at least as far as she could tell, were not very good at their jobs. They all wore black suits with red ties and their heads were on a swivel, obviously scanning the crowd. Rachel clocked them immediately. She lowered her head, allowing the wide brim of her hat to shield her face and reach down for her purse. She tucked the book inside, then stood, purse on her shoulder, and began walking down the hallway where the sign indicated the restrooms were located. She maintained a steady, unhurried pace, just a woman taking the opportunity to powder her nose one more time before her train depart. When she reached the door to the ladies room, she kept walking all the way to the end of the hall and around the corner. Then she started running. Her heels were low and sensible, and she had the sole's fit of strips of rubber to keep her from slipping. She was a good runner, even in heels. She had a lot of practice. She would have to leave her suitcase behind. It wasn't ideal. She had liked some of the clothes she had acquired during her time in Louisville, but it wouldn't be the first time. She burst through the exit at the end of the hallway. The rain had lessened, but hadn't stopped, and she was grateful for her hat. There were cars lined up along the sidewalk, some dropping folks off, others picking them up, a handful of taxis awaiting fares. Rachel didn't want to waste more money on a cab ride, but she didn't have many other options, so she veered toward the line of them before she could reach one. A long, sleek silver limousine pulled up to the curb beside her. Its doors opening before it even came fully to a stop. One man stepped from the passenger seat, another from the back, and both of them stepped into her path. The one who'd been sitting up front unfurled an umbrella and held it over the second man's head. To her surprise, Rachel recognized him. He was a tall man with white hair swept into a sleek pompadour, though his face was smooth and unlined. His eyes were a piercing green. He wore a long, white overcoat over a dark grey suit with a dull grey vest and a silver tie. He had shaved his beard since the last time she saw him, a nod to the current fashion, she supposed. Miss Hollow, what a pleasure it is to see you again. Rachel heard footsteps behind her. When she glanced over her shoulder, the men in black suits she'd spotted entering the station stood behind her. One of them carried her suitcase. The closest one gripped her arm. Now, now, there's no need for that, mister. Um, there was a twinkle in Bonobart Locke's eyes as he lowered his voice to her in a conspiratorial tone. I must confess, I can never keep their names straight. Bonobart winked at her, waving a hand dismissively at the man in black who released his hold on her arm. Miss Hollow is our guest, or should I say, she will be if luck is with us. Miss Hollow, I believe you'll recall a conversation you and I had, oh, some ten years ago, I believe it was. Rachel remembered her meeting with Bonobart Locke very well indeed. She had been locked up under the mountain, a prisoner of the men of the rock, and put on trial for the crime of merely existing alongside a very unusual man who had tried to help her and her friends. Mr. Locke had come to speak with her, had offered to take her out of there and reunite her with her old friend Jonah Hellbender, whose birth name they had learned was Solomon Locke. She didn't trust him then, and she sure as hell wouldn't trust him now, but she smiled stiffly and nodded. Yes, I remember, Mr. Locke. Excellent, excellent. Well, that saves some time. I've come to tell you that the author still stands. That and more, my dear. When we last met, you and my nephew were but children. Now Solomon has completed his studies, joined the family business, and stands on the precipice of taking his father's place as the head of the company, but he cannot do it alone, Miss Hollow. A man needs a confidant, a friend, a partner to live a full and successful life, and not to put too fine a point on it, but one day, well, a man in his position will need heirs. My nephew has never forgotten you, Miss Hollow. We, that is, his father and I, and of course Solomon himself, think you would fit into the family very well. Rachel closed her teeth with a snap as she felt her jaw begin to drop. Surely she had mistaken his meaning. She shook her head. Mr. Locke, please speak plainly. I'm not sure I'll understand you. Bonaparte Locke smiled. Then let me be quite clear, Miss Hollow. My nephew, Solomon Locke, requests the pleasure of your company at his family estate outside Philadelphia, where he would like to discuss with you the possibility of marriage. Rachel was stunned. For a moment, she couldn't think of a single thing to say. It had been surprising enough to see the man at all to learn that her old friend, with all the wealth and privileges family could provide and all the years that had separated them, still thought of her, but marriage? Mr. Locke, I don't quite know what to say. Her old friend's uncle put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. That's no need to stand on ceremony, my dear. Please call me Bonaparte, or Uncle Bownie, if you prefer. That's what Solomon calls me. May I call you Rachel? Rachel nodded as she swallowed down the lump in her throat. Rachel, dear, allow me to be candid. We, the family, I mean, have kept up with you over the years, as least as best we could. We lost track of you for a few years after you escaped that jail cell. Nicely done that. But once you reappeared, well, we've done our best to stay abreast of your whereabouts. We know the sort of life you've been living. Always running, never able to settle down for long, never knowing peace. When you elected not to accept his offer before, Solomon chose to respect your wishes. But he cares for you, and he's concerned for you. Now that the time has come for him to step up and take the helm, he decided to try one more time. Rachel glanced up at Bonaparte Locke, and she could see no deception in his brilliant green eyes. My nephew isn't merely offering you a life of wealth, Rachel, though that's certainly one thing he brings to the table, as it were. We will put a stop to the harassment you've suffered. The Locke family name is a shield that will protect you from anyone who dares come at you ever again. Isn't that worth at least a conversation? Rachel felt her shoulders slump. God, she was tired of it. The endless running, the constant pounding of her heart in the rush of adrenaline in her veins. She had been so frightened of Jonah's family, and she still was. But if he trusted them, maybe he had a good reason. She could at least hear him out, couldn't she? After what they'd been through together, didn't she owe him that much? With a half-smile that felt more genuine than she'd offered anyone in years, she nodded. You're right. Yes. It is worth a conversation. I would like to see Jonah. I mean, Solomon. Bonaparte beamed, and put an arm around her shoulders, steering her towards the car. Excellent. Excellent. Right this way, my dear. What's your step? Bonaparte Locke helped her into the silver limousine with a gentlemanly hand, and one of the men in the black suits loaded her suitcase into its trunk. They must have taken separate vehicles, she thought, because the men in black didn't join them in the spacious backseat of the limo. Within moments, the car pulled away from the curb and sped down the street. When the fire dies down, and the woods go quiet, and you think you told every tale you know, And old flame blooms, to reshape the darkness, so you lock your eyes on the trembling glow. The faces you find are so familiar, they could almost speak. The 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. Family can be a fraught and complicated matter, both in Appalachia and beyond. Family traditions and observances serve as scaffolding on which we might grow into the shapes of the names we are given. Carefully wrought structures crafted from tradition, culture, and the shared faith of a family are meant to strengthen and guide our growth. That scaffolding, however, can become a cage, or worse, a gallows in the blink of an eye. In the bloodlines that wind through Appalachia, there are both bonds as unbreakable as steel, and fallen-outs that cleave family trees into logs of firewood that stoke the flames of bitter resentment. The more sprawling the roots of a family are, the more likely someone is going to trot on someone else's toes, or say the wrong thing at a family gathering. God forbid a child be left out of some great-grandparent's will, or some estranged aunt turn up uninvited at a wedding. If the offense is great enough, the offended might go as far as changing the spelling or pronunciation of the family name and pretending they ain't no kin at all. Ask the Gillums and the Gilliams or the Hunsikers and Hunsakers how that worked out for them. The Locke family was no different. The architects of the railroad half of the Barrow and Locke Mining Combine were a fruitful bunch who populated the hills around Pittsburgh down into the New River Valley with their ilk. While the Barrow's kept the running of their business and the immediate family, the Locke's like to share the load amongst their many cousins and in-laws. And with that many mouths to feed and that many moving parts driving the engines of Locke Rail, it was only a matter of time before something broke down. The fracture of the Locke family could be laid partially at the feet of its patterned familias, Jameson Locke. Jameson was a brilliant and ambitious businessman. The kind of man who could win a person's trust with a single handshake, then betray it without losing a wink of sleep. He was quick with the story and in his charming as Apollo, he could take everything a man had, his land, his savings, hell maybe even his sons. And at the end of the day, that man would thank him for taking the burden off his hands. It was said that he once had a thriving eye to deliver his service in hell that had been making money hand over fist since the place first opened with a sideline in bridges. Wholesale. The twinkling eyes beneath Jameson Locke's brow, beamed with intelligence, wit and madness. For he had heard the call of the same voices that drove E.P. Barrow to sacrifice both his son and his own corporeal form. Where E.P. heard commands to dig down into the earth, literally seeking the physical prison of their masters, the voices in Jameson's head urged him to seek the key. That would unlock the chains that bound those who sleep beneath, thus allowing the family's patrons to free themselves. Jameson would dictate long edicts to his secretary that he claimed were transmitted directly into his mind from the sleeping darkness. Those records became the holy scripture that guided the operations of Locke Rail. The Grand Manifest. This document was the closest thing to a Bible any member of the Locke family would ever own and its commandments were law. Revelations and prophecies were added to the text until the day of Jameson's departure. The first edict of the Grand Manifest. Obey these words before all others, and the second thou shalt not spill the blood of your kin. Left little room for interpretation. Others such as, where there is a door shut tight, leave it be lest you make yourself the key, or traffic not with the beast of tie and spike lest your own blood grease its wheels, were more open to interpretation. Not long after E.P. Berho shrugged off the mantle of his humanity and had his voice lower him into the underneath, his business partner charted his own path into the great and hungering void. Jameson had commissioned a very special steam engine, the schematics of which he said were revealed to him in a dream. It was a jet black dagger of a train named the Tudelchan, or Dark Rider in the old town. She was a wicked looking beast with no lines, no numbers, no flags, not even the badges that marked every train that Locke rail owned. She had been built in a secret birth south of Pittsburgh, for she awaited her soul passenger. With little to no fanfare, Jameson Locke shook the hands of his sons, kissed his wife on the cheek and his daughter on the head. Then he bordered the silent shadow of a steam train, which required no engineer, nor crew, and set out alone into the great beyond. He had told his family he was seeking the true terminus, the station at the end of all things where our world met whatever world his masters called home. The patriarch of the Locke clan had not been heard from since. No one knew for sure whether Jameson was alive or dead. But those who believed he lived said that one day he would return with the answers to all their dark prayers. While abandoning his heirs and business empire to chase shadows across the country would certainly be enough to sprout dissension in the ranks of any family. The seeds of the schism that divided the Locke clan were sown long before Jameson's departure. It began when he buried his first wife, his beloved Annabella. Annabella Boucher was the first woman Jameson Locke ever loved and he built his world around her. In return she bore him four strong children, Patience, Brutus, Mordecai, and Bonaparte. The birth of the last proved too much for Annabelle and she never left the birthing bed. Their mother's death broke each of the children in unique ways, but as much as a child might miss their mother, no one bore the weight of her loss more than Jameson. The family believed that their patriarch would remain in mourning for his bride forever and well he might had he not been introduced to a sharp witted and even sharper-tongued daughter of a timberman named Marlena Coleman. While Annabella Locke had been a soft and caring homemaker and mother, the woman Jameson brought home to the Locke family manner after a whirlwind courtship at a secret elopement was neither of those things. She was locacious and vivacious, she excelled at business and was far better at cooking a set of books than a Sunday dinner. She also bore the gift of prescience and gave Jameson his final child, a boy they called Haman. The children born of Jameson's first wife were tall and hail like himself, big of bone and broad of shoulder. There wasn't one of them who grew to less than six feet, including eldest daughter Patience. Haman Locke was small and sickly, a skeletal wraith of a child. Haman was but a babe in arms when his father boarded the Dark Rider, a good seven years separating him and his nearest sibling. While the older children ran loose in the woods and enjoyed a relatively normal, if privileged, childhood, Haman's place was inside with his mother and her books, where he learned the inner workings of both the business and its dark magic from his earliest years. Whereas Patience, Brutus, Mordecai, and Bonaparte were schooled in arcane workings and rites, neither of their parents had possessed any natural gift, nor had Jameson yet acquired those which would be bestowed unto him by the things under the mountain. Haman was fathered unto a gifted mother after Jameson Locke had received his dark baptism. So while the first four Locke children had to follow in their father's footsteps and seek power, Haman Locke was born into it. Over the decades following their patriarch's departure, a divide arose between the elder and younger of Jameson Locke's offspring. Patience, Brutus, Mordecai, and their respective families clung to the edicts of the grand manifest, eagerly awaiting their father's return despite there being no sign of the old grifter in over a century. Time moves differently for those in direct league with the inner dark after all, much like it does for those who are touched by the light of the green. Meanwhile, Bonaparte and Haman had grown weary of the old ways, and their branches of the family chartered new paths to power and ascension. The battles between the two factions were waged in boardrooms and back alleys until Haman's lust for power pushed him to new lows. Brutus Locke sat at the great mahogany desk that was the centerpiece of his office in Roanoke and took deep, calming breaths. What he had to do today would require all of his considerable resolve. He'd risen that morning to learn that his younger half-brother, Haman, had called an emergency meeting of the board of directors. Emergency board meetings were never good news. There had been a quiet war raging within the halls of Locke-Rail for generations. Brutus, Patience and Mordecai had done their level best to uphold their father's vision of service to their masters, while Bonaparte and their wretched half-brother opposed them at every turn. There were betrayals, coups, intrigue, and sabotage. The elder siblings, who styled themselves the loyalists, did their best to insulate the company from the chaos wrought by their younger counterparts, who had come to be known as the Ascensionists. Each faction wielded its considerable power against the other in never-ending attempts to seize control of Locke-Rail while attempting to avoid derailing the family business entirely. Haman's emergency meeting, like so many over the years, had been about his son, Solomon. Solomon had been a baby when his parents, Mordecai and his wife Delilah, had turned up dead under mundane but suspicious circumstances. Solomon had been bound in his infant form to contain his immense gifts and traded away to Conrad Barrow, who used him as a weapon and then promptly lost him for more than a decade. Solomon had finally been recovered amidst the shocking revelation that he wasn't Mordecai's child but the product of a years-long affair between Delilah and Haman. He was the most powerful descendant of Jameson Locke since Brutus' own Nathaniel, who had died in a freak train derailment years before. Haman and his bastard son had stood at the head of the table as Brutus and the other board members settled into their seats. Members of the board, my esteemed sibling, thank you all for gathering on such short notice. I apologize for the inconvenience. I know Bonaparte usually handles this sort of thing, but he is away on a special assignment, so if you'll bear with me... Haman awkwardly hefted a leather-bound tome onto the podium, leafing towards the end of it. He smiled gamely at the room, a substitute teacher awkwardly presenting the absent instructor's lesson plan, but Brutus knew better. His half-brother was twice the snake oil salesman their father had been, and he just sold a different flavor of poison. There was a quiet, feverish charisma that emanated from the thin man in his perfectly tailored navy suit. His eyes were striking, definitely long green, but flecked with a steely gray. Eye contact with Haman could make a person feel as though they were the only one in the room, and they'd cling to his limp and sweaty handshake because being close to him felt like being seen. Whenever Haman addressed the board directly, it felt like a special treat, like when children get to meet the conductor of a train. Gosh golly, kids, here's the fella that really makes the whole thing go. Haman cleared his throat. I'm going to begin by reading directly from the grand manifest. There was a hushed and reverent murmuring around the room as all in attendance bowed their heads in the presence of the words of their founder. And lo, when a mighty viper lies within a vessel of the rotting earth, they shall bring forth a great man, a keeper of ways and a master of doors. By his hand will veils be lifted and chains broken, and greater beasts shall come forth to herald the master's waking. The rotting earth was how Jameson Locke referred to the green and those who served it. In his maddened ramblings, the presence of serpents or dragons usually referred to members of the Locke family. One interpretation of this passage was that it was a prophecy of the culmination of the Locke bloodline service to those who sleep beneath. A child would be born from the union of a powerful Locke with a suitably gifted vessel of the green, and that child would have the power to wake the darkness that slept beneath the mountain and bring the world of men to a violent and final end. Those who served the inner dark would be spared, transcending the fall of this world to join in full communion with their dark masters forever and ever. We have believed for some time that my son, Solomon, might be that great man, that keeper of doors and master of ways, and we have recently procured a proper match for our young bachelor. Excited whispers race through the room at the announcement, and Heyman's lips twitched in a smile. Bonaparte has made contact with the young woman in question, and is in the process of making arrangements to bring her here. The girl is an old friend of my Solomon's that he remembers very fondly from his youth, and whose company I know he's missed. She should arrive within the week. Heyman glanced over his shoulder at the grim yet handsome visage of his son with a leering, that's my boy, grin. Solomon dipped his head and returned it with a smile that was a mixture of both embarrassment and excitement, the perfect pantomime of wholesome father and son. Brutus might have gagged if his stomach hadn't already plummeted to his feet. They'd found the girl. Heyman raised his hands before the assembled board, drawing their attention back to him and lowering the volume of their chatter to an occasional whisper. Well raise a toast to my son and his future bride, but let's not celebrate too much, gentlemen. There's still work to be done. Let's keep it to no more than two cocktails, shall we? There was much back slapping and handshaking as the board of directors filed out. Brutus, being a man of larger carriage, hung back to avoid the indignity of squeezing through the small crowd as it shuffled down the hall toward the executive lounge. Heyman was the last through the door, and he turned and favored his older half-brother with a condescending nod, before he too set off to celebrate. Brutus ground his teeth. This had been a show, one intended specifically for him. The things the boy could do were unlike anything Brutus or his siblings were capable of, and their power was tremendous. If Solomon was truly Heyman's get, and they bred him with the girl he suspected they'd found, that would constitute at least three generations of gifts, both dark and green, and wedded together inside a child set to be raised by that abomination and his lapdogs, it simply could not be allowed. Brutus could see only one option. His brother and son were dead, and his wife rarely left to rooms these days. His older sister believed steadfastly that their father was going to return and put a stop to all of Heyman's nonsense any day now. Brutus was less patient, but she was delusional if she thought Jameson Locke was going to sweep into a board meeting and cast out the heretics among them anytime soon. He believed in their father's eventual return, but they were running out of time. If he rallied every member of the family he counted as an ally, they wouldn't be able to stop what was coming. Brutus remembered what it was like when Nathaniel was thought to be the great man, the way they bowed to him and his will. And when he found that girl who didn't even know there was gifted blood in her family, oh, how sweet it was going to be. Subtle as a shadow, they would slither to the top of the mountain, ready to reap father's praise when he returned. It was a glorious time. Even that little turncoat bonaparte comes seeking his favor, offering to help Nathaniel consolidate the family holdings out west. But where was he when that little hussy tried to kill his boy and fled for the protection of her inbred family in Tennessee? Where was his little brother when his only son was blown to pieces out on the tracks? Oh, to be sure, he'd mourned and wept with the rest of them, and then he'd gone straight to that half-blooded bastard and left his real family behind. Brutus could not allow these fools to betray their masters and jeopardize everything his father had built. He needed someone or something with more power than Haman and his abomination of a son to put a stop to this. And he knew of only one. He knew Jameson had explicitly forbidden it. He knew that by breaking his father's commandment, writ clearly in the pages of the grand manifest, he risked nearly as much as if he did nothing while Solomon put a baby inside some gold-digging witch. But only nearly. It simply had to be done. With one last calming breath, the decision was made. He opened the upper right-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a page of stationery, and took up his pen. My dearest wife, our worst fears are close at hand. By the time you read this, I will be gone. I expect you can guess my eventual destination, and I beg you not to judge me harshly for it. I will do what must be done to preserve the integrity of the oaths my father swore to those who promised us deliverance. I will not allow my half-cibly and his bastard to drag this family into howling madness or disgrace. Know that I do this for the good of our family and to avenge the death of our son. I do not take this journey lightly, my love. I hope you will understand that I have no other choice. Those who oppose us have disregarded the commandments of my father, and so I have no choice but to fight fire with fire. I know this may tear our house asunder, and will bear that mark on my soul in this world and the next. But take heart, my dearest Calipe. As your cards foretold, the star will rise in the shadow of the tower's fall. Pray to the masters for me, my beloved. I hope to see you on the far side of this world. Until the shadows fall, I remain your loving husband, Brutus. Hours later, Brutus' lock sat in the luxurious private car reserved for lock executives on the number 16 train out of Roanoke. Its route wound from the heart of the New River Valley into the mountains of western North Carolina. Brutus wasn't interested in the majestic scenery that surrounded the train as its engine carried it along iron rails, lashed to the ancient bones of the mountain by thick iron spikes. In fact, all the shades were drawn, shutting out the sun and casting the eldest son of Jameson locked in the dim glow of lamplight. Before him on the tables, at a half pour of whiskey, an open pocket knife and a folio containing years of forbidden knowledge gathered in secret. His tired eyes were fixed on these notes, compiled over decades by his faction and its emissaries. Brutus checked his watch and saw that it was time. If there had been another path, he'd have taken it. If there had been another power to seize, he would have moved literal mountains to make it his, alas, there was not. To stop those who would undo the world they'd built, he would have to turn to the darkest heart of that world. Right on schedule, the light around the edges of the shaded windows winked out and the sound around him changed as number 16 plunged into the bowels of the Swannanoa Tunnel. If he'd been in one of the commercial cars, he would hear porters calling out the time until they arrived at Asheville Junction. But Brutus was alone in the dark. He blew out a breath and down the remaining whiskey in one fiery swaller. He picked up the open pocket knife and drew its finely honed blade across his palm. He could hear blood spattering on the pages before him. He closed his eyes and chanted the almost sing-song words he'd spent the afternoon memorizing. I'm going back to Swannanoa town. That's my home. That's my home. My home. Asheville Junction. Swannanoa. All caved in. All caved in. The train lurched to a stop. The air and the executive car grew heavy and still. The mountain trembled around them. A great sleeping dragon of stone and earth staring in its slumber as some intruder found their way into its lair. Brutus locked, swallowed and pressed on. Last December, I remember. Wind blows cold. Wind blows cold. When you hear my watchdog howlin', someone comes. Someone comes. Wind blasted through the tunnel and the train quivered and rattled in the gale. The cries of dogs and men hunting other men filled the cabin and moved on. As the baying of hounds faded, the temperature dropped. The sound of hammers pounding stone rang in the distance and the faces of the dead flooded his mind all screaming, begging him to stop. To shut his full mouth, ride the rest of the way to Asheville and then turn around and go home. And with what felt like the last air he'd ever breathed, he gassed out the final lines. When you hear that hoot-owl squalin', someone dies. Someone dies. The train lurched into motion again and Brutus blinked. Had it not worked? Had he wasted what little time he had left on a fool's errand? Had his father's commandment about trafficking with the beast of Ty and Spike somehow prevented him from... Hello, Brutus. I've been expecting your call. I assume you need a favor. Yes? Well, hey there, family. Welcome to the second story arc of Season 6 of Old Gods of Appalachia, Long Shadows. More importantly, welcome back to the railroad, where we might spend all the live long day learning about the other half of the B&L Combine, the Locke family. I hope you all are ready. And family, I also hope you're ready for what we've been cooking up over in the holler. There are hours and hours of exclusive programming waiting for you as a paid resident of that dark and sacred place. Classics like Bill Mama Akhafen and the Door Under the Floor, as well as our newer stories like our current ongoing series, Unhello Grounds. Featuring Cecil Baldwin and DJ Rogers, it's truly a good time for a very reasonable sum that does not involve your firstborn nor your immortal soul, we promise. Sign up today at OldGodsOfAppalachia.com slash the holler. And while you're there, we'd sure appreciate it if you would do us the honor of completing your social media ritual and following us on whatever platform tickles your dark fancies. And if you'd like to do a little more, Trayton, our merch store is now bursting with t-shirts and other sundry wares from phone cases to home goods featuring your favorite Old Gods characters. Just head on over to merch.oldgodsofappalachia.com. And this is your yes, Eddie Charcoal is home. Let the fan art commence reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep dirt media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written and edited by Steve Shale and Cam Collins. Our intro music is By Brother Land and Blood, and our outro music is the performance of Asheville Junction's Swannanoa Tunnel by Brother Land and Blood. The voice of Rachel Harlow was Sarah Doreen McPhee, the voice of Heyman Locke was Alex McDonald V. Ariel, and the voice of the railroad man, of course, was Yuri Lowenthal. Talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. Your customer just gave someone 45 minutes of their undervided attention, not you, a podcast host. They didn't scroll past, they didn't skip after 5 seconds, they leaned in on purpose because they trust that voice. That kind of attention doesn't exist anywhere else in your media plan, and it's available right now. ACAST is the world's largest podcast marketplace. You pick for audiences, you pick for format, from host sponsorships to programmatic, and you get the performance data that proves your budget well spent. The attentions are really there. Put your brand in it. Learn more by visiting acast.com slash advertise.