Episode 99: Master of Doors

Well hey there family. If you love old gods of Appalachia, I want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe 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. Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences, so listener discretion is advised. Hello Brutus. I've been expecting your call. I assume you need a favor. Yes. Brutus locks blood dropped to the temperature of well water as the voice seeped into his ears like poison. He was no longer alone in the luxurious private car. He held his breath, listening for the telltale whisper of the speaker's breathing, but the rocking of the train was the only sound. Reluctantly, he turned his head to find a man sitting in the plush armchair to his left. His lustrous dark hair was neatly quaffed. His temples kissed with just a hint of salt and pepper that complimented the bespoke charcoal gray suit that fit him like a shadow. One finely crafted leather loafer bounced idly atop the opposite knee to the rhythm of the train as it rolled down the tracks. And in his hand was a rocks glass that held a generous pour of whiskey. The stranger looked right at home in what had once been Brutus' younger brother Mordecai's favorite chair. It worked. You came. I wasn't sure you would answer. Oh Brutus, you wound me. You came all this way. You said the words, then spilled your own blood. There's some on your shirt, by the way. You might put little club soda on that before it stains. Brutus glanced down, and sure enough he'd bled all over the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The cut to his palm had been shallow, but he'd always been a bleeder. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into the laceration to staunch the flow. When he raised his eyes again, he found the man in the charcoal suit eyeing him expectantly as if the pair of them were in a play. And Brutus had forgotten a lie. In a way, he had. There were procedures to be observed here. Rules that must be followed. He stumbled over the old words. Oh, oh yes, of course, a hail away were traveler. Oh, silent engine, that which stalks the path of iron. Hail and be welcome, oh ye of many faces and none. Oh, Prince of the Bloody Hammer, oh, busted stone, oh, beast of tie and rail. In the name of my family and for their sake, I come before you today in defiance of my father's will. I am prepared to pay the price. No matter how steep. I bid you welcome and extend my hospitality. Hail. That was one too many hails, but I won't hold that against you. I see you, Brutus, son of Jameson and Annabella, husband of Calliope and father to Nathanium, keeper of the serpent's tooth, watcher of the first station, and by right of blood the true heir to your father's empire. If you don't count your sister patience, and nobody counts patience, do they, Brutus? You're likely to regret that. But I digress. I see you and name you, and I come of my own accord. Let us be true and see what bargain might be struck between us. Ever onward? Ever forward? Yes. Brutus Locke nodded solemnly. He discreetly glanced down at his palm, pulling the handkerchief away to check the wound and found it closed. The blood on his hand dry to the point of flaking. Yes, onward and forward. The man in the charcoal suit sipped his whiskey and iron, Brutus, speculatively. So, in the interest of that transparency, you should understand that the price for this audience and any subsequent favor stemming from our discussion is indeed steep. You will not leave this car alive, little serpent. You and your wretched family have been a blight on the railroad for generations. Your allegiance with what sleeps beneath the mountains has shielded you every time you set foot on my rails. But now you called upon me. You have invited me and drawn me close to your bosom. And from this point forth, my good man, you are mine. I expected nothing less. After Hogskin, the handsome man's eyes flashed at the name, his lip lifted into a sneer. Do not speak of that insipid backwater to me, belly-crawling vermin. Your family crossed me long before you were foolish enough to lay track up to the very doorstep of that which sleeps where there is nothing. But that was a line you should never have crossed. That I took personally. You were never supposed to find your way there. We stopped the tracks before. Before what? Before it woke and followed the path of iron right back down your fucking throat? The feral green cares not for man, nor any other thing that walks this world, you pathetic ape. You went there your own accord. That wasn't our fault. The responsibility was entirely yours. A servant beholden to you and bound by your craft to remain in that foul shitstain of a place called me there. He paid for the part he played, but you will settle the balance due when our business here is done. Brutus Locke swallowed hard and glanced down into his empty glass. Before he could speak, the man from the railroad leaned across the space between them with the decanter, filling the tumbler with a double pour of Irish whiskey. Brutus lifted it to his lips for a fortifying sip that turned into a longer swallow. He felt oddly proud of how little his hand shook as he set the glass down again. Now, as to why I called you here, Brutus' voice faltered as he caught the man's eye and saw a fence taking his shape in his expression. Though the Locke family most often referred to the man as the beast of spike and rail, now that he was in his presence, Brutus understood that this was not a being one summoned as he would a servant. He stammered and changed tack. As to the reason I requested this audience, the stranger dipped his chin in a barely perceptible nod and sipped his drink. My brother, my half-brother, Heyman, has put certain wheels into motion that I and other members of the family, of course, fear will lead us down the wrong path. I do not have the ability to stand him down myself, and the man raised his hand politely to interrupt. He placed his empty glass on the arm of his chair and stifled his fingers thoughtfully. Please, Brutus, allow me. The handsome man leaned across the space between them. He closed his eyes and breathed in the air around Brutus like a bloodhound, senting its prey. Yes, I see. You are in quite the quandary, aren't you, my friend? Daddies never come home. Mamas long dead, big sisters no help. Brother Mordecai and his bride followed your poor mother through the old black door and left you all alone with that little shit bone apart. He's come close to speaking my name, but never quite had the guts for it. Then there's sickly little Heyman. I know Heyman's mother of old. I could tell you stories about that woman that would curdle your blood. The fact that she lured someone like your papa into her bed is a testament to her cunning. Brutus sat wrapped as the man took another sniff and rolled it around his mouth like a sommelier savoring a fine wine. But Heyman... Yes, Heyman is mad as a hatter, crazy as a shithouse rat. His is a belfry so crumbling infested that bats keep their distance and his son... Well, there's the real problem. I take it you would prefer them both dead. What? No, no. The first commandment of the grand manifest forbids spilling the blood of my kin. It is quite specific. Even contracting with the third party is explicitly prohibited. My good man, did you truly believe a man of your brother Mordecai's talents was felled by a common highwayman or that his beloved wife simply happened to fall down the cellar stairs of their home the day after his funeral? Are you so blind that you never suspected your half-brother or his bastard? My brother is an apostate who ignores the commands our father left to keep order and... And yet here you are, daddy's good little boy sharing the good whiskey with me. Why, Jameson would drive that pretty black train of his into a ravine if he knew the company you were keeping. You know the Dulehan? Have you seen my father out there? I know every train that ever touches a track. And no, I never made it my business to keep track of your family's comings and goings. I haven't seen the man in decades. So, if you don't want me to kill them both, what exactly do you want, Brutus? There's a girl, a woman, another deep intake of breath, and the man in the charcoal suit smiled. I see. Well then, by the old words in the new, I accept your terms. Consider it done. Wait, what are you gonna do? Brutus, my boy, our deal is struck. What happens next is none of your concern, which brings us back to the matter of my payment. I would tell you this isn't going to hurt, but we both promise to speak true, did we not? When the fire dies down, and the woods go quiet, and you think you told every tale you know, and old flame blooms, 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. Rachel Harlow stood in the narrow one-bedroom apartment in Louisville that she'd occupied for the past six months, carefully packing what few possessions she could call her own to cardboard boxes. Though an apart lock had insisted she bring all her belongings on the trip to Philadelphia, when she pointed out she had not yet agreed to marry Solomon only to meet with him, the man had smiled. My dear girl, whether or not you accept my nephew's proposal, I have a little doubt that after this meeting you will find yourself in far more suitable accommodations. Rachel had to suppress a grin at the way Bonaparte's lip had curled as he gazed around the shabby little walk-up she called home. She supposed she might have been offended, but she knew it wasn't much. The floorboards were warped, though an oleum in the tiny kitchenette was cracked and its meager furnishings which came with the apartment were threadbare. It was simply what she'd been able to afford and move into immediately when she'd arrived in Louisville. She'd lived in worse places over the years and nicer ones too, but she'd have bet five whole dollars that the nicest house she'd ever set foot in would look like a shack to the man who insisted she called him Uncle Boni. So she had conceded the point and agreed to gather all her worldly effects for the journey ahead. Uncle Boni had pressed an envelope made of heavy weight paper into her hand and kissed her on the cheek by way of farewell. The envelope felt smooth between her fingers and carried a complex design embossed in the upper left corner whose details she couldn't entirely make out. She wondered if it might contain a note from Jonah and Solomon rather, but it was too thick for a letter alone. I'm afraid I must leave you for now my dear. I have business to attend to, but you have nothing to fear. My security detail will remain here to ensure your safety. Don't hesitate to ask if you require anything at all from them. I'll meet you at the station in Philadelphia. Rachel had waited by the door until she heard the exterior door downstairs open then close again before tearing open the envelope. Inside she'd found a first-class train ticket and a truly shocking amount of cash. There must have been five hundred dollars. More money than Rachel Harlow had ever seen at one time in her entire life. She hastily shoved the envelope into her pocketbook, her heart suddenly pounding with conflicting emotions, not all of which she could name. The sting of wounded pride brought a flush to her cheeks even as relief weakened her knees. With this much money she could sneak away, buy a car and be gone just like that. She was certain she could slip past the security detail without much trouble. From there she could go anywhere, anywhere at all. Vodapart Locke surely knew that, and yet he trusted her with it. Rachel felt a pang of shame at the thought. No, she couldn't do that. She had agreed to meet with Solomon and she truly did want to see her old friend again. Wasn't the money and the trust extended in leaving her alone with it evidence enough that Solomon and his family were acting in good faith? So Rachel had started packing. It had taken longer than she'd anticipated as she'd sunk into the apartment's narrow bed for the last time that night. She found herself grateful for the extra time Uncle Boney had allowed her by going on ahead. The following morning as she taped up the last box and added it to the stack by the door, Rachel cast her eye around the grubby little dwelling searching for anything she might have missed. She found nothing. Which wasn't much of a surprise. She never had much. She'd had to leave too much behind over the years to accumulate the sort of clutter most folks wound up with by 25. Held by her age, most people had a whole home of their own, and a family besides to help them fill it with furniture and tools, clothing and shoes, books and records and knickknacks and all the other odds and ends of daily life. Rachel had never had much time for romance between working and running for her life. Rachel was all alone. Not anymore, she told herself as she shouldered her pocketbook, not for long. Then she walked over to the window and waved to the man in the black suit standing by a long black car parked by the curb, signaling that she was ready for him to come up to collect her things and drive her to the station. The sprawling grounds of Pindaren Hall sat in the southeastern corner of Bolton Township outside of Philadelphia. It was a majestic limestone edifice in the neoclassical revival style, with over 55 lavishly appointed bedrooms, an indoor swimming pool, a cavernous wine cellar, and an art gallery that could easily hold a thousand assembled dignitaries and socialites with ease. Given that the house shared its name with the birthplace of railway steam locomotion, it was frequently described in society columns as a temple honoring the industry where the Locke family had made its fortune. But while Jameson Locke had indeed hired the most talented architects and contractors in the country to erect the stunning man, he had not in fact built it as a tribute to his life's work. Pindaren Hall was a love letter to his late wife Annabella. After she had stood by him throughout his rise to power as a titan of industry, Jameson Locke had set about building a place for the woman who was the queen of his heart. He had chosen the name because the small town in Wales that was the home of the steelworks that burnt the first steam engine to ever run on rails was where he had taken his bride on their honeymoon. The business contacts he made there and the work he did while they were there aside, it was the happiest time of his life. Before the shadows pushed his mind into the fever dream of his service to his dreadmasters, before the children came along and changed their marriage, as all children must do, he had kissed a pretty girl on a cobblestone street and celebrated their union. She was his everything, and so he built her a mansion that reflected that love. These days, the halls of Pindaren were the home of Heyman Locke and his only son, Solomon, among other assorted family members loyal to Heyman and his cause. The three oldest children of Jameson Locke had built their own magnificent homes and had long since stopped keeping rooms at Pindaren, which was for the best. Its halls were not safe for anyone who hadn't cast their lot with the youngest Locke's sion. For those who had claimed it, Pindaren was a place of power and sanctuary, a family history and learning. Today, in a room located deep beneath the west wing, school was incisioned. The chamber was longer than it was wide, with black slate floors and high stone walls that vanished into the darkness above, rendering it easy to forget the elaborate estate that rested above the heads of those who had gathered there. On the north side of the room, a ring of heavy iron was set into the stone floor, its surface etched with overlapping rooms and sigils that gave off a sickly silver-blue light the color of burning gas. Low squat stone braziers filled with a similar low burning flame sat on either side. Despite its size, the room had grown insufferably hot from the heat pouring off the smoldering vessels. In the center of the graven rings to the figure that was shaped like a man. From a distance, it was easy to mistake as such, but was not. It was, in fact, a miracle of Locke engineering known as the Arbiter. The physical body that housed the thing on this plane was an unholy marriage of flesh and machine, comprised of the limbs and head of the mummified corpse of a green-touched man, the boys in R&D had snatched up from his family dinner table in some forgotten backwater of eastern Kentucky that even Solomon had never heard of. They had killed his wife and children, of course. It wouldn't do to leave witnesses. They had vivisected the unlucky witch and then carefully preserved his constituent parts by way of a dark ritual unearthed from some ancient Greek text. While the flesh cured, they set about building a framework to hold it upright, a cage of steel and wire, pipework and steam, gears and pistons inscribed with runes transmitted to them in dreams by the being known as the Arbiter. They had commissioned a pair of lungs made with fine thin layers of skin preserved from the man's back from a cannibal seamstress in Georgia, which inflated with steam so that the Arbiter might speak in its raspy whisper. They had constructed a tiny engine to pump oil through its preserved black heart. They had sacrificed three of their own children to power the greater circle required to summon the Arbiter and dedicate this unhallowed vessel to its service. The iron ring in which it stood had been infused with the fell magics that both facilitated its presence in this world, where it served the Locke family at the behest of the sleeping darkness under the mountains and kept it contained. They could release the Arbiter if they wished, but the general feeling amongst the family was it was safest to keep its power in check unless an emergency situation arose. Thus the service it currently provided to the Locke's primarily consisted of tutoring those who had accepted the sooty sacrament of the inner dark, honing each of their dark talents to its deadliest edge. It was called the Arbiter because the elders of the family relied upon its evaluation of its pupils' abilities and potential to determine where each would ultimately take his or her place within the family hierarchy and within Locke rail. Its power ultimately lay in conferring power upon them. The Arbiter didn't have the final say, not quite, but it was a near thing. Three members of Locke rail's security detail, nearly indistinguishable men in black suits with black ties hovered near the room's entrance in the southern wall. By the western wall was a small bar, staffed by two men dressed in Locke's distinctive silver livery. At one end of the bar sat a stack of fluffy white towels and a neatly folded set of clothes to be provided to the young master at the end of his lesson. The other end held a bucket of ice stocked with three bottles of beer. The amber glass misty with condensation. A student's desk crafted from wrought iron and polished wood had been placed directly across from the Arbiter. A stack of books, including a copy of the grand manifest rested on the floor beside it. At the desk sat the family's star pupil, Solomon Locke. The young man was scanning the text of a book closely, sweat forming on his brow. He scribbled a few frantic notes on a pad and then compared them to the text. He nodded, seeming to come to a conclusion. The light around the iron ring shifted from spectral blue to fluttering half moon white. And then somewhere a bell sounded, tinny and high. The Arbiter's voice burst into Solomon's head like steam from a blown gasket. Time, can you impress me boy? Solomon Locke glanced over his notes one last time and stood. The young man appeared exhausted. The sweat-soaked dress shirt he'd worn to this lesson was draped over the back of his chair and he worried his undershirt would need to follow. His throat was dry and his knees were shaky and when he spoke a faint Kentucky twang leaked into his voice. I aimed to do my best sir. Mind your diction boy. You are not common trash and you've been in your father's house long enough to know better. Solomon cursed inside his head. His accent always snuck up on him when he was tired. He knew that sounding like some dumb hick wouldn't get him anywhere in this world. His father's inner circle had all but beaten that fact into him. Apologies, good master. Mether, now I didn't ask you to try. I asked you to impress me. Can you do it? The man once known as Jonah Hellbender didn't trust his tongue with another word. Instead he stepped forward and focused his will, reaching out with his mind. He closed his eyes and felt for the very edges of the world that lay beyond the sight of men. He worked his gifts like the fingernails of an elderly auntie at Christmas time, carefully prizing the wrapping paper off a present so it could be saved to use next year. He found the seam and pulled. The air sizzled and the smell of burning hair filled the stone chamber. When Solomon opened his eyes they shone silver like moonlight reflected off nickels. He peered into the tear in reality before him, a ragged wound rent from the very flesh of existence and on the other side of that flickering doorway sat a woman at a table. Through the misty haze he could see her hands moving on the tabletop. She appeared to be turning cards. Behind him the arbiter hummed inquisitively. Solomon's voice was cold and measured as he answered. The yardhouse in Pittsburgh, my Uncle Brutus' estate, that's his wife, Kilipe. Father says we have to keep an eye on them. I usually can't see her if Uncle Brutus is home. He must be traveling. Could you pass through, boy? Could you strike her down if needed? Solomon knew there could be a trap in those words so he answered carefully. My grandfather forbade killing our kin, good master, as you know. But could you, if your father commanded, if your masters commanded? Solomon did not hesitate. Uncle Iope is a sad old woman who never recovered from my cousin Nathaniel's death. She's been nothing but kind to me but I'd take the light from her eyes if it served our cause. The arbiter hummed again and Solomon raised his hand to the portal. He touched his pinky to his thumb, then to his index, then to his ring finger, and the seam changed. This is something Uncle Boney and I have been working on. I hope it pleases you, sir. Now the portal showed bone apart Locke, talking to a young woman with rave and hair and beautiful dark eyes. Solomon's heart skipped a beat. The opening in reality shuddered for a moment, but he quickly steadied it. Oh, oh. He told me he would be at the office in Louisville when we did this, but I suppose he wanted to show me he has her in hand. Except for old Uncle Boney. I'll have to thank him. Sound did not carry through the portal, but he could see his uncle's lips moving. Solomon hoped he wasn't saying something embarrassing. Uncle Boney had been a great help to him since he was reunited with the family, but frankly the old man could grind on his nerves after a while. Rachel Harlow, the closest friend he'd ever had, turned her head as bone apart pressed an envelope into her hands and kissed her on the cheek. The view followed Solomon's uncle like a camera in a picture show as he walked on several flights of stairs before stepping out onto a busy street. Then he turned to look at Solomon through the portal. Their eyes met, and the younger man redoubled his efforts, and after a moment he nodded. Bone apart waved, and then stepped through the door opened by his nephew in Louisville, Kentucky, and emerged in Bolton Township, Pennsylvania a heartbeat later, crossing more than 500 miles in the blink of an eye. Solomon released his will, and the tear in the world healed itself as the older man slipped off his coat in deference to the heat. Well done nephew, Arbiter. Good to see you old friend. How Solomon is becoming quite the master of doors and keeper of ways, is he not? He is growing, but he has yet to open passages beyond this world that are fully functional. If he cannot breach the master's realm, he is all but useless to us. He might be a great man, but not the great man. He lacks the control required. His father sees it. That's why he seeks an heir beyond you, boy. Solomon Locke's expression was impassive as he gazed back at the abomination of dead flesh and steel, though inside he seethed. Lack of control. He had worked for the better part of 10 years to focus his gifts, to become the man his family needed him to be, and this thing had the nerve to pass judgment over him. As if he were some prototype engine that wouldn't make it off the test track. There was more to being the great man than nearly doors and ways. The Locke family prided itself on its core gift of reaching into the minds of men to twist them to whatever ends they needed. Be it the subtle tweak required to achieve a favorable result in a negotiation, or forcefully directing the eyes of law enforcement away from certain elements of its business ventures. There were other sundry gifts scattered throughout the Locke bloodline, but what his uncle Boney called mind work was the family's calling card. Solomon reached out to touch each mind in the room. He quickly passed over the security detail, as they were not proper people. He was not privy to the details of how the drones that served in the security division were created, but he had made the mistake of trying to read one of their minds when he was young, and it had nearly broken him. The men in black suits did not have minds to read per se. It seemed rather they all shared one mind. Attempting to read the security drone had been like opening an outhouse door and finding himself in an endless hall of mirrors. Whales of torment rebounded from thousands of souls that fit together like teeth on the gears of a great machine, clicking and turning in an ever-ending twilight that smelled like burning diesel. The arbiter was also off limits. The tutor appeared to Solomon's gift as a blank space in the psychic landscape, just the empty shape of a man with nothing inside. His uncle's defenses, of course, were a fortress as he'd been trained from childhood to shield his thoughts like all the Locke siblings. The bartender and Valet on the western edge of the room, however, were men. He extended his gift toward the bartender who had pulled a bottle of beer from the ice bucket and was reaching for his bar key and slid into the man's mind. His eyes unfocused and his face fell slag. Solomon wrapped the tendrils of his power around the bartender's mind, feeding him images of his house burning, the sounds of his wife and children screaming from within the flames, carefully he planted a seed of terrible knowledge, the indisputable certainty that Solomon, his trusted employer, was the one who had lit the match. Rage contorted the man's face as he smashed the bottle on the edge of the bar and vaulted over it. You up, jump, son of a bitch! I'll cut your throat! I'll cut you to pieces, boy! The bartender was within maybe 15 feet of Solomon. When the smell of burning hair filled the room again, the fabric of the world split open once more and one of the creatures that had kept Solomon safe since he was a baby pushed its way through from the other side. The whirling mass of tentacles and teeth shot across the room, twining around the attacking servant and the man barely had time to scream before it pulled him back the way it had come through the portal into whatever hellscape had birthed it. Solomon neatly closed the door behind it and turned to sneer at the glowing construct in the iron ring. How's that for control, good master? The arbiter shook its head, unimpressed. Dress it up however you like, boy. You could do that when you were an infant. Your father is right. The arbiter fell abruptly silent, its ghostly flame sputtering for a brief second before dying. The construct shuddered and then slumped over in art, an empty vessel. Solomon glanced over to see that his uncle had extinguished the fires on either side of the iron ring, disrupting the summoning and banishing the arbiter to the darkness from whence it came. That's quite enough of him for today. Bonaparte turned to the remaining servant who stood stone faced by the bar. Let's have those other two beers, Simon. That's a good man. Solomon sighed in frustration as he accepted the bottle of beer his uncle passed him. He's right, Uncle Boney. I still can't do what father needs me to do. I can open the door, but I can't go through. I can't even make my guardians obey unless I'm in danger. Once I give him a grandchild, what use will he have for me? Bonaparte luck took a long swig of his beer and thought about it. Try not to worry too much, nephew. Your dear Rachel knows all about controlling dangerous and powerful gifts. She's come a long way since you last saw her. Win her heart and perhaps she'll teach you what you need to know by the wedding night. I've been down here for a million years. Survived the flood and the fire. I can't wait till all the gooden. Well, hey there, family. Thank you for following us as we make our way down the tracks here in the second story arc of season six of Old Gods of Appalachia, Long Shadows. We've got many miles to travel yet with Solomon Locke and Rachel Harlow, so I hope you'll come back and see what comes next. I bet you will. And if you wondered what happened in Hogskin that would make the railroad man hate the Locke family so, you can find out by joining us over in the holler, our paid subscription service where for a meager sum you can access that very tail, the ties that bind, featuring Yuri Lowenthal, Cecil Baldwin, Cam Collins, Brandon Sartain and Aliyah Hutchison. Just head on over to Old Gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler to sign up today. And while we're on the subject commerce, we'd be remiss if we didn't talk about our merch store, which is chock full of the perfect gifts for moms, dads and upcoming grads this time of year, whether you need a t-shirt, a phone case, a tote bag or other home goods featuring your favorite Old Gods characters, you can find them over at merch.oldgodsofappalachia.com right now. And this is your don't you wish you could know somebody's whole story by sniffing them like old daddy charcoal reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep nerd media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story is written and edited by Steve Shell and Cam Collins. Our intro music is by Brotherland and Blood. And our outro music today is I Can't Wait for Armageddon by those poor bastards from our new album Black Tongue. There's a link to purchase that directly from them down in the show notes. The voice of the railroad man was none other than Yuri Lowendahl. Talk to you soon family. Talk to you real soon. Terrible storms, violent hail. I can't wait till armageddon. I can't wait till armageddon.