Episode 79: Portrait of Authority

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Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratchers from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly, must be 18 years or older to purchase play or claim.

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So, listener discretion is advised.

Tensions were high as the chain-wrapped tires of the company truck carrying the brothers' barrow turned onto the final mile of pitted, frozen asphalt that would eventually lead them up a steep incline into what was once the town of Tourniquet.

The road, if it could still be called such, was all but indistinguishable from the rest of the mountainside of the blinding white.

The cloud cover overhead was gray and oppressive.

It felt as if the whole world was tucked under a heavy quilt.

Despite Benuel's doubts, Mr.

Trench had proved an excellent chauffeur, navigating slick spots that would have sent a lesser driver spinning off the side of the road, a dangerous prospect no matter which side of the frozen, patchy asphalt the car careened over.

To the right

lay a steep ditch full of drifted snow that would mire down the vehicle and perhaps its passengers until springtime.

To the left

was a long, long drop down the side of the mountain.

Yet each time traction abandoned the lumbering ford, the old hollow man had deftly brought the truck back under control, well before its wheels could spin over the edge of the precipice.

Well done, Marcus.

Steady as she goes.

Yes, Mr.

Barrow.

Thank Thank you, sir.

What won't happen again?

The truck crept slowly forward once more, Trench perched at the wheel like some pirate king piloting his vessel through the doldrums.

Benuel Barrow, who had been all for abandoning conventional transportation in favor of his own supernatural means of conveyance, looked nervously out the window into the relentless onslaught of snowflakes.

Worry etched into his spectral face.

I'm glad you talked me out of trying to pass through this storm on my own, brother.

There's something

not right out there.

There is death all about this great turd of a mountain.

But there is something

festering here, making everything about this fetid backwater worse somehow.

Agreed.

I knew it would be a wasteland of sorts, but something here is...

off.

There was sound reasoning in our decision to abandon our operations in these fallow fields.

West Virginia has always been...

challenging, to say the least, but there's something out there in that storm.

It could be Babylon.

A thing like that could cause all kinds of havoc in its death throes, but this feels...

different.

There's an undercurrent of.

I don't even want to say it.

Don't be a chicken shit, brother.

There's something green out there.

Suddenly, Mr.

Trench gave a guttural squawk and slammed on the brakes.

Something the size of a hay wagon covered in dark fur dashed across the road from the cliffside, thundering into the path of the truck.

With the speed that defied its immense proportions, it tore across the road and up the side of the mountain, vanishing into the storm.

The truck fishtailed and spun, and this time even Trench was unable to recover.

By the dark favor of whatever fell deities watch over things such as they, it slid to the right and slammed into the ditch rather than taking the long haul off the other side.

The impact would have thrown a mortal driver through the windshield like a javelin, but upon striking and shattering the glass, Mr.

Trench merely

dissolved

into a cloud of foul-smelling, sickly yellow mist, passing through the cracks to resume his normal shape on the snowy shoulder.

Vinuel appeared on the bank opposite him in similar fashion, allowing his body to slip into its incorporeal state and pass through the solid metal of the truck without a scratch.

Conrad was left inside.

As the truck flipped on its side, then over onto its roof with the screening of crushed metal and breaking glass.

The hollow man and the dead Barrow brother stared at each other across the corpse of the fleet truck for a long moment.

There was no sound from inside,

nor any movement they could observe.

Do you think he's dead, Trenchy?

Marcus Trench tilted his head and smirked.

A moment later, the truck's rear door exploded off its hinges, passing through Vinuel's floating form like a meteorite.

The younger Barrows shot the vehicle an offended look.

Rude.

Conrad Barrow rose from the wreckage, as cool and unruffled as if stepping from his bath.

He dusted off his long overcoat and placed his wool fedora upon his head, then nodded to his brother and valet.

Well, then, I suppose we continue on foot from here.

Lead on, Mr.

Trench.

When the walls close in

and the light gets swallowed,

and there ain't no place that feels like home,

the ones you love

are turn into strangers,

and you cast your eyes to the winding road

Keep your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward, clear your heart and mind

Best believe them ghosts behind

When the hearth goes cold, home is nowhere, then you might as well

when darkness calls run

like hell.

Inside the carcass of Babylon, Polly Barrow peered into the darkness around her.

The moment the door swung to and the latch clicked into place behind her, the shadows began to recede.

A soft glow flickered to life from lamps situated on either side of the space in which she found herself.

It was a small foyer of the sort where one might present their credentials to a doorman before gaining entry to the club proper.

To her right was a small cloakroom.

The wall to her left was covered in once fine oak paneling that buckled and peeled with the damp.

It appeared that at one time it had been filled with an assortment of framed photographs or art.

Most of these were long gone, leaving only rectangles of darker wood protected longer from fading and rot by their presence.

Two absurdly ornate gilded frames hung side by side in the center of the display.

One was empty,

the photo of Jameson Locke, having long disintegrated under the march of time and the dampness of air.

The frame on the left, however,

still held the faded yet clear visage of Elias Pontius Barrow.

Polly's eyes locked onto the painted black orbs of her father, and she raised her hand to the glass.

Daddy.

Oh daddy,

you look just like you do in my dreams.

I knew you wouldn't hide your true face from me.

As Polly tugged on the frame, dislodging the ancient nail upon which the portrait hung, The room filled with a blinding blue-tinged light, and the world went white and silent for E.P.

Barrows' little girl.

She woke what felt like hours later, but couldn't have been more than moments.

At first, Polly had the impression she was in a pit, or that the floor had given way and dropped her into the basement.

As her eyes adjusted to the relative gloom, however,

She realized she was looking up at rows and rows of seats.

An amphitheater.

Recognizing it from the whispers and rumors she had breathlessly related to Mr.

Crane just hours ago, she realized she was in the well

of remembrance.

She stood, stretching out joints that felt oddly stiff, and gazed around the small auditorium.

There were rows of cushioned seats and private boxes, all with more than enough space for whatever private entertainments the occupants might get up whilst observing the spectacle of the mortal cattle being tormented below.

Mirrors hung over flopped damask wallpaper in every other booth to accommodate those who liked to watch themselves at play.

Racks stood conveniently nearby, supplied with various devices of pain and pleasure, wrought in artistic designs both sinister and beautiful.

Needles,

blades, and far worse implements littered the arena.

Polly would bet a fair share of the rumored erotic vivisection had happened right here.

She was surprised at how well preserved the space was compared to what she'd seen of the rest of the building.

She was even more surprised when a voice issued soft and lovely from no readily discernible location.

To enter Babylon and know her delights is to leave the waking world.

To leave the world of men altogether.

Polly grinned as she searched for the source of the sound.

Hello?

Hello?

Who's there?

You have entered Babylon without proper tribute.

Are you an interloper or are you an offering?

Well,

aren't you a presumptive little thing?

Someone needs to teach you how to speak to your bettors.

The lights flickered and dimmed.

The air thrummed with static electricity that threatened to flare into another blinding thunderbolt.

You stand upon the precipice of the well of remembrance.

If you complete your journey across the stage to the door and find what is on the other side, you may go.

Only one of us is leaving here tonight, my darling.

So come.

Do your worst.

You stand upon the precipice of the well of remembrance.

You will proceed.

Now...

the world bloomed into blinding color around poly barrow

the arena around her vanishing in favor of a summer evening the sky painted in the brilliant hues of sunset a finely manicured lawn stretched before a sprawling white house as far as the eye could see

Fireflies blinked in and out of view as a sweet breeze whispered across the grounds.

My, my, my.

You've taken me to my father's summer house in Woodbrier,

starting with my childhood.

Oh,

how original.

Polly watched.

As a little dark-haired girl, no older than three or four, chased lightning bugs across the grass.

Her smile bright and energy seemingly boundless as her tinkling laughter filled the early evening air.

A woman dressed in servants' livery emerged from the house and waved for the child to join her.

But the little girl just shook her head and kept running after them lightning bugs.

Oh, I remember this.

That's my nanny, Orla.

She's going to come over and try to take me by the hand and lead me in.

It was the first time I fully manifested my gauntlet.

I crushed her hand to pop.

If you're trying to make me feel guilty, I'm afraid you're going to have to work harder.

Polly watched as the woman caught up to the little girl and took her hand just as she had predicted.

However, there was no manifestation of an armored glove plated with bone.

The child did not crush the servant's fingers to a bloody mash.

The little girl simply giggled and snuggled into the woman's side as she pulled her close.

There's my girl.

Come now, Persephone.

Let's get you inside.

Polly Barrow flinched, as though her favorite record had suddenly skipped, the music she expected becoming a discordant, scratching wail.

That is not what happened.

You didn't even get my name right.

My name is Polly, and it isn't short for Persephone or anything else.

Polly wasn't sure why this error upset her.

When it all but assured her of her coming victory, she had come here prepared to battle a monster, and instead, this thing couldn't even get her name right.

That is not my name.

My name is No.

No.

It's not your name.

It's hers.

The servant indicated the child whose hand she was holding.

The woman was not young, but far from old.

She had dark hair, soft eyes, and a nose Polly realized looked very much like her own.

Though she was indeed her childhood nanny, Polly remembered Orla clearly.

She'd always been kind to her, staying on with the family even after the incident with her hand.

Now, however,

she looked back at her with cold, cold eyes.

And this isn't Elias' summer house.

It was our house long before you were born.

Polly gazed around in confusion, realizing the woman was correct.

The grand mansion was gone.

They stood now in the backyard of a simple one-story house with a rickety wooden fence.

The mountains of Pennsylvania no longer cradled them.

The surrounding landscape here was much flatter,

the earth stretching to meet the horizon.

I...

I don't understand.

No,

you don't.

You wouldn't.

This child, this sweet angel, could never,

never be something like

you.

The woman knelt, smoothed the little girl's hair, and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

The two of them turned as one to gaze up at Polly.

When your brothers were barely grown, he came out west to find buyers for his coal.

We met at a hotel where I was serving drinks.

Your daddy liked what he saw and kept coming back for the special.

Before long,

I had a baby growing in me.

This little sugar plum right here.

The woman tickled the little girl's tummy and whispered in her ear.

The child beamed and asked, Five more more minutes, Mama?

Orlis smiled and nodded, standing as her daughter went chasing after the rising and falling light of the fireflies.

We named her Persephone, Percy for short.

Elias promised to marry me as his first wife had died giving birth to his second son.

He promised to provide for us, and he did for a while.

He loved me

in his own way, but he never loved anything or anyone the way he loved that child.

I...

I don't understand.

What does this have to do with me?

I waited for him to send for me so that we could be wed.

But his letters grew less and less frequent.

When the influenza came, Percy got sick.

I wrote to him.

And then I sent telegrams.

I begged Elias for help.

I knew he could afford the best doctors, but by the time I heard from him, it was too late.

My baby girl was gone.

Elias was devastated.

He rushed to my side then,

begging for forgiveness.

He'd just been so busy, he said, with one thing and another.

How he cried at her funeral.

As if his tears could bring her back.

That was the end of our romance.

He went back to Pennsylvania, though eventually he did bring me to his house as he'd promised, but.

But he was different

then.

Distant,

strange, he...

He looked right through me as if he didn't know me.

And rather than marry me, he put me to work, scrubbing his marble floors, monitoring his fancy suits

until the day he brought that thing

home.

A beautiful little girl with raven hair and eyes like polished amber.

She looked just like my Persephone.

But that was not my child.

I knew it in my heart.

But,

well,

How could I say no?

How could I turn away?

I told myself she was still just a child.

A child in need of love.

Until the day she did this to me.

The woman held up her right hand, now a mangled, dripping mass of shattered bone and pulped muscle that poured blood down her arm.

soaking her dress and seeping into the grass at her feet.

She sneered at Polly with distaste.

You think your daddy loves you?

That you're the apple of his eye?

He doesn't even see you.

You're nothing but a cheap imitation of the child he loved and lost.

He made a mannequin out of his grief and dressed it up in memories, but deep down,

he knows.

You will never be Persephone.

You will never fill that hole in his heart.

He will love his daughter until the stars burn out of the sky, but he will never love

you.

You are an echo of pain and misery, and nothing more.

I can only imagine how it torments him to have to look at your face day after day, knowing that you aren't her.

At least I got to go to my grave knowing he would never love the thing that took my daughter's place.

Oh,

the look on your face.

That's what we've been waiting for.

How does it feel, pretty Polly?

How does it feel to know you were born out of a broken heart of a morning father?

The only reason you exist is because he couldn't remain in this world without at least seeing her.

You have been nothing but a blight on this world since he drew you up from that pit, and it's about time you went back where you came from.

Orla drew closer as she spoke, her mangled hand shifting and changing until it was a ragged scythe bone.

Polly Barrow regarded the woman, tears brimming in her whiskey-colored eyes as she trembled.

For a moment, incapable of movement or speech, the shadow of her old nanny swung the hooked blade that her mangled hand had become with all her might, aiming for her throat, and Polly caught it in her left hand.

That

will be quite enough.

As she had listened to Orla's speech, the bones that lay dormant beneath Poly Barrow's smooth, unblemished exterior had sprung, unbidden and unnoticed from her flesh, her skeleton shifting, growing, and reconfiguring itself to cover her arm in a plated gauntlet of bone, tipped in razor-sharp claws.

She tightened and twisted her gauntleted fist and felt bones snap and flesh tear.

And with one clean jerk, she ripped the woman's arm off.

Before her eyes, the simulacrum of her old servant disintegrated in a shower of dust.

And once again, the world

changed.

Polly stared around her at the faded glamour of the amphitheater known as the Well of Remembrance.

The lumpy, threadbare cushions pocked with holes gnawed by the rats who had nested there, the warped floors with their cracked and peeling veneers, the grimy scalpels and mouth clamps and chains eaten up with rust, the swollen, sagging wallpaper infected with black mold.

She saw it now for what it was

and felt a raw, half-mad giggle rise in her throat.

You

are good.

You know,

You know, you almost got me there.

You are a good

liar.

This.

And you.

It is all a lie.

Close enough to the truth to fool most people.

But not me.

Ollie strode over to the nearest table, gripped it in both her hands, and hurled it into one of the mirrors that hung on the opposite wall.

Both table and mirror shattered in a spray of glass and splinters.

She raked her claws through mouldering cushions, shredded the stained wallpaper, reduced chairs to kindling.

She peeled back the fine rugs and eyed the concrete slab floor, her cheeks wet with tears she would never acknowledge as she began to rain blows down on the poured stone foundation, her gauntlets punching through the concrete like jackhammers until she saw soft, black earth peeking through the pulverized cement.

You pathetic parasite!

All these years spent gorging yourself on the misery of the cattle we threw into your drooling maw.

And now, you rise up to bite the hand that fed you?

Insolent, ungrateful thing!

You want to drink my suffering and grow stronger from it?

And then what?

Escape this place and swallow the whole world?

Oh no!

Oh no, little parasite!

This world belongs to my daddy and those who give us power.

But if it's pain you want,

I am happy to oblige.

Polly dug her armored claws into the earth beneath the foundation of the building called Babylon and began to tear up fistfuls of the ancient soil, each handful coming away bloody as if she ripped flesh from the body of some great beast.

Her hands shimmered shimmered with the fell power gifted her by those who slept beneath the mountains.

The air around her split with a cacophonous scream, a churning, guttural death wail.

Something that had once been part of the feral green, chained and twisted into a new structure to serve the inner dark, withered and bled.

The walls around her began to shake, concrete and brick and plaster crumbling, great wooden beams overhead cracked under the rain of falling rubble.

Shaking with rage and spattered with the spectral viscera, Polly picked her way through the chaos, moving toward the entrance of the venue.

Walls crumbled.

Stones fell from heights that shouldn't have been possible in such a low-slung building, pulverized what remained of the floors with the sound of thunder.

She clambered over upturned furniture and leftover sinkholes that sprang up beneath her feet as the thing that had dwelt inside Babylon convulsed and died.

Finally, she wrenched a final door open and found herself in the foyer she had first entered as she headed for the door.

She glanced over her shoulder and there, leaned against the wall where she'd left it, was her father's portrait.

P.P.

Barrow's dark, inscrutable eyes peered up at her from a face that seemed carved from limestone.

She had seen him in her dreams thousands of times.

She had never glimpsed so much as a photograph or painting of him in the real world.

And she found she couldn't look away.

It didn't matter if she was built from his memories of some other daughter.

That child had gone the way of all the flesh of this world.

That child had left him.

As she never would.

She...

was undying and unbreakable.

She was worthy of the love and pain her daddy carried for her.

Polly took one step toward the portrait, prepared to race across the room and retrieve it, and then what remained of the roof of Babylon collapsed with all the force of a decommissioned coal mine.

Polly Barrow might have been buried beneath tons of ancient stone in that moment.

Might have been irreparably broken or even outright killed.

Instead, she was knocked off her feet and carried out the door she she had turned away from, tackled by something huge and hairy.

Something that smelled like all of nature distilled into a single scent.

She rolled with the creature out onto the snowy, abandoned main street of what had once been a prosperous company town.

Driven by instinct, Polly leapt to her feet and assumed a fighting posture, the bone armor covering her entire figure now, and she found herself eye to eye with the largest bear she had ever seen.

Behind them, the structure once known as Babylon gave one final wrenching groan and collapsed into a heap of crushed stone, twisted metal,

and billowing dust.

Polly glanced over her shoulder at the wreckage, then turned back to the bear.

She could feel the power that radiated from the beast,

and yet was more than that.

It was no mere possession that could be stolen away.

The bear

was the power.

It was a familiar feeling one she had come into contact with just earlier today.

Understanding, Polly Barrow lowered her hands and nodded slowly.

It is done.

Brother Bartholomew, Avatar the Green, turned sad eyes on the rubble of Babylon.

Snow had begun to fall again and was rapidly concealing the ruins beneath a glittering blanket.

By morning, it would be just one more burial mound in this graveyard of a town.

The great bear chuffed.

lowered his head briefly in acknowledgement, and then turned away and began walking toward the woods.

In a blink,

he was gone.

Turning in the opposite direction back towards the place where Mr.

Churchman had parked their truck earlier, Polly didn't spare another glance for the place where her brothers had sent her to die.

Again,

had they known what she would learn here?

Or knowing Babylon had slipped their control, had they simply believed it would be sufficient to kill her?

She pondered whether to dignify this latest attempt with questions or to return home and let her presence speak for itself.

Ahead, through the still billowing snow, she saw the shapes of two figures emerge from the storm as Henrika's crane and Johann Churchman raced towards her through the blizzard.

She was pleased, if not surprised, to see her men return to her as per her pact with the being that had named itself Bartholomew.

When they joined her, she found her two most loyal associates shaken, but unharmed.

Ma'am,

we were right behind you, and well, I do not know what happened or where we were taken, but that is not important.

Johan!

Get the truck.

Let us get Miss Bower to safety.

Johann Churchman inclined his head to his partner and then bowed more deeply to his employer before jogging back down the road to fetch the forward.

Are Are you all right, ma'am?

I am fine, Mr.

Crane.

And

Babylon?

Dealt with.

My brothers failed to get the job done once again.

Surprise, surprise.

The headlights of the pickup flooded the rapidly darkening street with light as its engine rumbled to life.

Leaving it running, Churchman jumped from the cab and hissed in that awful, not voice of his, pointing back the way he had come.

Henrika's crane reached for the rich well of shadows created by the truck's headlights and prepared for a fight.

Hmm, it would appear we have company, mum.

Before she could argue, her stalwart protector pushed Polly Barrow behind him, and Crane and churchman stood shoulder to shoulder, obscuring their mistress from sight with their considerable mass.

Three figures emerged from the swirling snow.

Stand down, Mr.

Crane.

Or don't, Henry.

See what happens.

Mr.

Conrad, Mr.

Benuel, Marcus,

what brings you out on such a dreadful evening?

Just checking up on our little sister, Henry, old boy.

Have y'all seen her?

The youngest Barrow brother rubbed his palms together with anticipatory glee.

She was sent on an errand to retrieve an item of great importance.

However, it looks as though Babylon has fallen.

Oh,

dear me,

has some misfortune befallen our dear sister?

Might we finally be rid of the little whore?

Conrad smirked, and the two brothers shared a rare laugh.

You should not speak so of your sister, Mr.

Barrow.

It is unbecoming of one of your station.

What did you say to me?

You emptied out old husk shall i gut him brother no oh no no no i imagine old henricus will do the honorable thing and offer to fall on his sword i shan't allow it of course in fact i think i'll outright forbid it better he wallow in his misery for the rest of his long

long

life

without his mistress to poly Barrow chose that moment to step from between her most trusted retainers, favoring her brother with a quizzical look.

And why would Mr.

Crane be without his mistress?

I'm right here,

Big Brother.

What the devil are you doing here?

You seem surprised to see me.

I.

I...

We

actually...

Did not expect you to complete Father's errand so quickly.

The tasks he set for us were...

they were challenging and required much concentration and focus.

We decided to come out and check on your progress.

We imagined it would take you some time, given you have

less experience with such weighty matters.

I approached the task with all due haste, Brother Dear.

After all, the solstice is nearly upon us.

And

you were sent to retrieve a certain family heirloom.

Where is it?

Yes, I do seem to recall that father asked you to fetch something.

Could it be that you failed

again?

Well, that all depends on how one defines success.

You were told to recover the portrait.

You don't appear to have it in hand.

Just so.

It's not a matter of semantics, beloved sister.

Either you retrieved the item you were sent for, or you did not.

Oh, but Connie, dear, you said it yourself.

Father ordered all such likenesses destroyed upon his ascension.

Thus, it would appear that I have merely carried out daddy's wishes.

You destroyed it!

Mm-hmm.

And Babylon, too.

Poor old thing.

You were right, Conrad.

The old girl was practically coming apart at the seams already.

Best for all concerned that I took care of the problem before the situation deteriorated any further.

Yes.

I was planning to send a team out there to demolish it.

And you're certain of this?

Babylon is no more.

Nothing more than a heap of rubble.

A silent one.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's been a long day.

I'll send you my dry cleaning bill.

Oh my.

You boys seem to be without transportation.

Do you need a ride back into town?

I'm afraid it won't be too comfy, but...

Well,

better than walking, isn't it?

It's a long way home, after all.

Johan, be a deer and move some of those old boxes out of the way.

They

can ride in the back.

Well, hey there, family.

Looks like pretty Polly Barrow has come through the fire and the flames once again, but something tells me she didn't quite make it unscathed.

Learning hard things about yourself always leaves its mark.

We got one more chapter to go in this four-part arc we've spent with the children of Barrow House.

A bit of an epilogue, if you will, to wrap up a few loose ends.

Now that sounds downright mysterious, now don't it?

You know how we are, family.

So until then, this is your pretty Persephone just doesn't have the same ring-to-it reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill.

Our theme song is by Brother Landon Blood, and our outro music is by those poor bastards.

Today's story is written by Steve Schell and Cam Collins.

The voice of Pretty Polly Barrow is Tracy Johnston Crum, the voice of Conrad Barrow is Cecil Baldwin, the voice of Benuel Barrow is Brandon Bentley, and the voice of Babylon is Cam Collins.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to your real self.

A story I know

so terribly well.

Through God's dark heaven,

go I,

go I,

through God's dark heaven.

Go I

through God's dark heaven go I

through God's dark heaven

go

I

the hunt it is over

the Lord he won't answer the walls must run with blood oh this house is a cancer.

And in this abyss, I've lost all control.

Is this path to glory?

It's so hard to tell.

Through God's dark heaven,

go I

go I

through God's dark heaven.

Go I

through God's dark heaven, go I

through God's dark heaven

go

I

through

God's dark heaven go I

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Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratchers from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly, must be 18 years or older to purchase play or claim.