Episode 66: Night Comes to the Rock

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

So listener discretion is advised.

In a hidden chamber beneath the mountains of Pennsylvania, or maybe West Virginia, or maybe a place known only to

the Rock,

a crowd had gathered to witness the trial of a being who had worn many faces and introduced himself by many a moniker over the course of his long existence, But who everyone knew was simply

Jack.

Jack of fables, Jack of fools, Jack of all trades and none.

Jack sat now beside his representative at a table reserved for him, wearing an expression of patient boredom.

One might be tempted to believe he was growing tired of the whole sorry affair, although he had borne up under the accusations hurled his way with little comment.

At the moment, Marcy Walker sat at the front of the room in the chair reserved for witnesses.

Jack's history with the Walker family was long and complex, more so than the woman testifying likely appreciated, for Jack had done business with those of the Walker name long before the clan's matriarch, Sheila, may she rest in the arms of the green, was even a twinkle in her own mama's eye.

Many times they had found themselves at cross-purposes, while at others they had formed alliances to their mutual benefit.

Luckily for Jack,

today

was just one such day.

D.L.

Walker, Jack's counsel, paced at the front of the gallery.

So, to be clear, the witness for the prosecution brutally murdered your brother-in-law and your niece's husband and would have done harm to both her and her then-unborn child.

And you called upon Mr.

Fields in an attempt to prevent that?

Yes, that's right.

Mr.

Fields was acting in fulfillment of a debt owed to our family that had been outstanding for some time.

It was no fault of his that.

Marcy worked her mouth sourly as though she were about to spit, but finished stiffly, that

Mr.

Poe's compact with my niece's husband came into conflict with his obligation to the Walker family.

We have the right to defend our kin.

The power of names is a curious thing, family.

When Marcy had spoken Mr.

Poe's name aloud, it sat flat and sour in the room like gas passed by a sickly hound dog.

When she'd spoken her family name, however, there was a sense of acknowledgement whether enthusiastically or begrudgingly from all in attendance.

Half the room might not know Taley Poe or his new handle, but plenty more folks knew the Walkers and what their word was worth.

Harbinger, I fail to see how you can give a single solitary ounce of credibility to Mr.

Poe's grievance.

As Ms.

Walker clearly detailed in her testimony, Trevor Gilbert satisfied his compact with Mr.

Poe when he forfeited his life in place of his firstborn.

Dougie Walker gazed into the shrouded face of the woman on the dais as she spoke.

The elaborate hooded robe she wore prevented Dougie from meeting the harbinger's eyes directly, but she didn't flinch from the stare she knew was aimed her way all the same.

Harbinger, this D.L.

Walker, as she calls herself, is not what we would recognize as a

traditional member of the Walker bloodline.

Miss Gray sneered as she rose from her seat beside Hiram Cook.

She keeps none of the old ways, nor has she ever been known to conduct business outside of...

human affairs.

Are we to believe that she has the slightest comprehension of the ancient compacts that govern our kind?

You don't even believe that, Dougie snorted.

I might not hold with the woo-woo nonsense my mother and sisters practiced when I was little, but I can tell when someone's lying.

You might say I have a knack for it.

A gift, even.

While I may not be permitted the use of that gift within the confines of these chambers, I've been in enough courtrooms with enough hucksters and good old boys to recognize when someone's spinning bullshit to cover the fact that their case is weaker than their granny's iced tea.

You dare speak to me or any of us that way, you insolent little.

A general rumble of discontent rolled through those who had lined themselves with the dark.

Inner or otherwise, hostile eyes in the gallery stared daggers at D.L.

Walker.

The bailiff pounded her staff thrice on the floor of the chamber.

There will be order!

Order, I say!

Do the gray ladies even have grannies?

Skint Tom whispered as he slid back into his seat beside old Green Eyes, a fresh new face stretched over the bones of his skull.

Old Green Eyes seemed...

unsettled.

Inasmuch as a disembodied mist with two floating green eyes in it might be said to express emotions.

How

did you already?

Oh, there's a couple old boys from down at Honecre taking a smoke break outside.

I got this one and a backup to boot.

You want to see?

Tom whispered excitedly.

I do not, replied the mist, rolling its glowing eyes as it turned back to the fray unfolding at the front of the room.

Miss Gray had raised her voice to be heard over the throng.

J.T.

Fields has cheated, robbed, and stolen from both the green and the dog for generations, and his actions prevented Mr.

Poe from getting his.

Mr.

Poe wheedled from the gallery.

Shut your mouth, you shit-stained possum humper!

Marcy Walker spat, rising to her feet.

The practitioners of the green roared with laughter.

Mr.

Poe hissed, his many tails bristling out behind him like a cat surprised by a copperhead.

Silence.

The voice resonated through the specially designed room, vibrating in the bones and teeth of all those in attendance like the gong of a church bell.

The harbinger had risen to her feet and extended her left hand in front of her like a claw.

She was tall for a woman, Dougie thought as the air left her lungs.

How had she missed that when the woman first entered the room?

She had to be at least six foot.

The room fell silent as the grave, as throats closed and mouths snapped shut.

Even the bailiff had a hand to her throat.

That is enough.

You will all leave us now.

Today's session

is closed.

With that, the overseer of these grim proceedings turned and walked from the room, allowing air to flow back into lungs and jaws to unlock

no one or thing said a word for a long moment

the bailiff broke the silence banging her staff hesitantly her usual strident voice strained and shaken

We will resume these proceedings on the morrow.

If you require shelter for the night, please seek out Goodman Leonard in the gold-trimmed sash by the west doors of the antechamber.

The rock

provides

these old roads run

into a ground so bloody

full of broken dreams and dusty bones

They feed a

tree

So dark and hungry

Where its branches split and new blood flows

The ghost of a past you thought long buried rise a haunt the young

The shadow falls, judgment comes

Tread soft, my friend, amongst your fellows.

Take your own word

lest you get what you

deserve.

Of all the folks in attendance at the trial of the man called Jack,

there was one who had gone relatively unremarked upon amidst the flurry of gossip that flew amongst the onlookers in the gallery.

Some people marveled at the poise, confidence, or outright foolhardiness of D.L.

Walker as she worked to defend one of the most divisive characters in all the unseen world.

Others whispered as loud as they dared about the presence and the power of the harbinger, while a vocal number complained about the bailiff's incessant banging of that godforsaken staff, but no one seemed to be talking about the young girl, seated to the left of the accused himself.

Rachel Harlow had not been permitted to speak since the beginning of the trial.

With her voice supernaturally silenced while in the courtroom, most folks had all but forgotten she was there.

Even those who might not have forgotten didn't much care.

Why should they give two hoots about some little nobody of a rot witch who apparently came from old Greta Amberge's farm for Curse Youngins or whatever it was?

While one or two perhaps had wondered what she'd been doing in the company of Jack Fields when the stag had laid him low, it was clearly of little import if she had been prevented from speaking.

After a while, Rachel became virtually invisible to everyone except the men who hustled her and J.T.

Fields to and from the council's chamber.

And of course, Jack himself.

As the two of them were bustled from the room, Jack whispered over his shoulder to her.

You're all right, girl.

The way she's got you shut up out there, I worry you're just going to keel over and bust for not been able to run your mouth the way I know you want to.

I'm fine, Mr.

Fields.

Don't you worry about me.

How's your back?

I know it has to be hard

hearing all these folks talk this way about you.

I don't know how much of it's true, but

you weren't nothing but kind to us.

Oh, hush, child.

Don't you worry about me.

I didn't exactly help y'all out of the goodness of my heart.

And I'm still hurting, but

the old body is knitting itself back together.

Sure would go a lot quicker if luck was on my side, if you catch my meaning, but I'll be all right.

Thank you for asking, by the by.

I can't rightly say I do, sir, but I'm glad you're mended all the same.

I don't suppose you would.

Before the conversation could go any further, a door opened onto a room and a familiar voice called, In here, please, Goodman Cyrus.

Their lone escort, a hulking man dressed in the traditional blacks favored by the folks of the rock, took Rachel by the arm and steered her into a room only a dozen yards or so from the chamber.

Jack caught a glimpse of Miss Gray standing in the doorway as they hustled him past.

Over her shoulder stood a man in a long white coat with a pointed, neatly groomed white beard.

Mr.

Fields!

Mr.

Fields!

Rachel!

Where are you taking her?

Never you mind.

Keep moving.

Goodman Cyrus pushed Jack hard.

His frying-pan size hand slamming into the old trickster's injured back.

Jack cried out in pain and stumbled forward down the long hall.

Rachel Harlow suddenly found herself seated in a sturdy wooden chair across a table from the man in the long white coat.

His face was smooth and relatively unlined, though his hair and beard were completely white.

He regarded her with a calculating expression through eyes of striking emerald green.

Three men in black suits with black shirts and ties hovered behind him, far enough away not to crowd the man, but close enough to intervene should there be any sort of trouble.

Miss Gray stood by a smaller table off to the side, where she poured water into a tall glass from a fancy crystal pitcher.

She offered the glass to Rachel, who eyed it skeptically.

Go on, drink up.

I know you want it.

It's just nice cold well water, girl.

You have my word.

Rachel wanted to refuse the refreshment, but her throat was bone dry, and the sweaty beads of condensation on the outside of the ice-cold glass were too much to resist.

She grabbed it and gulped the water down.

After the stagnant swill they'd been provided in their cells, this tasted like heaven.

Miss Gray refilled it without missing a beat.

Child,

this is Mr.

Bonaparte Locke.

I believe you know his nephew, Solomon.

Solomon?

You mean Jonah?

You're Jonah's uncle.

The man in the white coat smiled.

It was the sort of expression you saw on the face of a preacher on Sunday when you stepped out into the aisle during an altar call.

That warm and invited, won't you come and be saved?

smile that was one part, bless your heart, and two parts, you poor thing, and a dash of everything's gonna be all right now.

Just take my hand.

Rachel didn't trust it for a second.

The man inclined his head and almost bowed.

Indeed, I am, young miss.

In fact, my nephew, Solomon, asked me personally to come and collect you from these

distressing environs you now find yourself in.

He is pleased to extend an invitation to his ancestral home in Philadelphia, where he has recently taken up residence with his father, my older brother.

He tells me you are one of his dearest friends, and he has missed you terribly.

The man's tone implied he was talking to a very small child, which made Rachel trust him even less.

She decided to play along to see what she could learn.

Is

Jonah

all right?

Oh, yes, he's quite well, young madam.

He and his father are thrilled to be reunited at last.

He is learning much at my brother's side.

My nephew will one day command the family's many business ventures.

The fortune he is heir to provides a life of unparalleled security and luxury.

There are many opportunities for a bright young woman such as yourself.

He would like to offer you a place at his side.

Rachel's blood ran cold.

The terrifying women who had intercepted them on the road said they'd been sent by Jonah's father.

If this man had been involved in returning Jonah to that branch of his family, then she was in deep trouble.

Jonah might already be dead or worse for all she knew.

But if that were true, what would they want with her?

Are we leaving right now?

Bonaparte Locke's smile slipped a little bit.

No, not quite.

Eager as my nephew is to spirit you away from this wretched place, I'm afraid we cannot depart until tomorrow.

The hotel where my party is lodging is, well,

very exclusive.

They cannot provide additional accommodations on such short notice, so you will have to enjoy the hospitality of the rock for one more night.

I will return for you before the start of the proceedings tomorrow.

I trust you will have her ready for transport in a punctual manner, Miss Gray.

Of course, Mr.

Locke.

So long as payment has been made to our family for the delivery of young Master Solomon and now the procurement of Miss Harlow here.

Of course.

Your father has been more than helpful in this enterprise.

The man with the perfectly groomed beard snapped his fingers, and one of the dark-suited men produced a plain brown envelope from his suit's interior pocket.

That should cover the monetary end of our bargain.

The other items your dear Pater Familius requested will be delivered once we have safely delivered the girl to the city of brotherly love.

Agreed?

The elegant, bloodless woman nodded and smiled without showing her teeth.

The brown envelope disappeared into her valise.

Agreed.

Bonaparte Locke slapped the table with enthusiasm.

Very well, then, Miss Harlowe, I will see you bright and early on the morrow, and then we will be on our way to a joyous reunion with my nephew and his family.

I can hardly wait, sir.

Good, good.

That smile appeared again, unctuous and greasy.

Do have her look more

presentable, would you, Miss Gray?

We we have standards where we're going.

Of course, Mr.

Locke.

Bonaparte Locke and his men filed out of the room.

Miss Gray turned her steely eyes on Rachel, all pretense of affability shed like an ill-fitting mask.

Up, girl.

Miss Gray opened opened the door and peered out into the hall.

Goodman Cyrus?

See the witch back to her cell.

The hulking guard led Rachel down the narrow stairwell that led to the cells where she and Mr.

Fields had been held for the past month or so.

With Cyrus behind her, there was no chance of running back up.

The man blocked the passage like a steam engine in a tunnel.

Chains rattling as he unlocked the door at the foot of the stairs, he shepherded her across the threshold.

Usually the surly old jailer, Goodman Winston, would be there to clap her in a leg iron and lock her in her cell.

But there was no one in sight as they entered the low stone room.

The air was even colder than usual.

While the cells were located deep beneath the surface of the mountain, the eastern wall faced out into the open air of a sheer drop down into the valley below.

Long, iron-grated transom windows were cut along the top of each cell, the bars leaving enough space for limited ventilation, but not truly enough to stir the air,

which made the draught that currently chilled the space that much more unsettling.

Winston,

Winston,

where are you, you old drunkard?

If on the job asleep you are, swear do I the last time it will be?

Goodman Winston did not answer.

As Cyrus crowded her down the walkway between the rows of cells, a heavy, coppery odor reached her nostrils.

For the first time, Rachel began to consider that perhaps something was wrong here.

The sight of Goodman Winston sprawled on his back on the floor of Rachel's cell confirmed it.

The old drunkard, as it turned out,

was not asleep.

The skin of his neck was torn to ribbons, and his eyes stared emptily out of a face that had frozen in a rictus of terror.

There was, strangely, though, very little blood.

By the rock,

murder.

Know I not how managed you, this witch, but burn for it, you will!

Goodman Cyrus's threats were cut short when a shadow moving at near light speed streaked from the narrow window above, a window Rachel noticed whose iron grating had been torn away and cast into the void below and landed on the big man's chest.

Within seconds, he too was on his back, his throat a jagged gash of spouting blood.

Rachel screamed, and the creature that had just slain both of the men charged with keeping her imprisoned turned its face to look at her.

Shh!

Keep quiet, Rach.

We got to get you out of here.

Skeeter!

Her friend grinned at her, his mouth a bloody wheat field of needle-sharp teeth.

It had only been a month or so since she'd seen him last, but he seemed...

different.

A little taller, the old hand-me-downs from Granny Ambergee had been replaced with a once clean, well-fitting shirt and trousers.

They were still homespun, nothing fancy, but very clearly made with care.

Gazing down at the two dead men at her feet, Rachel mused he'd clearly been eating better as well.

What in the world are you doing here?

Questions later.

Get out now.

The young scion of the night folk was a blur as he scooped her up like a babe in arms and leapt for the narrow window ledge above them.

With a bit of wiggling through the narrow gap and extensive promises that he would not drop her, Skeeter hefted Rachel piggyback style and launched himself into the night,

leaving the hospitality of the rock behind.

The next morning, when Jack was led into the council chamber, he found his representatives seated at their assigned table, but no sign of Rachel Harlow.

No one would tell him or his council what had happened to the girl, and he doubted he'd ever know.

It's a damn shame.

He liked the little witch and felt badly for the girl.

She had no business getting dragged into all this.

He'd not had a job go this sideways in a long time.

Preoccupied with his concern for the girl, Jack only half listened as one of Polly Barrow's hollow men offered testimony alleging that he had interfered in the perfectly legal practices of barrow mineral resources as they attempted to conduct a lawful transaction with an independent contractor who unfortunately could not be here to testify because she had been mysteriously killed in the process.

According to Henrikus Crane, Jack had used his gifts to cheat in a gunfight that cost BNL a considerable number of employees.

Crane's testimony was followed by the recitation of a litany of so-called wrongs committed against the Barrow family by none other than Pretty Polly herself.

The favorite child of old E.P.

Barrow maintained eye contact with Jack throughout her statement, a smug little smile never wavering from her pretty face.

When D.L.

Walker attempted to cross-examine the two Barrow executives, Henrakus Crane simply replied to any question he was asked with a polite,

no comment, ma'am.

Miss Barrow, on the other hand, simply rose and walked out of the room before Dougie could finish her first question, and the bailiff made no move to stop her.

Dougie's eyes narrowed in irritation as she watched the tall, statuesque woman stride gracefully from the chamber.

It was becoming increasingly clear that this trial was little more than a farce.

Glancing over at the table where her opposing counsel sat, she noticed one of the white-sashed attendants whispering to Hiram Cook.

The gangly man rose excitedly from his chair, his eyes scanning the back of the room, and he motioned frantically to the attendant by the door, hissing to the man at his side, Well,

see them in.

It's about damn time.

Dougie surmised that someone had arrived to fill one of the as-yet-occupied chairs reserved for witnesses at the front of the gallery.

Who might it be this time?

She wondered thoughtfully.

Some six-legged beastie from the deep hollers of Isaac County?

Perhaps a blind goat that spoke backwards Latin, who Jack once traded some magic beans that grew into a carnivorous briar patch that ate children.

With her luck, it was probably worse.

Hiram signaled to the bailiff.

The green is ready to proceed with its next witness if it please the rock.

The bailiff leaned down to briefly confer with the woman in the white hood, who nodded slightly.

Go ahead, Mr.

Cook.

The green calls

Mary gold underwood of Oak Mountain, West Virginia.

Well, hey there, family.

In the immortal words of one of the greatest commentators of all time, business is about to pick up as we enter the final four episodes of season four.

What will the fire of the mountain have to say about our man Jack, huh?

What business has he had out on Oak Mountain?

Only one way to find out.

But I think y'all know that.

You're just going to have to come on back next time and find out.

And I think you will.

I hope you will.

I'll be waiting right here, should you decide to.

And now it's time for the announcement.

We know many of you folks have been eagerly awaiting.

Tickets for our 2024 national tour, Unhallowed Grounds, are available now.

That's right, as in today for Patreon supporters at the $15 Bloodkin level and above.

You can find the Patreon pre-sale code over at patreon.com/slash old gods of Appalachia.

For the rest of the family, tickets will be on sale Friday, April 5th at 10 a.m.

local time for your venue of choice.

You can find links to purchase those tickets on our website, old godsofoappalachia.com/slash tour.

Again, old gods of appalachia.com/slash tour.

And folks, do be sure you use the links we posted on our website.

We had some folks last year report paying exorbitant prices because they got hoodwinked by resellers.

Don't you fall for their tricks, family.

Don't fall for the dark trying to bilk you out of money and not even sell you tickets.

Go over to old godsofappalachia.com/slash tour and be sure you're getting getting your tickets direct from the source.

And this is your holy hellbenders on Harley Davidson's.

How is it almost the end of season four?

A reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media distributed by Rusty Quill.

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

Our intro music is by Brother Landon Blood and our outro music, Atonement, is by Brother John Charles Dwyer.

The voice of D.L.

Walker is Cam Collins, and the voice of Rachel Harlow is Sarah Doreen McPhee.

We'll talk to you soon, family.

Talk to you, real sound.

May it always sweep, swift and true.

May it ever sweep, swift and true.

The brains won't move without its roots.

The brains won't move without its roots.

The brains won't blow without its roots.

Surely it will show the rotten truth.

Always it will show the rotten truth.