Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 100: One Way Ticket

Episode Date: May 28, 2026

Wheels are set in motion, and there is no turning back.CW: Discussion of murder of family members, monster and train sounds, occult practices, mutilation and reanimation of a corpse, mind control.Written by Steve Shell and Cam CollinsProduced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellThe voice of Haman Locke: Alex McDonald VillarealThe voice of Marlena Locke: Glenna GrantThe voice of Rachel Harlow: Sarah Doreen MacPheeThe voice of the Railroad Man: Yuri LowenthalIntro music: “The Land Unknown (The Where the Light Don’t Reach Verses)” written and performed by Landon BloodOutro music: “Can’t Wait ‘Til Armageddon” by Those Poor Bastards (download)Special equipment consideration provided by Lauten Audio.LEARN MORE ABOUT OLD GODS OF APPALACHIA: www.oldgodsofappalachia.comCOMPLETE YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA RITUAL:FacebookInstagramBlueskySUPPORT THE SHOW:Join us over at THE HOLLER to enjoy ad-free episodes, access exclusive storylines and more.Buy t-shirts, hoodies, mugs, and other Old Gods merch.CLASSIC MERCH: merch.oldgodsofappalachia.comTOUR MERCH & SPECIALTY ITEMS: oldgodsmerch.com.Transcripts available on our website at www.oldgodsofappalachia.com/episodes.© 2026 DeepNerd Media. All rights reserved. No part of this audio production or its written transcript may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/old-gods-of-appalachia. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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 ACAS 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. In his private office inside Pindarine Hall, Heyman Locke sat at the massive Edwardian desk he had inherited from his father, hands folded before him on the rich leather blotter, and watched. The de facto head of Locke Rail's eyes were open,

but he was not looking at the immaculately finished wood paneling on the walls or the priceless Persian rug that covered the floor, nor the portrait of Jameson Locke that hung on the southernmost wall of the room. Heyman's eyes were elsewhere, lost in the shimmering glow of his gift. Today, they peered through the... the eyes of a security drone in the Arbiter's instructional chamber. Seeing through the anonymous automaton's that staff Lock Rail's security division was an old bit of mindwork that Heyman had learned in his youth from his half-brother Mordecai.

What he had once thought of as a childish trick came in quite handy for keeping tabs on what was going on in the many departments of Lock Rail. And since Solomon had returned to the fold, he had frequently employed it to observe his son's lessons. At the moment, Solomon and his half-brother Bonaparte were sharing a moment of generational camaraderie, nephew and uncle clinking bottles and worrying about the future. The images came through the drone's eyes and flickering black and white. The sound tinny and far away like the voices of the singers on the records his mother played on her victrola. He's right, Uncle Bonny. I still can't do what father needs me to do. I can't 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? 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. Heyman snorted at his half-brother's vulgar sense of humor. He focused his gift of the picture became sharper. Their voices clearer in his mind. Go get showered and changed.

We've an hour before we needed upstairs for supper. We'll swing by my rooms and have a proper drink while I freshen up. Haman watched as Solomon walked out of the furnace, as the men called the sweltering dungeon that was the Arbiter's Chamber and headed toward the locker rooms located down the hall. His man remained behind, allowing him a clear view of his brother. mother. Bonaparte down the rest of his beer and then walked over to the braziers on either side of the Arbiner's binding circle and relit them with a flourish of his hand. The ruins on the iron ring

blazed and the golem of flesh and hammered copper and steel surged to life again with a hissing intake of breath. Necessary. So was telling the son of your master that he's worthless. You stitched together sack of scrabble. The eyes of the arbiter burned painfully bright as it glared at the white-haired man. The one who summoned and bound me here has disappeared down the iron road. His runt is minding the store

until he returns or until someone puts him in his place. The thing's words, Held no malice. It imparted only cold facts. Still, Haman pursed his lips in disapproval. Mind your tongue, slave, or I'll... You'll what, put out my fire. Banish me from this corpse. Do you know where I go when the fires here are unlit, little bone apart? you and yours because I must. Head little cock switch me on and off like one of your machines.

When this world splits open and the age of men is ended. Yes, yes, and all good servants will be rewarded and will ascend with the masters to reign in shadow forever and ever. Amen. Bonaparte loosely quoted his father's writings as he washed the words down with the last swig of Solomon. man's beer. The arbiter sneered. Just like when you were a boy, you cherry pick your father's words,

omitting what your feeble heart cannot bear. The arbiter bowed its head as though reading scripture aloud at Sunday Mass. However, the voice that rolled from its throat was not its customary gasping weeds, but the rich tones of the man who crafted the words, who had spoken them into being to be inscribed into the grand manifest. When this world splits open and the age of men has ended, the masters will rise and their

righteous and loyal servants shall ascend with them. Those who remain steadfast and true were reigned in the falling shadows that were washed this world clean. Bonaparte, Locke, gasped at the sound of his father's voice. It had been too many years, and he had been too young for his memory of the man to be more than a half-remembered dream, but he had heard recordings of the man's voice many times. All traitors and their kin shall be torn asunder and fed to their bettors like hogs after the slaughter. The Grand Manifest, the prophetic index, chapter 17. That's what your father, our master's proper vassal, wrote. If you're going to quote scripture, get it right, little piggy.

Bonaparte scowled at his old teacher, and then with another wave of his hand extinguished the blue flame in the stone pots, banishing the arbiter back to the inner dark. Silence, you upjumped pile of roadkill. He had hated the thing in his youth. Patience, Brutus, and Mordecai had primarily been tutored in the ways of the dark, by their father. By the time Bonaparte was old enough to begin his training, James and Locke was away more often than he was at home, carrying on with E.P. Barrow and others in service to the masters, and thus had enlisted the help of the arbiter to fill in the gaps. It had been a harsh taskmaster,

and he relished the power he held over it now. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his mouth and took a deep calming breath. He had just enough time to compose a himself before his nephew returned from the showers, now dressed for dinner in a fine bottle green suit. His hair neatly combed. Ready when you are, Uncle Bonny? Bonaparte cast one last nervous glance at the Arbiter's circle. He could use a drink to steady his nerves. Yes, nephew, I find myself suddenly poached. Let us away. When the fire nigh down, in 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 to fall. Heyman Locke watched as his son and sibling wound their way up the corridors toward Bonaparte's chambers,

trailed at a discreet distance by his watchful drone. The Arbiter's comments had not been surprising, but nevertheless they stung. That thing had lavish praise on him as he came into his powers when it had been his own mentor. He wasn't sentimentally attached to the construct, but when he was younger, its raspy praise brought him comfort when his mother had retreated into her private rooms. He supposed he knew the arbiter's ultimate loyalty would be to his father, but he could have done without hearing it put so bluntly. Solomon's words were equally hurtful, but nevertheless he was proud of his son for being realistic and practical. Perhaps the boy had some sense of self-preservation after all. Haman had begun to refocus his efforts on the private conversation he might witness

that the drone was allowed to accompany the pair into Bonaparte's private quarters when there was a knock at the door. Donovan, his own personal security guard, poked his head into Haman's office. Apologies for the intrusion, Mr. Locke? Haman scowled in annoyance as the distraction caused the vision from the hallway of the east wing to waver. and blur. I'm busy, Mr. Donovan. I'm sorry, sir, but you have a visitor?

Haman tried to hold on to his far sight, blinching as Bonaparte made direct eye contact with him through his infiltrator. Tell them to come back later, Donovan. I'm afraid I can't, sir. Uh, she wouldn't like that. Haman shook his head as the stream of images snapped abruptly off, as his half-brother's annoyed face loomed in close to that of his mole. What? She who, Donovan? Explain yourself. The voice that issued from behind the bland man in

the black suit was as sweet as honey, laced with a bitter edge of arsenic. Oh, don't be so hard on Mr. Donovan, son. He's only doing his job, and he's right. I wouldn't appreciate it if you refuse to see me. The woman who stepped around Donovan was stunning, though she had clearly entered the golden years of her life. She possessed a sultry radiance that would make the starlets of the silver screen step aside as she passed. She wore a figure-hugging emerald green dress that complimented flaming red hair untouched with silver despite her years, though by the grace of witchcraft or a talented hairdresser,

Haman couldn't have begun to guess. The patent leather heels she wore to boost her petite frame clicked across the polished oak floor with purpose, if not speed. Marlena Locke. did not hurry for anyone. Haman all but leapt from his chair as his mother sashied into the room with the grace of a ballroom dancer. Born Marlena Coleman of the Coleman Timber Empire, she had been married off to three other captains of industry and had buried every one

before she met the recently widowed Jameson Locke. It was whispered that each of them had died by her hand, but Jameson had merely shrugged off such gossip, unafraid of his new paramour's dark powers. Finally, a man she could respect and did not immediately wish to kill. Their courtship had been brief and blessed by the shadows that called to them both. And while her gifts were not as varied or as potent as her fourth husbands, her cunning and ruthlessness were a perfect match for the founder of Lockrail.

She was seductive and charming. A woman who cared for none but herself and her own blood. Her stepchildren loathed her, but her one and only son loved and feared her with a zeal bordering on madness. Oh, mother, yes, of course. Do come in. Donovan, why didn't you say it was my mother? How rude of you to keep her waiting. You may go, back to your station.

Yes, do. Oh, run along, Donovan. But don't go far. I might have need of you later. Heyman glared at his mother in disbelief as she appraised the form of his bodyguard, as if the thing were a uniquely handsome creature rather than a nigh faceless duplicate of the rest of the security division. Mr. Donovan, for his part, did not seem to notice. He turned smoothly and returned to his post in the hall, closing the door behind him. Really, mother! Calm yourself, child.

A lady can admire a fine tool, even if she's not going to put it to use. I mean, what can I do for you today, Mother? Are you not pleased to see me, Heyman? Oh, no. I mean, yes. Of course, I'm always happy to see you, Mother. I just didn't expect to see you this evening. Did Colleen forget to put you on my calendar? I didn't think we had dinner plans until next weekend.

I swear I'll flay that girl alive. Colleen, get in here! Marlena Locke beamed at her only son with motherly pride. She reached out to smooth his lapels and wrangled a stray cowlick back into place. I sent your secretary home for the day. I thought it would be more appropriate to congratulate you in private, given the nature of your latest accomplishment. Accomplishment?

I'm not sure I catch your meaning. I don't know why you wouldn't have consulted me about such a potentially dangerous move, but I am very proud of you nonetheless. Heyman stared blankly at his mother and tried to think of anything he'd done lately that might impress her. The girl. She must be talking about the girl. Oh, that. Yes, I told you last week we'd found a proper match for sure.

Solomon, I was planning to introduce her to you once I'm certain that she's a suitable match. But she won't even be here until tomorrow. You are more than welcome to join us for dinner, though. Solomon would be thrilled to see you. Heyman's mother stepped close to him, took his hands and kissed them. She met his eyes with a deep searching look, waiting for him to confess the truth to her. Heyman, son, you don't have to be so modest. You know mother will always support you,

and I would have supported you in this endeavor if you'd only shared your plans with me. Ever a mama's boy, Heyman Locke smiled vapidly at his mother, basking in her praise while hoping she'd get to the point and tell him what the hell she was talking about. Heyman, I'm talking about Brutus. Heyman's brow furrowed.

Brutus? What about Brutus? What's that insufferable Oaf done now? He's dead, my son. I assumed it was on your word? What? No. What the devil happened? The details are unclear, but they found him in one of the private cars at a station down south. Stiff as a board was not a mark on him. No witnesses. Are you telling me it wasn't you? Marlena watched the wheels turn behind her. son's eyes as he absorbed what was clearly new information.

Down south. Where? Georgia? Alabama. In the mountains of North Carolina. Heyman opened the third desk drawer on the left and produced a route map of the mini stations served by Lock Rail. His eyes scanned the squiggly lines and winding paths feverishly. What station, mother? Why wasn't I notified sooner? Asheville. Yardmaster Reinhardt called this morning. Things are moving in our favor currently, but there would be no reason to harm Brutus or patience. Not yet, anyway.

Something must have spoke to him if he literally ran for the hills. Oh. Oh, my. To answer your question directly, Mother, no, I did not order this. If he turned up dead in Asheville, that means he passed through the tunnel. I don't think he was running from me. What does a tunnel have to do with this? Haman tapped his finger on a broken line that read alongside tracks, passing through a mountain labeled.

Swansea Noah on the map. Realization dawned in the older woman's eyes, and her legendary confidence faltered. Oh. Oh, no. Do you think he... Or it killed him? Your father made it. Very clear there are places where our blood is not welcome, even on the rails.

Why would that lummox even go there? Unless... We shouldn't assume anything yet, Mother. But you should call in Calliope. If no one has informed her yet, best it comes from you. If she's already aware, see if you can figure out how much she knows. I'll make some calls and see what I can find out. Amen.

if he sought him It out Let's not get ahead of ourselves Please, mother, go to Calliope I'll inform Bonaparte and Solomon Death has come to our door And we must greet him as we always do Head on and without fear

Marlena Locke nodded and embraced her son tightly Before gliding from the room As elegantly as she had entered it. Haman dropped back into the chair at his desk, his mind racing trying to decide if he'd ever known a day without fear in his entire life. If he had, it certainly was not today. Rachel Harlow clutched her pocketbook nervously to her side as she followed a smiling steward toward the front of the train. Since the moment she had set foot in the station in Louisville, she had been treated with a level of deference she had never before experienced, as if she were visiting royalty.

Bonaparte Lock's security detail had handed her off to a helpful porter who had materialized on the curb the moment the car pulled to a stop. He had loaded her belongings onto a cart, politely but firmly refusing her offers to help with the task, and then escorted her as far as the platform. From there, another polite young man, wearing the trademark gray and silver common to all Locke employees outside of the security staff had escorted her onto the train. The steward had practically leapt to attention the moment he spotted her. Miss Harlow, we're delighted to have you on board today. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your car. Rachel had boarded through the entrance nearest the first class section. The young men led her past businessmen in elegantly tailored suits

and wealthy couples on holiday, seated on richly upholstered couches, and then through the dining car reserved for them with us gleaming polished oak bar and tables draped in snow-white linens. It was all nicer than any hotel she'd ever dared set foot in. Rachel squeezed her arms in close to her sides, careful not to touch anything. She felt the same way she had when she had been summoned, usually to face the consequences of whatever shenan she and Jonah and Skeeter had been up to, to Granny Amberghie's front parlor with its glass-fronted buffet, stocked with great Granny's good china and delicate porcel and knick-knacks on seemingly every surface. She'd only scrunched herself up as small as she could,

afraid she might break something and catch a swat. When they'd reach the next car, the steward pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and opened the door with a little bow, inviting her to proceed him through the door. Rachel's breath caught in her throat as she stepped into the private car, Uncle Bonie, had reserved for her. Are you sure this is the right car, sir? Rachel fumbled her purse open and hastily began rifling through its contents, her hands shaking.

Here, let me find my ticket. You can double check. No need, ma'am. Mr. Locke's instructions were quite clear. May I take your coat? Rachel had unbuttoned her coat with numb fingers as she stared around her at the luxurious space. Plush sofas, upholstered and red velvet lined either side of the car. Small tables topped with delicate stained glass lamps were situated here and there between them. An elegantly carved riding desk and chair stood at the far end of the car. The steward tucked her coat into a small closet, concealed behind a pocket door, and turned his smile on her again. We'll be departing in approximately 20 minutes, miss.

Would you care for anything while we wait? Coffee? Tea? Perhaps something stronger? The steward dropped her a wink at the suggestion, and Rachel chuckled, relaxing a little in spite of herself. If it's not too much trouble, I'd love a cup of coffee. Paget, ma'am. I'll be right back with that coffee. Padgett had returned a few moments later carrying a tray,

which he sat on one of the tables, and there was a lot more on the tray than a cup of coffee. There was a whole silver coffee urn, a pitcher of ice water, cream and sugar, A cup of fresh-slice strawberries, a plate of biscuits, a crock of fresh butter, and three tiny jars filled with blackberry preserves, apple butter, and honey. Another steward, a woman in the same uniform gray suit, though hers featured a skirt rather than slacks, followed Padgett through the door.

Her tray held an elegant china surface, edged in silver with crisp white linens and silverware wrapped in more of the same, and a glass for water. I took the liberty of ordering a light breakfast as well, Miss Harlow. a little something to tide you over till lunch. The woman laid a napkin over Rachel's lap and fussed about with her plate, while Paget poured coffee into a china cup, then filled her waterglass. Thanks. This is so nice of you.

You didn't have to go through so much trouble. It's no trouble at all, ma'am. Is there anything else we can do to make you more comfortable? No, this is wonderful. Thank you. The two stewards stepped toward the door that led back to the first-class dining car, pausing briefly on the threshold. Padgett gestured toward a small panel to the left of the door.

The call button is here by the door. Should you need anything, just press that button and we'll be right with you, Miss Harlow. Rachel thanked him again, and the two stewards left her alone in the sumptuous private car. She stirred cream and sugar into her car fee and turned her attention to the food. Though she hadn't felt hungry before, the warm, buttery aroma of biscuits made her stomach rumble. She sliced one apart and slathered half of it with butter and honey, and then spread blackberry preserves on the other half. The biscuits were light and fluffy, and the strawberries were perfectly ripe, sweet and tart at the same time. When she'd eaten her fill, she had piled her dishes back onto the tray and spent a little time poking around the car.

She'd found the riding desk stocked with stationary and a pair of gilt-edged fountain. pins. A small glass fronted bookcase was inset in the wall by the desk, but the titles on display weren't particularly appealing. It was an indifferent hodgepodge of classic literature of the sort of signed-for-school book reports, dry non-fiction, and what appeared to be old textbooks. Rachel was left with the distinct impression. Someone had simply walked into a used bookstore, grabbed the first books to hand, and filled the shelves with them. Lacking much else to do for the first leg of her journey, she had selected one of the fiction titles and settled into the corner of one of the cozy sofas to read. Four hours later, the train pulled into the station in Cincinnati, where she would board another train bound for Philadelphia.

As Rachel gathered her things, the steward lightly wrapped on the door, then stepped inside. Here, let me take your bag, Miss Harlow. Oh, no, you don't have to do that. I've got to catch a train for... Philadelphia? Yes, ma'am. I've been assigned to take care of. you personally. If you follow me, I'll show you to the platform. Padgett lifted the small suitcase she carried and then led her through a side exit between cars marked employees only

and out onto the platform. It was only a brief walk to the train bound for Philadelphia, where she once again received the sort of welcome usually reserved for visiting movie stars. Padgett led her through the first class once again and into a similar private car. Well, somehow this one managed to be even more luxurious. The velvet sofas were even more plush and had been appointed in pearl gray. DeMasked shades and dove gray hung at the windows. Here and there, oriental rugs in shades of pewter and silver were scattered over the polished wooden floors in place of the writing desk with a private mini bar that stood at one into the cabin,

stocked with Kentucky's finest bourbons and French wines. Next to it stood an open pocket door through which she could see a small sleeping compartment. Padgett placed her suitcase on the bed, then turned to her with a smile, noticing the expression on her face, he explained, this is Mr. Locke's favorite car. It's usually reserved for the family's use. Can I get you anything before we depart, Miss Harlow? We'll be leaving in 30 minutes, but it'll be another hour before lunch is served.

Rachel chuckled. I'm still stuffed from breakfast. Just some water. If you don't mind. The steward fetched her a picture of ice water and a tall crystal glass, then left her to her own devices. She pulled the book she'd begun reading on the first leg of the trip from her purse and settled down on one of the plush couches.

The train rolled out of the station on time, and Rachel spent another half hour reading before she decided to freshen up before lunch. She stood and stretched and walked into the sleeping compartment. It would be another 13 hours or so until she reached Philadelphia. and she didn't want to arrive looking rumpled and tired when she met Solomon's family, so she'd packed a change of clothes and a bit of makeup into a small suitcase. She hung the dress she'd chosen, the newest and nicest one she owned, in a narrow closet close to the bed so it wouldn't wrinkle.

She pulled out her small makeup bag and set it on the nightstand. Then stowed the suitcase in the closet and looked around the room. The sleeping compartment was small but comfortable. The bed had been made up with crisp white sheets and draped in a fluffy dove grayboard. blanket, and there was a tiny private bathroom. Rachel stretched out on the bed. The mattress was far more supportive than the one that had graced the bed of her rented apartment in Louis, and the pillows were soft rather than lumpy. She allowed herself a quiet moment to enjoy the comfort. Watching the countryside roll past through the windows, rain pattered against the glass as the train

sped along, and before she knew it, she dozed off. When Rachel was, she wretched, There was only darkness beyond the windows. Someone had thoughtfully lit the lamps in the main area of the private car so that she could see. She felt disoriented. She had obviously slept through lunch, but she had no idea what time it could be now. As she sat up, she realized what was bothering her. The car was utterly silent. Gone was the gentle rumbling of the train rolling down the,

tracks that had helped lull her to sleep. In fact, the train wasn't moving at all. What was going on? Was there some sort of engine trouble? She couldn't possibly have slipped all the way to Philadelphia. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and slipped on her shoes. She'd used the call button to let Paget know she was awake and figure out what time it was. Rachel drew up short as she stepped through the narrow pocket door into the main compartment of her car.

A man she did not recognize was seated in the middle of one of the elegant velvet couches. One ankle crossed over his opposite knee. He had lustrous dark hair parted neatly to one side, a hint of salt and pepper at his temples, and he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on the table before him. When he saw her, his eyes brightened and his teeth flashed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel cut him off.

Excuse me, but you can't be in here. This is a private car. Why, Miss Harlow, where are your manners? What would dear Granny Ambergy think? Adrenaline shot through Rachel's veins. How had they gotten to her here? The train was crawling with locked security. She let that thought comfort her.

Any minute, someone was bound to come in and check on her. If not, the call button was just by the door. She could get to it in seconds. She'd be fine. Mr. I don't know who the hell you are or who the hell you think you are, but you picked the wrong place to come looking for me. The stranger chuckled. Oh, my dear girl.

You really have no idea who I am. do you, but I know who you are. The man drew in a deep breath, nosing the air like a centhound on the trail. When he spoke her name, the way he rolled the syllables around in his mouth, gave the impression he was almost tasting it. Rachel Harlow is it? That's the name you've been giving people for quite some time. Oh, did little Rachel want to be an actress when she grew up? How adorable!

And what was it before that? Something else just as far from the truth? What is it really? Do you even remember? Did Mommy ever even tell you your true name, Miss Harlow? Is she dead, it's no business a yarn. Get out. Again, with the rudeness, you really must have been a disappointment to Greta Ambergy.

She tried so hard to instill some sort of moral fiber in the misbegotten brats that found their way to her door. A wasted effort more often than not. You, though. What an absolutely spectacular thing. failure you turned out to be. Not that it's any surprise with that mother of yours. The apple never falls that far from the tree. Rachel had had enough of the stranger's poisonous words, and she was tired of asking him to leave. She lunged for the door, clearing the room in seconds and slammed her hand down on the call button. Hearing nothing, she grabbed the door handle, preparing to simply

yell for help. The door wouldn't budge. and behind her the man in the charcoal suit chuckle. Don't waste your time, Miss Harlow. The vermin that invest my rails can't find you here. For the first time since she woken, Rachel felt real fear begin to seep into her bones. Who was this stranger? And who was this stranger?

And how was he able to exercise such obvious power here in what must surely be a place where the Locke family held nearly limited? endless authority. Thought made her stomach churn with anxiety, but long experience had taught her it was unwise to show fear to the various powerful entities that moved through the shadows of the world. She kept her voice steady as she turned back to the man. Oh, and just where exactly is here then? Because it looks surprisingly like the car of a train owned by lock rail, which just so happens. to be owned by my fiancée and his family. Oh, you're not his fiancé just yet, Miss Harlow.

If that were so, I'm sure the lock fortune would put a diamond on your left hand that you could barely lift. Now, please, sit down. Have a glass of wine. Let's have a civil conversation. if you can manage it. Mr. For someone who has such a problem with my manners, you have hardly been polite yourself.

Fair point, I suppose. But what you people consider good manners is little more than pulling the wool over your own eyes. Masking the truth with polished, polite little fictions because you can't face it. I find it tiresome. Now, please, join me. With a sigh of frustration, Rachel walked over to the small table where the man in the charcoal suit waited

and lowered herself into the chair across from him. She eyed the bottle suspiciously as he reached for the corkscrew lying beside it. Upon my honor, Miss Harlow, it's simply wine. I took the bottle from the wine rack under yon bar. You're more than welcome to select another if it would make you feel better. They're all excellent vintages. Rachel shook her head and pushed the empty glass in front of her towards him. The man in the charcoal suit nodded in acknowledgement,

opened the bottle, and filled each of their glasses with a generous pour. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. It must be difficult to trust people given the way your own mother treated you, like a commodity to be traded to the high. highest bidder, so very unfortunate. But you certainly paid her treachery back in spades, didn't you? Cheers. Rachel gritted her teeth as the man tipped his glass in her direction with a wink and took a long sip. That was an accident. I was just a child. I didn't know what I was doing. Perhaps. But what about the others, Miss Harlow? There have been so many.

and not all of them have been monsters like the things your mother was involved with. How many nice families did you work your way through before someone had the sense to dump you on Greta Ambergy's doorstep? And let's not forget what happened when you discovered boys. All those nice young men you just suck the life out of. Rachel muttered something under her breath as she reached for her glass and took a deep sip of her own wine. Say again, Miss Harlow, I didn't quite catch that.

I said they weren't all nice. Ah, so you decided you should be judge, jury, and executioner. I see. It wasn't like that. Things just... Listen, Mr. I know I've made some mistakes. And I'm truly sorry for the hurt I've caused some of them people. But some of them.

Your film got what was coming. The man in gray nodded with mocking sympathy. It has been hard for you, I'm sure. I really do feel sorry for you, Miss Harlow. You never did quite fit in anywhere, did you? Too tainted for the green to want anything to do with you. Too scared of your own gifts to cut a deal when the dark came knocking. So you lived your whole life running away.

From those your mother had told about you or from the consequences of your own actions, it doesn't really matter. The result is the same. You've never belonged anywhere or to anyone, except the lock boy. The two of you are exactly the same, like peas in a pod. Honestly, I'm surprised you didn't go running to him,

years ago. What would you know about it? I haven't seen Jonah in years, but I'd hardly say we're alike. He's got a family now. Money? Everything he could walk. The two of you have more in common than you realize. Just like your mother, his family saw the power he had, the potential, and exploited it to their own ends. and you've both certainly racked up an impressive body count. Young Solomon killed dozens of people when he was a mere infant. He can't be blamed for that. He didn't know what he was doing. His family turned him into a weapon.

Those deaths are on them. Perhaps. But when given the option Solomon chose to return to them, did he not? And he's hardly played the saint since he returned to the fold. If he's had to hurt people, I'm sure he's had his reasons. Everyone has a reason, Miss Harlow, just like you. Tell me, has Solomon's dear Uncle Bonie told you about the primary gift that runs in the Locke family? No.

Well, then allow me to enlighten you. It is what popular fiction refers to, I believe, as mind-kind. control. The manipulation of the thoughts and emotions of others. Your young man inherited it, like most of his vermin kin, and wields it with deadly efficacy. Solomon Locke has driven men and women in his employ, people who trusted him to suicide and worse. He has caused people to slaughter their own families, to pluck out their own eyes, to sever their own. To sever their own limbs. Why, just yesterday, he used it to convince a bartender that he had burned the man's house down with his wife and children inside, prompting the man to attack him so that the creatures

who defend Solomon would enter this world and devour the man. Rachel's face paled. He could be lying, of course. She knew that. But the utter conviction in his voice, not to mention the terrifying way he seemed to simply know things. Secrets he could not possibly be privy to held the ring of truth. Would he do something like that? The man in the charcoal suit favored her with that knowing, mocking smile again. As you say, Miss Harlow, I'm sure he had his reasons. Rachel was growing sick of the glib delight this man obviously took in rubbing salt in old wounds, of poking and prodding every fear and doubt.

It was as if he could read her every thought, and she resented the feeling. She drained her glass and slouched back in her chair with a weary sigh. Why are you telling me this? Would you believe that I merely wish to prevent a young woman from running headlong into a situation that will very likely get her killed? Rachel glared at him, refusing to dignify the question with a response. All right then, Miss Arlo. Let me, as they say, put all my cards on the table. The mocking smile dropped away,

and the stranger's eyes filled with a darkness that nearly made Rachel flinch. The scents of iron and blood filled her nostrils, and the air in the private car suddenly thrummed with power. A feeling like static electricity. her skin tingled and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. The Locke family are a blight upon the paths of iron. They are an affront to the natural order of things, and their presence on the railroad is a direct personal insult.

In spite of all I could do to drive them from the rails, my rails. they have certain patrons, shall we say, who protect them from my wrath. I would not wish to see them accrue even greater power. Gaining control of you, Miss Harlow, would offer them just such an advantage. I understand that they have manipulated you

with promises of sanctuary and safety, and thus, I come to you. prepared with a counteroffer. The man pulled an unmarked envelope from the inside pocket of his charcoal jacket and slid it across the table towards her. It was unsealed, and when Rachel lifted the flaps, she saw it contained a train ticket. When you reach Philadelphia, this train will be waiting. It will take you wherever you wish to go at my behest.

I can ensure you that those who pursue you will never find you again. nor will Solomon Locke or any of his kin. Rachel lied him skeptically. In my experience, mister, no deal comes without strength attached. What's the catch? The charming predatory smile returned to the stranger's face, and he leaned back into the velvet cushion, smoothing his labels. There are certain rules he would need to follow to stay in my good graces,

but I assure you they are in place merely to keep you safe. You will be able to live in peace as long as you abide by them. Settle down, have a family, whatever you like. No more running, Miss Harlow.

Rachel, I had the man. Then her gaze dropped to the train ticket on the table. The power that had radiated from him was like nothing she'd ever felt. She had little doubt he could protect her if he wanted to. But she had the nagging

feeling there was something she was missing. Some hidden trap that would cost her far more than merely the chance to reunite with her old friend. When things sounded too good to be true, they nearly always were. That might be true of the proposal Bonaparte Locke had brought her, but it was certainly the case with this stranger's deal. She shook her head and slid the envelope back across the table. No, thanks. It's a... Tempting offer, but I have a feeling. I'd just be choosing a pigeon with a different sort of monster.

I'll stick with the devil I know. The man in the charcoal suit rose to his feet, and the envelope vanished back into his coat pocket. Can't fault a man for trying. It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Harlow. For your sake, I hope you pass whatever trial Solomon's father requires of you. I'd hate to hear that Bonaparte had to bury you next to all the other girls. Heyman decided weren't suitable.

Rachel felt a chill raise up her spine at the words. Then suddenly the sounds of the engine chugging along flooded her ears, and she could feel the soft jostling of the train beneath her as it trundled on toward Philadelphia. She heard a soft knock and turned to find Paget standing at the door to the private car. I see you've awakened, Miss Harlow. I hope you enjoyed your nap. I came to let you know dinner will be served in 15 minutes.

Would you like to join the other first-class passengers in the dining car? Or should we bring a menu to you here? Rachel opened her mouth to speak, to say something about the stranger, but when she glanced at the spot where he'd stood, he was simply gone. She shivered. Yes, she thought, it might be nice to be around some people. normal people for a while and in full view of the security staff on this train.

Well, hey there, family, thank you for joining us for this our 100th regular season episode of Old Gods of Appalachia. We want to thank everyone for their support as we reach this milestone here on the main feed. It has been an absolute honor to have you join us, and we hope you'll continue to keep us company, because we are far from being done telling stories set in our beloved Appalachia. Now, if you're caught up on the regular season and just itching for a new story, then consider this your invitation

to join us over on our paid subscription service, The Holler. For a reasonable sum, you can listen to hours of exclusive storylines, Q&A's with Cam and me, and more. All you need to do is head on over to old gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler and cast your tithe in the collection plate. Now, if you're looking to represent the family

with a more outward expression, of the oaths that bind you on this plane of existence, you can pick up everything from T-shirts to home goods over at our merch store. I know Kim has been busy as a bee, whipping up some new designs over there, and should you desire to dress yourself in our arrangements, you can visit the Haberdasher over atmerd-Gods of Appalachia.com. This is your, if you think the worst daddy charcoal can do is a guilt trip,

I got a plot of land over in Asterville. I'd like to sell your reminder that Old Gods of Appalachians, the production of beep nerd media, and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written and edited by Steve Shell and Cam. Our intro music is by Brother Landin' Blood, and our outro music is by those poor bastards. Find a link down to the show notes to pick up their new record, Black Tongue, and help those fellers out. The voice of Heyman Locke is Alex McDonald-Ville.

The voice of Marlena Locke was Glenn Grant. The voice of Rachel Harlow is Sarah Doreen Macfee, and the voice of the railroad man is none other than Yuri Lowenthal. Talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. Thank you.