Old Gods of Appalachia - Episode 102: Hour of the Ouroboros

Episode Date: June 25, 2026

Patience isn’t always a virtue.CW: Discussion of death of family members, familial strife, grief, mind control, and vocal mourning.Written by Steve Shell and Cam CollinsProduced and edited by Cam Collins and Steve ShellNarrated and performed by Steve ShellSound design by Steve ShellIntro 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 two 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. While Rachel Harlow toured the grounds of Penderon with his nephew, Bonaparte Locke sat alone in the weathered gazebo with the center of what remained of the Rose Garden

that had once been his mother's pride. It was situated away from the main house In a secluded clearing on the far side of the apple orchards Annabella Locke had wanted a place for private contemplation A refuge from the duties and obligations That constantly required the attention of the mistress of a sprawling estate Wife to a powerful man and mother of four Her husband had hired the finest landscape artists in the country

And his beloved wife had worked alongside them to build a space where she could cultivate the roses she loved so dearly. There had been blooms of every imaginable color lining the curved paths of smooth stone, climbing trellises and pergolas, and artfully framing marble statuary, depicting rearing dragons, entwined vipers, and other servants. His mother had tended the rose garden with her own hands, allowing the family gardeners to mow the grounds and pull the occasional. occasional weed, but no more.

From all accounts, she'd had a deft hand with them. Varieties that were notoriously finicky had blossomed for her in abundance, growing thick and lush. She cultivated hybrids in shades so vibrant that a dinner party guest had once asked if she dyed the rosebuds used in her centerpiece. Roses responded to Annabella's touch as though insorcelled, and perhaps they had been. Jameson Locke had never been able to bear discussing his lost love, and thus his children had very little idea of what gifts she might have brought to their bloodline. Upon her death, he had ordered that her garden be left untouched, and forbidden anyone from tending to the roses.

No one was permitted to walk its granite paths or take shade under the gazebo on a hot summer day. Even the groundskeepers could only wield their hedge trimmers so far as the orchard. Thus time, and the damnable power of the green had had their way with Bonaparte's mother's art. Weeds choked its walkways and strangled the more delicate blooms. The hardier cultivars overtook their fellows, sprouting long, sharp thorns, and climbing unchecked over the elegant sculptures. Thick brambles obscured the intricate design of the beds, and some long-ago storm had punched a hole in the roof of the gazebo.

Bonaparte had discovered the ruined garden when he was ten, and at first he had no idea what it was. His father had never discussed it, of course, nor had his older siblings told him about their mother's special place. At first he imagined he'd discovered the remnants of some old ghost town, abandoned long before his father purchased the property. It had been a grand adventure to explore the crumbling paths that wound through the thick brush studded with fragrant blooms, and he'd imagined himself a night delving deep into an enchanted wood in search of the dragon's lair at its heart. Bonaparte had whiled away hours every day in what he felt was his own secret world, shirking his lessons and evading his tutors and siblings alike. His absences were eventually noticed and reported to his stepmother when he lost track of time one afternoon

and failed to report for his usual lesson with the arbiter. Marlena had ordered the staff to search the house and grounds but it was his elder sister, Patience, who eventually found him. It was she who'd explained the significance of his newfound sanctuary, who had built it, and the glory it had once known. It was the first tangible proof of his mother's existence the young Bonaparte had ever encountered, aside from his self and his older siblings. He had, of course, seen her portrait hanging next to his fathers in the great hall,

but every other trace of her presence had been packed away somewhere, indifference to his father's grief. There was no closet he could go to to see her dresses she'd worn, or vanity he could kneel before like a supplicant to smell her perfume or admire her favorite jewels. To the child whose entrance to this world had heralded her exit, she had always been more of a ghost story than a person. This was something he could touch. the work of his mother's own hands, hands that dug in the soil and touched these roots, if not the actual blossoms that surrounded them.

Bonaparte had stared around himself with Frank Wonder, only half listening as his sister explained that they were not supposed to come here and that their father had forbidden it and their stepmother would be very angry with him if she knew. But patience would keep his secret, so long as he promised he would never speak of the Rose Garden to anyone else. Bonaparte had promised, though at the time he hadn't fully comprehended the reason, it took him a few years to understand that his sister didn't want Marlena to learn of the Rose Garden because if she'd known, she would have had it demolished the moment their father boarded the Doolan.

His sister's reason for never visiting their mother's garden herself, she'd explained later, were twofold. One, their father had ordered everyone to stay away. And two, she had thought it would hurt too much to walk the paths Annabella Locke had loved so much. But as she stood there among the feral blooms with her brother, she had discovered it was a good kind of hurt. The kind that sparks the memory of those who have been lost and makes their presence felt again. It had become a special place for Bonaparte and a sister, a shared secret. And they had come there many times over the years, both together and separately, they came here to think. and scheme, to get away from their siblings and the endless family politicking, and to remember

the woman who had birthed them. In recent years, Bonaparte had come here off and on for another reason, and it was this reason that was on his mind today. Rachel Harlow was not the first candidate who had been brought to Pendarin to vie for the role of its future mistress. Over the years Bonaparte Locke had brought four other young women to walk its echoing marble halls and marvel at its lush and sprawling grounds to chat and flirt with the air apparent to lock rail and face the judgment of his tyrannical grandmother. There had been the sassy redhead from Tennessee, an heiress whose family had turned their bootlegging operation into a thriving distillery after prohibition had been repealed. Both of the blondes had come from an old family money

dating back to the pre-revolutionary era. The tall brunette had been an opera singer of all things, whose voice was so captivating that Hayman had suspected she might have a gift that would strengthen the family bloodline. Four young women. All beautiful. All accomplished. All ultimately found wanting and thus disposable by the Locke family.

The man burdened with the response. responsibility of disposal was the same man who had brought them to Penderan. He had buried each of them here, beneath the rich loam of his mother's garden, amongst the roses she had loved so much. Bonaparte Locke was not a praying man, nor a man with his faith in much of anything. But if he had been, he might have prayed now. Not to any gods, or even the monsters his families served with such force. fervor, but to his mother that his own personal saint might watch over Rachel Harlow

and see that his grave-dicking days were done. When the fire dies down, in the woods go quiet, and you think you told every tale you know. 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. Their stories fall where the light won't reach. And you can feed the fire to curse the darkness when the voices call.

But in the end long shadows fall. A little over a quarter mile. from the main house on the sprawling grounds of Penderon, tucked away in a cozy grove of copper beech trees, lay its magnificent little sibling, which the family referred to as the lodge. While not a beat-for-beat replica of the majestic halls of Penderan, the smaller house was still a mansion by any measure.

Built in the same neoclassical revival style as the main house, it comprised 18,000, square feet of pure luxury, built for accommodating honored guests and visiting family members. The narrow, one-track lane that wound behind the lodge, led to some of the more secluded spaces within the grounds, the orchards, the private fishing ponds, as well as the decaying rose garden of Bonaparte Locke's late mother. Bonaparte's handcrafted saddle shoes crunched on the gravel as he approached the servant's entrance to the lodge. He glanced around warily. To the naked eye, there didn't appear to be

another soul for miles, but Bonaparte knew better than to trust that. There were eyes everywhere. A word in a tongue older than the rocks he stood upon slipped from his lips like a foul kiss, and the back door swung open. He stepped through it into the spacious, well-appointed kitchen. rows of prep tables stood gleaming and clean, pots and pans polished to a mirror shine hung from hooks on the wall, and every sort of cooking utensil waited in tidy bins, ready for use. When the lodge was at capacity, a full team of cooks and waiters was required to prepare and serve meals. Tonight, however, a solitary ancient woman stood over one massive stove staring a person, staring a pot of soup. A lone burner sizzling away under the cast iron pot.

Afternoon, Mr. Bonapot, will you be joining us for lunch? Now, Nana, you know you don't have to miss to me. How are you? The tiny scarecrow of a woman didn't look up as she added a pinch of salt and a dash of pepper to the pot of soup, stirred and then tasted again. I'm well enough, son, just heating up some vegetable soup for the lady, will you be joining us? Ah, so my sister has arrived then. Bonaparte smiled, as though the old woman, who couldn't be a day shy of her early hundreds, was a beloved elder instead of a servant dressed in the silver and gray livery of the Locke family. In his younger, lonelier days, she had kept Bonaparte fed when his older brothers threw his lunch in the trout pond or

used it for target practice at the archery range. He had never dared to be able to be. He had never dared tell his stepmother of the bullying. He had been certain she wouldn't care, and they would have retaliated on him for tattling. So he would make his way to the back of the lodge to see Nana. Nana had never warmed to Brutus or Malachi's children, but would always make sure that he didn't go hungry during the hours that the children were expected to be out of the house in the summertime, at riding lessons, archery practice, or other such activities expected to occupy the children of affluent families. Her care and attention had never felt like pity or obligation.

She was just determined to see the runt of the original litter survive. That she has. Now I'm not asking you again. Will you be joining us for love? I will not. Thank you, Nana. Bonaparte stepped behind the old woman and gave her a gentle brief hug. Is my sister in her room then?

The old woman finally looked up from the pot, giving him the sort of playful wink that an auntie reserved. for her favorite nephew. Didn't want to make no suit for the likes of you anyhow. You don't come see me anymore. Miss Patience is in the drawing room. Nana lowered her voice and gave Bonaparte a meaningful look. She's not doing so well.

Do you have to bother her now? Bonaparte flashed her an apologetic smile. I'm afraid I do. We have the funeral to discuss and all that. As he turned for the door, Nana called after him. You'll be wanting coffee then. Bonaparte paused to glance over his shoulder. That would be lovely, Nana.

Thank you. It's good to see you. The old woman smiled her crooked smile and waved him on. You too, boy. But don't tell nobody I said so. It was a relatively short walk down the eastern hallway to the drawing room in the south corner of the first floor. The space was decorated in shades of the family's signature gray

with pops of color to draw the eye. A massive hearth of white and gray marble occupied the eastern wall kept gleaming and scrubbed meticulously free of soot by the household staff. A pewter and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the walls were bedecked with artwork masterfully depicting soothing pastoral scenes in ornate frames in a similar style to the light fixture. Though the room with its high ceilings and wide windows was usually bright and airy, the light was dim this afternoon, and the dub gray drapes drawn tight as was only proper for household in mourning. Bonaparte found his sister patience in the back corner of the room by the

window, settled into a cozy armchair upholstered in silver velvet. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders like their father, though her face was almost an uncanny recreation of their mother's delicate features. Their father often remarked that if he ever needed to see Annabella's face, he need not look at paintings or tin types. He had merely to gaze upon the face of his only daughter. That lovely face was currently crumpled with quiet sobs as she sipped tea from a fine china cup. Her hands trembling so badly that Bonaparte feared she might spill it into her lap.

The delicate porcelain rattled as she carefully maneuvered it back to its matching saucer on the side table. She was dressed in a gown of deep gray wool, a shade or three darker than her usual palate in recognition of her mourning. She, Prutus, and Mordecai had been peas in a pod throughout their childhood, while Bonaparte had been the rotten seed that killed their mother. It was unfair to blame the child who survived the death of his mother and childbirth, but fairness had never been a core value in the Locke family, nor Bonaparte supposed could one really expected of three grieving children.

Being the eldest, patients had known their father the longest. She had been 17 when James and Locke set out to find the true terminus, and she had begged her father to take her with him. She was his first student in the apple of his eye, and his departure after the early loss of their mother had broken something in patience. She became a zealous devotee to their father's teachings as recorded in the Grand Manifest and spent much of her time searching for hidden meanings and struggling to deciphering. for secret codes she claimed to have found within the maddened ramblings on those sacred pages.

She spent years attempting to commune with their father as he wandered the dark rails. For the first year or so after Jameson Locke's departure, she claimed that he had come to her in dreams and given her the peace she sought. When impressed by her brothers for what the old man had said and why he would say it to a mere girl instead of one of his own sons, she refused to answer. They were private messages for her and her alone. This led to such relentless teasing that she stopped talking about the dreams altogether. The dreams, however, did not stop.

And patience luck had only fallen deeper into the well of longing for her father's return. Her stepmother tried for years to marry her off, but patience either ignored or outright rebuffed the suitors. sent to woo her. The final attempt came when Marlena arranged for her cousin to attempt to worm his way into the family. Danny Coleman was a brash, swaggering grease stain of a man who all but stormed into patient study, insisting that he was there to take her away from all these silly books and show her how

a real man could complete her in ways that words on a page never could. Besides, Danny had posited, surely her old man was dead by now. Why should her prospects die with him? He had then taken her hand and slid the biggest diamond she had ever seen onto her finger. He thought he'd pitched a legendary proposal until he delivered his closing line. I mean, you can spend the rest of your life waiting for your daddy to come home, or you can accept that the man that your children will call daddy is standing right in front of you. Patience had slid the ring from her finger without a word,

sneering down at the diamond as if it were some loathsome insect she'd found crawling up her sleeve. She gazed down at the oily little gremlin. Patience had four inches on the man easily and shoved the ring into his mouth. Then she clapped her hand over his lips and looked into his eyes. She bored into his mind like a diamond bit drill, riffling through his memories as easily as through the pages of one of her books. The experience was rather akin to trawling through. sewage. She saw the other women he'd harassed and badgered and the ones he'd harmed.

She saw his parents who loved him and his friends who thought he was clever. His whole life was laid bare before her mind's eye. Every word, every deed, every cruel and petty little thought spanning back to his earliest days. She gathered up those memories and wiped them. Like a teacher clearing a cluttered chalkboard after a particularly complicated lesson. She left his mind, empty, scoured clean of every shred of his own identity. Then she had politely walked him out the door of her chambers and closed it quietly behind him. She returned to her reading without a second thought. When Marlena found the man wandering the halls of Pindarin,

and Danny Coleman had no idea who she was or who he was. He just kept asking what he'd eaten to make his tummy hurt so badly. Patience Locke had never married and never would. There was only one man she wanted to see walk through the doors of Pindarin and no suitor would ever supplant him in her heart. Her answer to any conundrum the family faced was usually a distracted mutter of, Oh, father will handle that when he comes home. don't worry. Father will set everything to rights.

Brutus and Mordecai made sure she attended board meetings when all of their signatures were required, but her obsession with her father's return had cost her greatly in terms of position and clout within lock rail. Her brothers had seemed to it that she had whatever she desired, keeping her in luxury and comfort safely out of the way of their ambitions. And then generally forgot about her. No one concerned themselves with patience. Bonaparte watched as she took a deep calming breath, clearly trying her best to settle her nerves and compose herself, only to slip back into bone-shaking sobs.

Not wanting to embarrass her, Bonaparte waited for the right moment to approach his sister. Finally, he heard her sobs subside and her breathing steady. He had lifted one foot to step forward when she spoke. I know you're there, brother. What do you want? Bonaparte approached his sister cautiously. For all his charm and skill at gently persuading folks to do as he bade them, his older siblings scared the hell out of him.

All three of them could see right through him. He could no more move their minds or sway their opinions than a breeze could influence a mountain. This is why he and Haman had bonded and formed their allies. lions. Mordecai had to go in order for Haman to claim Solomon, and they still didn't know what happened to Brutus, but his demise was still years down the road. Patience was no threat to the business and never had been. But now that Mordecai and Brutus were gone, how much further off the deep end might she go? Can a man not check on his sister? I am so terribly sorry about Prudus, my dear. I wish I could have come to tell you myself. I'm so sorry you had to find out

from cousin Hadrian. Patience's lock politely blew her nose into her handkerchief and then turned her gaze at her younger sibling quizzically. Hadrian never told me anything. He didn't have to. What? The man had direct orders to come to you as soon as we... Oh, he came by, but I already knew. Did you? And how did you find out? Did someone outside the family contact you? It was right there in the Grand Manifest, where all truth lives. Ah, I see.

The prophetic index chapter 13, there will come an hour of the Oroboros, when a powerful serpent must swallow his own tail in order to save itself. Circles will close, and many will die, but the greater host will sing the glory of the masters, and the traitors and the deniers will. Bonaparte held up a hand, interrupting as politely as he could manage. I can see what you're saying, but did someone tell you our brother had died? Oh, yes.

I just told you. What? Who told you Brutus was dead? Father did. In his words and in my dreams, while I slept, I saw Brutus bored. the number 16 headed south. I saw a great gaping tunnel rise up before it on the track, like the mouth of a man the size of a mountain.

He opened his jaws wide and swallowed the train whole, like it was nothing, nothing. And then Father spoke to me. He said, Mordecai and Brutus are gone. You're on your own, my precious girl. You have to do it yourself, all by yourself. Patience dissolved back into hysterical tears and Bonaparte knelt at her side, placing a comforting hand on her knee. Oh, you are not alone in this, Patience. I'm here. Your little brother is right here.

Patience lunged forward and seized him by his shirt front, shaking him like a rag doll. Her eyes wide, her mind lost in grief and zealotry. They're all gone. Gone and I'm left alone. Mother is dead. My brothers are dead? Father is still so far away, and I'm all alone. It's up to me. I have to do it by myself. Why can't you understand? You're not alone, Patience, dear. You have one brother left, remember? I'm right. Oh, please, you're hurting me. Patience locked through her little brother across the room, where he sprawled gracelessly on the floor. She rose to her feet, howling her grief to whatever gods might hear her, and as Bonaparte pushed himself back to his feet, an aged voice called out in stern but soothing tones.

Nana had arrived with lunch. She tottered through the drawing room door with a tray bearing a bowl of steaming vegetable soup, a plate of saltines, and a teapot. Now, now, Miss Patty, that's enough of all that. Let's sit back down. See, I brought your soup and crackers. Some more tea.

Yes, there you go. Oh, Nana, thank you. I have to do it all by myself now. Did you hear? Yes, yes, dear. Now, let's just settle down, have a nice lunch. Bonaparte watched the old woman who had comforted him in his loneliest hours do the same for his sister. Who had ever called patience that?

He wondered how many of his siblings owed what peace they had known in their childhoods to the kindness of this woman. Nana glanced back over her shoulder at Bonaparte as Patience lifted a spoonful of steaming soup to her lips with shaking hands, blowing on it carefully. Nana nodded discreetly towards the door, then turned back to Patience. Let me see your brother out, and you and I will have lunch. Maybe this afternoon we can work on our embroidery. How does that sound? Patience nodded happily. Her spiral into madness forgotten for the moment.

Bonaparte could understand. The soup smelled delicious. Nana's vegetable soup was the bright orange kind, with elbow macaroni and big chunks of soft carrots. The old woman took bone apart by the elbow and led him from the room, down the corridor, and back through the kitchen to the door he had entered by. What are you doing getting her upset like that?

You know better, boy. I'll get her calm down. There's a little something in the soup that should soothe their nerves. She'll be in better spirits in time for dinner. Go on. Get yourself cleaned up. These are heavy times, young man, and your family needs steady hands. The back door of the lodge shut gently in his face, and Bonaparte turned to face the shadowed woods surrounding the house. He blew out a long breath and steadied himself.

As he stepped back onto the gravel road, he sensed eyes on him, observing from a distance. He reached out with his mind. expecting to find one of Haman's security drones watching from some hidden perch, but could find no one. A branch cracked behind him, and Bonaparte spun around, his gifts rising to his call. From behind a particularly thick tree trunk stepped the prettiest white-tailed doe. Bonaparte relaxed.

The doe held his eye for a long moment, and he smiled. There were deer all over the grounds. If he felt like he was being watched, it was just as likely one of them as any covert surveillance. He shook the thought from his mind, and when he looked up again, the chestnut-colored beauty was bounding away through the trees. He reminded himself sternly that he needed to get moving if he wanted a proper bath and several proper drinks before dinner. He had a feeling it was going to be a long...

Well, hey there, family. Thank you for joining us for the penultimate. episode before we reach the end of the second arc of old gods of Appalachia season six long shadows something tells me this dinner party is going to require putting out the good plates so come on back next time get you a seat at the grown folks table speaking of things heading into the home stretch over on the holler our current series unhallowed grounds is rolling up on its next to last episode as well how will those two young men living in the house out on jimson creek road get out of the bucket of syrup they found themselves in.

For the answer to that question, as well as access to hours and hours of exclusive storylines like Build Mama, coffin, blackmouthed dog, grave concerns, and so much more. Head on over to Old Gods of Appalachia.com slash the holler, put your money on the barrelhead and take home all the darkness you can handle today. Now, if you're looking for goods of a more tangible nature, we got everything from t-shirts to home goods and everything in between over on our merch store, including 37 seven new designs for this year's pride celebration. Go find your flag and fly it high above your own personal hauler family.

You'll find it all over at merch. Dot old gods of Appalachia.com. And this is your Bonaparte couldn't catch a break with a five-gallon bucket reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of deep nerd media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written and edited by Steve Shell and Cam Collins. Our intro music is by Brother Landon Blood, and our outro music is by those poor bastards.

Find a link in the show notes and pick up their new record, Black Tung. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.