Spooked - Old Gods of Appalachia - Part 1

Episode Date: June 2, 2026

In the early decades of the 20th century, unions are on the rise in coal country. Those who toil beneath the dark earth balk under the yoke of the Barrow family’s rule, and something must be done... It's our pleasure to introduce you to Old Gods of Appalachia! Old Gods of Appalachia is an eldritch horror fiction podcast set in an Alternate Appalachia, a world where these mountains were never meant to be inhabited. This Appalachia feels eerily similar to the hills and hollers folks remember from childhood, but there are some tell-tale differences. Towns and counties may be known by other names, or simply not exist. Historical events slide forward or backward in time. And then, of course, there are the monsters.  This is part one of our three episode introduction to Old Gods of Appalachia. This episode contains references to occult phenomena, unnatural means of reproduction, human sacrifice, ghosts, mutilation, beheading and maiming human beings, monster sounds. Sensitive listeners please be advised. Today’s episode encompassed episodes 32 and 33 from season three of Old Gods. If you like what you heard, you can listen to the complete podcast — currently in its sixth season here in 2026 — on your favorite podcast app. Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of DeepNerd Media, written and produced by Cam Collins and Steve Shell and narrated by Steve Shell. The voice of Polly Barrow was Tracey Johnston Crum.  Intro Music: “The Land Unknown (The Pound of Flesh Verses)” written and performed by Landon Blood Outro Music: "Pretty Polly” as performed by Landon Blood and John Lee Bullard To learn more about the show, visit oldgodsofappalachia.com Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

There's a place with a road. On the road walks the man. In his hand there's a knife as he strides through the land. Past the farm, past the town, past the fool, past the dam. Don't wonder, don't cry, don't argue, don't try. There's no stopping this man with this blade in his hand. You've crossed over to a very special episode of something. Spooked. Stay tuned.

There's a place I visited recently where at first things seem like everywhere else. Mostly nice people, good people, doing the best they can. But still in this place, things seem to twinkle, to hum, sometimes even growl. And a lot of other places they try to forget. But this place, this place seems to remember. Recall events that were supposed to be long forgotten. For whatever reason, they can't stay buried here. A place where stories are not just stories and monsters are not about bedtime.

And this place, it's too delicious. It's too magical. Too born of shadow for me to keep it to myself. So today, I'm opening the door. inviting you to cross through with me into old gods of Appalachia. Now these mountains, you may think you know the hills and hollers, some of us remember from childhood, but look closer. The towns, they might have other names or no names at all.

What happened in the 1900s might happen tomorrow or may not have happened yet, and yes, there are monsters. Get ready. Part 1. Old Gods of Appalachia starts 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. The Barrow clan began digging deep in the mountains of Appalachia and selling what they found there long before this country was even the radical dream of a few folks looking to dodge some taxmen from across the ocean.

By the 1800s, their influence in the mountains of Pennsylvania had become such an accepted fact of life that the little mountain township of Pine Grove was renamed Barrow to honor the family and the company they had founded. There is power in a name family, and in this case, a great dark path. The rechristian of the town brought with it a great festival celebrating the glorious history of coal, the bituminous and the anthracite, the soft and the hard, the graves both deep and shallow.

The local holiday culminated in a ceremony atop coal hill, the high point and center of town, atop which crouched the barrel mining companies newly built home office, a grand and sprawling affair of limestone and white, columns topped with a shining copper dome that shamed the local churches and the county courthouse with its stateliness. Well, after a marching band played and paychecks were handed out early, the patriarch of the Barrow family won Elias Pontius Barrow, known to most folks as simply EP, flanked by his adult children, delivered a speech on the front steps of that grand

new building wherein he unveiled the new town sign. which featured the family name and the date carved deep into its stone face. It also bore a line of strange symbols upon it, words etched in a tongue that no human mouth should have ever been able to speak, but EP Barrow did just that. His mouth contorting to produce sounds that pierced the ear and clouded the mind, and with those words came a great shaking and breaking of the earth, and the hill cracked and a great crevice opened in the ground, beginning at the front of Cole Hill,

as snaking right up to the foundations of the home office, and from it issued a cloud of sooty darkness that swept into the air like sentient ash. Women and children screamed and ran for cover, but the working men of Barra, most still in their uniforms, stood rooted to the spot, unable to flee. As the town folk of the newly baptized Barrow, Pennsylvania, breathed then the black dust that blew forth from that breach that had opened beneath their feet, E.P. Barrow, walked calmly up the steps of his new office, stepped inside and proceeded down to the cellar, where the shiny new marble floor had split wide. His two eldest sons, Conrad and Benuel, followed in his wake.

Without another word, E.P. took off his coat and his hat and lay down still breathing in a coffin carved from a cold ebony wood. The box was etched inside and out in the alien script that adorned the new town sign. The same fell tongue that had cracked the earth was still groaned and trembled beneath the foundations, and with a nod to his boys, E.P. was sealed up and lowered into the widening crack of the breach at the ground. crilled and shook. And when the chains lowering the coffin were pulled taut, and he could be lowered no further,

and it seemed like the whole damn hill was going to fold into itself, Conrad turned to Benuel, and without so much as a hurried breath, slashed his younger sibling's throat with the hunting knife. Conrad tossed his bleeding brother after their father's casket into the roaring darkness, and silence fell across the town. In the gathering dusk on Coal Hill, the employees of the Barrow Mining Company were still gathered, rooted in the place where they had listened to E.P.'s address.

Their mouths hung slack, and their eyes stretched wide, cast skyward. Alight the color of rotten plums blossoming in those dilated black porters. The dust or soot or water. whatever it was that had issued from the breach swept through the unresistant crowd like a swarm of locusts, moving through each body in turn to consume blood and soft tissue and carve out the living soul that resided in each, creating empty vessels for the Barra family to work its will upon the world, and leaving them as hollow as hollow can be. And with its capital thus established, the barrel mining company set its sights on expansion.

So down to the dine son of my friend, to these shadows. Throughout the 1800s, barrel operations spread throughout the hills and hollers of Appalachia like a blight. Absorbing smaller mines and acquiring adjacent land from the people who'd settled there by whatever means, proved necessary, and for some families it didn't take much truth to tell. Frontier life was hard. Breaking the backs and hearts of a goodly number of folks who pushed west in search of a place they could put down roots and call their own. Flash a little point their way, enough say to let them return to the more established

cities back east, and they were more than happy to cede their claim to a land that had never wanted them here in the first place. Others, though. Others had managed to carve out a home for themselves in this unforgiving land, settling into the mountains like a hand into a glove, and those would require a different approach. The approach in question often involved a visit from a special representative of the Barrow Mining Company, someone with the requisite skills to clarify for the more intransigent residents

while accepting the Barrow's offer was, in fact, in the best interest of them, their families, and quite possibly every one they knew. If the landowners proved more resistant than usual, a member of the bearer family might need to pay a personal call. Now for decades, this duty fell to E.P.'s younger son, Benuel, a visit from a dead man, making quite the impression on most folks who suddenly found they might be willing to reconsider the bearer's generous offer after all.

Over the years, however, Benyol started to be more of a problem, becoming less predictable, harder to control. He might be sent to a tiny coal camp as a misbegotten holler in West Virginia, tasked with ridden the barrows of a meddlesome tax assessor, and end up laying waste to the entire town. It's a common thing with haints who have overstayed their welcome on this mortal plain, you see, clinging to a life that has long since ceased to be theirs to claim, their behavior becomes more erratic and dangerous.

While E.B. had no concern for the collateral damage his younger boy might do to the communities where he was sent, Benuel's disobedience was becoming a problem. Replacing a town's entire labor force was costly and inefficient. Benial was fast becoming a liability in the field, and Conrad had the whole of the Barrow clan's business interest to attend to on his father's behalf, and thus E.P. turned his eye to the concept of producing another heir. The process of expanding the Barrow family was lengthy and was delicate work.

See, Conrad and Benial were not E.P.'s only progeny, no. They were simply his only children fit to, represent the public face of Barra Mining Company, the only ones who could pass relatively unnoticed amongst its human workforce. Yet something had to be done, and so EP instructed his sons to add more links to the great iron chain that suspended the black box that had been prepared for him. It lowered him even further into the earth, deep beneath the grand home office he had constructed. Conrad barred the door that led to the building so that none might disturb him and dismissed the staff for several months, so none could carry the tales of the sounds that echoed up from beneath the family's headquarters.

The foundations trembled. The air inside that place grew unaccountably cold, far colder than the snow that fell on the mountains around Coal Hill. Dread voices echoed up from the places below in a language that even Conrad and Benuel could not understand. and EP's sons quaked with fear, and then, night in the heart of winter. Underneath the moon was empty sky, the heavy chains rattled and clanked again, as EP's box emerged from the depths,

and unto him was born, a daughter. Polly Barrow was everything, thing the Barrow Patriarch could have desired in his progeny, brilliant, beautiful, and strong. Oh, so strong. Her particular talents began to manifest at the tender age of three. When a well-meaning nanny clasped the hand of the fussy toddler who wanted to stay outside and chase lightning bugs around the family's sprawling country estate rather than come inside for dinner. The young woman had only meant to draw the little girl alongside her into the house, but Polly responded, with force.

Her tiny hand morphing suddenly into a huge gauntlet armored with plates of bone, and little Polly had simply crushed the bones of the nanny's hand. And then her mutant paw returned to its normal dimension, slipped free of her pulpy grasp, and returned to trailing her new glowing friends around the manicured lawn. E.P. could not have been more proud. His daughter's strength was matched only by her relentless, in pursuit of her aims, and EP set about honing her into a weapon that could be used

deftly in any number of situations, depending on his need. E.P. needed a tool that was versatile, adaptable, and above all, ruthless. And pretty Polly more than fit the bill. Were there palms to be greased in the halls of government? Polly's intelligence, her stature, and demeanor demanded respect. even from the human men who played at their petty politics must deals be struck with the wealthy and the powerful. Polly was a shrewd negotiator and a charming dinner guest. The foreman at one of the smaller mining operations,

taking more than his fair share from the cookie jar, thinking no one in faraway bear would notice, Polly was there to swing the axe and cut off the offending hand. Grubby roughnecks making a fuss about working conditions in the mine, well, sweet Polly. could be counted on to make an example that made a lasting impression. The need for those examples became more and more persistent as the new century progressed, and the unions began to take hold.

The rabble had seized upon the troubling idea that they were owed something by those for whom they toiled beneath the dark earth, and this simply would not do. Thus it fell to polly to collapse mine shafts and break spines. and mount heads on pikes, wherever a lesson needed to be taught. It was becoming a rather annoying waste of her time, particularly as the workers grew more agitated with the hardships visited upon them by the previous year stock market crash. It seemed, however, that her father had devised a plan

to put the cattle firmly in their places once and for all. And thus, in the autumn of 1930, Polly's older brother, Conrad summoned her home to hear the voice of their patriarch. The sun had just sunk beneath the hills, painting the sky and orange fire when the sleek black Cadillac pulled up the gently curving paved road that wound up coal hill to the stately limestone mansion that had come to be known as Barrow House, which had served as the family's base of operations now for more than a hundred years. And though they had allied themselves with lock rail some time ago to form the Barrow and Lock Mining Combine, the two families

maintained a number of separate business interests and their distance. Trust being in short supply among the heirs and those who serve them. Two men. One, a towering, lanky man with a perpetual stoop. The other compact, solidly built and elegantly dressed. stepped out of the car, and the driver turned to quickly open the door for his backseat passenger. The woman who emerged was tall and shapely, with glossy black hair pinned back in soft waves, smooth alabaster skin and amber eyes. She wore a fine gray wool suit with a narrow pleated skirt and a graceful swing coat and matching hat and a deep red blouse printed with white lilies. Her fine leather T-strap heels matched the blouse perfectly.

They made a sharp clicking sound as she ascended the marble steps to a pair of wide double doors, already peeling off her gloves as she walked. The doors swung open as her foot struck the top step, held wide for her by a pair of nervous-looking clerks who kept their eyes on their toes as they mumbled. Even, Miss Bearer. Olly Bear removed her hat and handed it to the nearest of the two While the tall man who had driven the car stepped forward to take her coat

Coat and gloves were also deposited with the clerk Mr Crane Mr. Churchman With me please She proceeded with quick Purposeful strides down a dark hallway to the right of the entrance Her two subordinates trailing in her wake Crane and Churchman had served Polly almost exclusively since the mid-20s, an honor they had earned through hard work and a willingness

to get their hands dirty when the situation called for it. This was not the first time they had been called into the presence of the patriarch, and they did not hesitate. Still, she could sense their discomfort. Even among the hollow, there remained a healthy fear of those who bore the name of Barrow, and that was good. A tool which had no sense of self-preservation could not be relied upon to behave appropriately in certain situations. Complications could arise.

Look at Benial, Polly thought, as she descended the shallow marble stairs into the basement, a space that had become her father's office and throne room and sanctuary and temple. The sigils that adorned the black box that was EPY, Barrow's beer and throne had spread over the years, creeping up the walls and etching their way deep into the marble beneath her feet. Many of these had accompanied Polly's own conception, a powerful evocation that had further cracked the foundations of Barrowhouse, shattering glass up above and nearly shaking the walls apart, and thus had been present all her life. Others had appeared later. Mementos of her father's will made manifest. As they stepped through the door of the

sanctuary, crane and churchmen each sank to one knee on either side of the door, bowing their heads in reverence. Across the room, Polly's brothers each held a similar position on the edge of the crevasse into which their father's coffin was sunk. A heavy crate rested on the floor between them. It was hewn from the same night black wood as their father's coffin, carved with runes that the eye couldn't quite settle on, and curiously featured a number of holes cut into the sides along its top edges. Polly's heels echoed on the cold marble as she approached. She did not kneel as her brothers did, though she inclined her head respectfully as she greeted their father. Good morning, Daddy. Boys. Conrad and Benuel glared at her over their shoulders. Relations

between the bare siblings had never been particularly warm, and E.P.'s obvious preference for the child he spoke of as his greatest creation had not improved matters. Duty was duty, however. And Polly's eldest brother, Conrad, was nothing if not an obedient soul. in E.P. Barras' service. He inclined his head to his younger sister in greeting as he spoke. Our father has an important errand, which he has chosen to entrust to you. Again, Benuel graded angrily, I and Polly with malice. If her incorporeal brother could do her harm, Polly didn't doubt that he would. But Benial didn't have the juice these days. He might still be driving half-starved hill folk to madness

with a whisper, but he'd long since grown too weak to affect her. His days on this plane were numbered. Of course. I am, as always. At your disposal, Daddy? E.P.'s voice echoed from the depths, harsh

and resonant, as his children flinched, snapping to attention. Yes, Daddy. Yes, sir. Yes, Daddy. Yes. Daddy. Yes, of course. I understand. Vi will be done, Daddy. Conrad rose to his feet, gesturing to the heavy crate that Polly had noticed when she entered the sanctuary. The weapon is here in the box. Polly strolled over to the crate, resting a hand lightly against its surface as she

examined it. The wood was cold to the touch, but seemed unremarkable otherwise. What is it? You'll see. Polly knelt down to peer inside through one of the holes carved into the black walls of the box. Her eyes widened in surprise. Just take it to the coal camps and set it loose. It will perform the task it was created for. Then you just load it back into the box and move on to the next.

Just as father said. Unless, of course, you can't happen. I'd be happy to take it off your hands. Polly narrowed her eyes and shot her brothers a poisonous smile. We'll be just fine, brother dear, but I appreciate your concern. Gentlemen, in the back of the car, if you please. Crane and churchmen rose to their feet and dutifully hoisted the unwieldy crate between them. She headed for the door footsteps echoing on the stairs, and the two hollow men followed.

Polly had learned long ago what could happen if you turned your back on Benual Barrow, and she didn't think it wise to underestimate Conrad either. It paid to be cautious. The two clerks occupying the front desk in the lobby snapped to attention as soon as they saw her, one holding her coat for her, while the other held the door open for her companions. Polly put on her coat, hat, and gloves, and followed the two men outside. They had already loaded the crate onto the back of the car, and Mr. Churchman was sliding behind the wheel. Mr. Crane awaited Polly, holding the back door open for her.

Home, Miss Beverell? Crain asked as she slid into the plush interior. No. West Virginia, I'm afraid. We're told the union organizers are sniffing around again. The children have forgotten their lessons. And it falls to me once again to play school mistress. Yes, ma'am. Crane joined churchmen up front passing on Polly's instructions.

The car's powerful engine roared to life, and the three sped off into the night. Southbound for the bearer coal field. Night stretched across the mountains of West Virginia. The sky twinkling blanket of stardust in the years before the ubiquitous light pollution of the modern world hid most of them from our view. A long black Cadillac drove through the night, navigating its way around the treacherous switchbacks as it slipped into the heart of coal country. Bower County was dotted with numerous little coal towns of varying levels of prosperity, every one of which was owned, lock, stock, and barrel, by the Barrow and Lock Mining Combine.

It was nearly morning by the time they reached their destination. A squat-log cabin buried deep in the woods outside a thriving coal town called Caburra. B&L had claimed the structure after its former occupant, an employee who was crushed in a mine shaft collapse, left his surviving family heavily in debt to the K-Burro General Store. It had been used since then as a base of operation for visiting management. The little bungalow was situated a bit far from the rest of the coal camp to assign any of the workers to live there,

but its isolation suited their needs. perfectly. The caddy bumped up the narrow, rudded track that led to the secluded cabin, and Mr. Churchman pulled around the back of the house to ensure that no one would detect their presence. Although anyone who'd made their way up the drive, which was mostly hidden from the road by overgrown brush and was more than casually curious, would be dealt with in a swift and final fashion.

Mr. Crane hopped out of the car to open the door for Miss Barrett. while Mr. Churchman went around to the back of the car to unload the large crate they had obtained from Bear House. The dimensions of the box were somewhat awkward to manage, but it was not especially heavy, and Churchman needed no assistance maneuvering it inside the cabin, where he deposited it in the middle of the empty front room. Now, despite its outward appearance, the little house was quite clean. Someone had swept the dust from the corners of the front room and wiped down the kitchen countertops recently. The double bed that had been squeezed into the cabin's single bedroom was laid with clean linens.

The small lavatory wedged into an old closet behind the kitchen, a more recent addition, clearly, appeared to have been scrubbed clean. Crane still gave the place a cursory sweep and wiped down the chairs at the kitchen table wouldn't do for Miss Barra to get dust on her skirt now. But he and Mr. Churchman had visited the cabin not long ago, and they were always careful that their workspaces were scrubbed of any sign of their presence. Polly Barrow stepped inside and dropped her handbag on the kitchen counter. She hung her coat and hat on a hook by the door

and took a moment to look around. The quarters were a bit cramped, and it certainly lacked the creature comfort she was a cut. custom to, but the cabin would more than suit their present purposes. One thing it did not afford her, however, was privacy, which was what she required at the moment, so she sent the two hollow men out to sit in the car for a while, until she'd done what was needed here. Polly kicked off her shoes and settled herself on the floor of the cabin next to the blackwood crate. She crossed her legs in front of her, making her. Make her a little bit of her. Make a

herself as comfortable as possible on the hardwood floor and rested her hands lightly in her lap. She focused on her breathing, slow, counting the seconds to balance each one in. One, two, three, four, and out until soon she had no need to count. Polly's muscles relaxed. The hardwood floor drifted away. The words were hard to pronounce. Would have come impossible to any human tongue. But she had practiced him since childhood

and had barely had to think about him anymore. Her daddy had taught her very well. As she spoke, the voice took on a steady rhythm and cadence born of long practice. And her body began to rock along with it. Her voice rose and the words. drowned out everything else. Her nerves thrum and in her mind open and the darkness poured inside.

And suddenly she was someplace else. Daddy, I'm here. Polly called into the darkness and her father. Polly had established the ability to speak with her daddy from outside the walls of Bearer House early in life. And it was, as she understood it, not a talent either of her brothers shared. Polly and E.P. could even communicate privately while in the same room with Conrad and Benuel, and it was in this way that the Barrow Patriarch had directed her to make contact with him for further instructions once she arrived in West Virginia.

He asked after her first. Had she made it safely to West Virginia? Was everything at the cabin in order? Did she have questions about her mission? He seemed unusually curious about her reaction to the assignment at hand. It seems an unusual choice of vessel, yes, but I bow to your wisdom, as always. Polly didn't question her daddy. She was his most faithful disciple, his husband, his husband.

most dutiful soldier, his steadfast ally in all things. And Polly did as she was told. And she reaped the rewards of that loyalty. She had designer dresses and glittering rings to adorn her fingers. She had beautiful combs for her hair carved from the bones of those her family had conquered and painted with gold. Was there a price to pay? Of course, power always comes. but the strong, the ruthless, are willing to pay the bill. Today, the account would be paid in pain. That was fine with Polly.

Her pain was only a small sacrifice in the face of her father's ambitions, and in any case it was necessary in order to fulfill her mission. Her daddy needed to impart some knowledge to her. The complexity of which would boil any holy human mind in its skull like an egg, and Polly had been built close enough to human that it would cost her. But she could handle it. She could always handle it. Ah, I see.

Yes. Yes? Yes, Daddy. I'm ready. Ah. Darkness. poured into Polly Barrow's mind. In a language she could not yet read, though she recognized some of the symbol as those adorning Barrow's town sign and knew it must be the same that her daddy had used long

before her birth to crack the skin of the world and establish his burrow deep beneath Barrowhouse. Her brain was flooded with the strange symbols, barbs and swirls of some ales. in geometry that did not quite square with physics. And she felt her mind might shatter from the terrible beauty of them. She clutched her hands to her head as if she could physically help hold it inside her skull, and her body began to tremble and jerk, and she found herself on the floor, her heels beating against the floorboards, until finally she let loose a scream all at once. The pain was only blessed darkness in her.

head and the reassuring clarity of purpose. The native tongue of the inner dark field of life, entrancing her with its chaotic intricacies, and she took a moment to revel in it before she began to collect herself. She pushed herself back up into a seated position, one hand held gingerly against her aching head, The other reaching to swipe at a trickle of blood that seeped from her nose. Yes. Yes, Daddy. I have it now. It wasn't long before she heard a hesitant tap at the cabin door. Crane and churchmen roused from their exile to the car by her screen, no doubt.

They were typically the most obedient of servants and would not otherwise have disturbed her, but the sound of potential trouble was enough to motivate them to... Stretch protocol a little bit. Polly decided she would allow it just as once. Caught her breath and called for them to enter. She waved off their questions but allowed Mr. Crane to help her to her feet. Then she retired to the lavatory for a moment of privacy. She washed her hands, splashed water on her face and smoothed her hair.

She straightened her suit and feeling more herself, rejoined the hollow men in the front rail. room. Now that Polly had the knowledge she would need to control their unusual weapon, it was time to have a look at it. Churchman fetched a hammer from the toolbox in the trunk of the Cadillac and pried the nails from one side of the crate. He and Crane carefully lowered that side of the box, and Polly knelt on the ground again, peering into the darkness within. Come on. Polly called into the shadows of the crate.

Come here, little one. Come on. That's it. Good boy. And slowly, in response to her coaxing, a tow-headed infant toddled out of the box. He appeared to Polly's untrained eye to be a bit past a year old, maybe 14 months or so,

with bright eyes and he was dressed in a white shirt and a neat little checkered pant with suspenders. From beneath his collar, peaked the spiky, swirly characters that had flooded Polly's mind only minutes ago. She could see that they reached down his hands and around his tiny fingers and crawled up the curves of his ears and two perfect little sigils adorned his face, one on each one on each. rosy cheek. Unsteady on his feet, he nearly toppled over, but Bolly scooped him up, bouncing him on her knee. It's a baby, Miss Barrow. Crain stammered, somewhat shocked. Yes, he's a good little weapon, isn't he? Yes, he is. A new brother, ma'am. Certainly not. What Barrow? Have you ever known?

known to have green eyes, Mr. Crane. This little one is a loner, shall we say? I see. What do we do with him, Miss Barrow? We don't have to do much at all, Mr. Crane. That's the beauty of it. We simply set him loose at an appropriate location. Our little friend here will do what he

Does. And we scoop him back up in the morning. It's rather genius. But I will need to repaint these. Polly gestured toward the careful markings on the baby's face. Cray nodded. And that will require some rather specialized ingredients. Nothing that you and Mr. Churchman should have any trouble finding nearby. I'll make a list. Yes, ma'am. We'll see to it. The following evening, as the sun began to sink below the gentle curves of the Allegheny Mountains, Polly Barrow's shiny black car wound its way down the mountain into the small but thriving community of Cabarrow. It was a bit before suppertime. When children had not been called in to wash up just yet,

and their so smeared daddies had not begun to stagger home, exhausted from the day's labor at Pasco No. 3 mine. Home to 397 souls in County, Cabra boasted a rail station, a small but well-appointed family-run hotel, a two-story general store, and three churches. Pasco No. 3 in the rail station were, of course, properties of Barrow and Locke,

and employed put near every able body in Cabo. One would think the rabble would be grateful. who provided the roofs over their heads, the food to feed their innumerable broods of children. My barrow and luck, of course. Polly's father had even approved construction of a baseball field, of all things, to provide even an entertainment for the citizens of Cabrero in the warmer months. And still they received reports of agitation from their loyal men on the ground in Cabo.

Rumors of unionization meetings held in secrets and impending strikes abounded, and the populace was on edge. Crane and churchmen had recently paid a visit to Cabra Hotel and spent some time in its saloon, chatting with a local miner known to have a taste for gin, after which a bottle was purchased, and the cheerful party retired to the very cabin they had established as their current base of operations, and at that point the conversation had taken a list. friendly, but more fruitful turn. And in good time, Mr. Crane had persuaded the man to provide the name of a co-worker

he had seen leaving coded messages and other folks' dinner pails around Pascoe number three. Romeo Capriotti was the name this loyal company man had supplied Mr. Crane. Along with an address and everything he knew about the Capriotti clan, the Capriottis were a large family of the Catholic persuasion, an attended Mass at St. Barbara's every Sunday without fail. Romeo's older sister had taken her vows with the sisters of St. Joseph and served at an orphanage up in Charleston. Their mama was known to make the best pepperoni rolls in Bower County, which she made for every church potluck and picnic, and sold out of a little cart at every county fair every summer. Romeo, his three brothers, two remaining sisters and mother,

lived in a sprawling old farmhouse out on the edge of Cabrero with their granddaddy. Romeo's daddy had passed a few years back with the black lung, but the Capriotti boys had followed him into the mines, and they brought in enough to keep the family afloat, Mrs. Capriotti and the girls, working the farm. Family was well-liked and well-respected in the community. They had influence. They would have to go.

Mr. Churchman eased the Catalat, off the road into the high weeds just down the road from the Capriotti's rambly old house. It was an ideal location from which they could monitor their bouncing baby bombshell while remaining unseen by the house's occupants. Mr. Crane waited until the sun had fully set, and shadows spilled long across the valley, pulling at the base of the tree line and bathing the Capriotti's, yard in shadow.

Then he stepped quietly from the passenger seat, picked up a small bundle wrapped in blankets, and moved silently through the tall grass to the edge of the road. As Polly and Churchman watched from the car, he slipped between the weeds, and just like that he was gone, folding the shadows around him so that none could mark his passage or so much

even here his footsteps. He approached the house across the road. A few minutes later, his sleeping package deposited silently on the family's front porch, Mr. Crane returned to the car, lowered his muscular bulk into the passenger seat, and quietly closed the door behind him. He was just in time. Not five minutes later, they heard the sound of footsteps, accompanied by the murmuring of several voices, accompanied by the murmuring of several voices,

coming down the road from the direction of the mind. A moment later, the porch lot across the street snapped on, bathing the Capriotti's front yard in a soft golden glow. And suddenly, an infant's cry split the evening calm. And there was suddenly much ado on the porch across the street. As the four Capriotti brothers ran the rest of the way home in response to the sound, Mrs. Capriotti opening the door and stepping into view, and there were a few minutes of heated discussion, punctuated with gesticulating,

but in the end, Mama keptriotties, scooped the squalling bundle up, and began gently bouncing the infant on her hip. His cries soon turned to giggles with her tender ministrations. Where do you think he come from, Mama? One of the men could be heard to ask. I don't rightly know, but a lot of folks got a hard rudder hoe these days. Some poor thing, down on her luck probably, just trying to find her boy a good home. She answered sadly.

I'll take him over to Father Murphy at the church in the morning, and he'll know what to do, but for now, let's get this little one cleaned up. He's got something on his face, see? Polly Barrow, smile. A while later, lanterns were extinguished in the house across the street, and the moon rose above the trees, and the crickets began to sing. And for a long while, all was quiet and peaceful in Cabora. softly, so, so softly.

Through the open window came the sound of a little child, beginning to fuss in the night, followed by something of a strange sound, like fabric tearing. A noise heard more as an echo deep in the skull than anything captured by the ear. The air filled with the smell of ozone. The airs rose on the back of Polly's neck, and the crickets ceased their endless song, and for a moment the whole world fell still as of some great predator.

And then the screaming began. In the wee hours before dawn, before anyone could be expected to pass by the farmhouse are come looking for Romeo Capriotti and his brothers when they didn't show up for their shifts at Pasco number three. Polly Barrow and the two hollow men stepped from the Cadillac and walked across the road to collect their charge.

Nobody locked their doors back then. Not that it would have saved Romeo Capriotti and his family, so Mr. Churchman simply opened the front door, ducking to avoid bumping his head on the jam. The house. was a shambles. Furniture was reduced to splinters. The floors were soaked in blood,

and the walls imprinted with wide red stripes and swirls. Almost as if a painter had attempted to render some great stylized sea creature in a mural. Bodies or parts of them lay scattered in corners. The bottom half of a leg from about halfway down the calf had become wedged between the two rails on the staircase. A gooey black substance dripped from the ceiling, and a strange, dark fungus was climbing its way up the walls. Polly Barreho stepped gingerly over the devastation,

mindful of her shoes, and gently scooped up the fair-haired child that Mr. Crane had left on the doorstep last evening. The little tie could plumb worn himself out, playing with his new friends, and didn't even wake on the ride back to the cabin in the woods. So it was no trouble for Polly to strip the boy down to his nappy and carry out the ritual required to repaint the sigils that the unwitting woman had washed from his skin.

And when her task was done, Polly dropped exhausted onto the double bed and fell into the fathomless, dreamless sleep. That was all she had ever known. In the weeks that followed, Polly, Crane, and Churchman would repeat this procedure in various coal towns scattered around the region, dropping off their special delivery where he might be discovered by either the unfortunate folks on their list of reported union agitators or by those closest to them. A childless woman discovered the precocious babe playing alone by the creek behind her house as she was hanging clothes out on the line and rushed him inside.

a surprise and perhaps a prayer answered at last for her husband when he returned home from a hard day in the mines. A pastor who was said to be offered up his church as a safe space for union organizers discovered the boy on the church doorstep when he came to open its doors for one such meeting under the guise of men's evening fellowship and so on and so forth. Folks in Bower County were becoming decidedly unsettled. What happened to the Capriottis had shut. the local community, no doubt about it, but it was generally assumed that the family had been murdered

by some drifter passing through on the rails. Nobody they knew would be capable of anything like that, surely. And at first, no one thought about Romeo Capriotti's union dog. Ravalrousers had been known to turn up dead, sure enough, but not entire families. But as the rash of incidents continued, and the bodies piled up. The people of Bauer County began to connect the dots,

and no one knew for sure what was going on. What on earth could even do that kind of thing to a human body, but everybody knew it must have something to do with unions, and suddenly nobody wanted any part of that business. As the stars winked out, and the sky began to fade from velvety black to deep blue to gray, Mr. Crane collected the boy from what remained of a boarding house catering to miners in a small coal camp called Nettleberg. He passed the drowsy child to Polly, who settled him in next to her on the back seat.

Where to next, Miss Barrow? Polly Barrow was ready to return home to report another successful mission to her daddy, to accept his praise and bask in his love. What might her reward be this time? A new car? A train ride up to New York for a shopping day. Perhaps a trip abroad. A cruise might be nice this time a year, but first there was one last name on her list. A man who, according to their local informants, seemed undeterred by recent events. Hmm. Oak Mountain. Our source there was a source there. There tells us a fellow worker is attempting to organize a union rally, a man by the name of Underwood.

Well, hey there, family. Thank you all for joining us here on the backroads of West Virginia with us Polly Barra and her best friend's crane and churchmen up to nefarious acts and no good. But it looks like they're about to meet some real interesting folks. I think y'all need to come back and check that out next time around, don't you? I thought so. Spooksters, it is not over, no, we are just getting started. On the next episode, Spook returns to the holler to continue where we left off, and if you like what you're hearing,

listen to the complete Old Gods of Appalachia podcast currently in its sixth season on whatever you listen to, your favorite podcast app. Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media, written and produced. by Cam Collins and Steve Schell narrated by Steve Schell The voice of Pollybero was Tracy Johnston Crum

To learn more about this show Visit oldgodswabalaja.com And wherever you're running to Wherever you're running from Never ever, ever