← Old Gods of Appalachia
Old Gods of Appalachia
Episode 80: Change of Plans
00:47:24
Henricus Crane confronts the ghosts of his past.
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- [00:01]
Steve Schell
Well, hey there family. Steve Schell from Old Gods of Appalachia here. If you're listening to one of the earlier episodes of our show, those before the beginning of season five, you may hear us talk about supporting the show through our Patreon. I'm just popping in to let you know that Patreon is going away. We just launched our very own subscription service, the Holler. The Holler is powered by Supercast, a platform built from the ground up for podcasters and their listeners. We think you're going to like it a lot. So if you'd like to support the show and enjoy ad free episodes, exclusive storylines and more, visit oldgodsofappalachia.com the Holler and join the family today. You can find that link in the show Notes of Every Episode.
- [00:54]
Unknown
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- [02:18]
Steve Schell
Old gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised. Henrikus Crane sat on an examination table in a drafty concrete room. The butcher paper beneath him crinkled as he shifted, seeking a more comfortable position. His dark trousers and starched white shirt were draped neatly over the back of a nearby chair, his shoes and socks were nested under that same chair, and his jacket hung from a hook on the back of the door. He wore a white undershirt and blue and white striped boxer shorts. And if he felt vulnerable dressed only in his skivvies, he did not show it. He was bone tired. He was once again safe within the walls of Barrow House. After the long drive back from Tourniquet, he had fulfilled his duties and delivered the scions of the Barrow clan to their ancestral home so they might take their and await the emergence of their beloved patriarch from his sojourn beneath the mountain. Protocol mandated that Hollow Men like himself be examined by company doctors periodically, especially after situations involving any alterations of their perceptions, memory, or other cognitive faculties. The mind of a Hollow man is a delicate thing, carefully shaped and curated by Barrow mineral resources to ensure competence, effectiveness, and, above all else, loyalty. The Halloween process unshackled a mortal soul from the carapace of humanity, instilling in its depths a small piece of the dark heart of what lay beneath the mountains. This process imbued those who survived it with gifts beyond measure. Often the burrowing shadow would manifest itself in abilities that reflected the personality or the nefarious deeds of the vessel it filled. A strangler would be able to steal breath with but a word an arsonist might find himself in command of the elemental nature of fire, and so on. No one knew for certain, however, how one of Barrow's operatives would be gifted until the hollowing was complete and they were evaluated by the specialists in human resources. One such specialist, Dr. Philip Hagan, entered the room now, his bespectacled eyes fixed on the clipboard he carried. As he closed the door behind him, Crane breathed a sigh of relief. He had encountered many of the company physicians in his time with the Barra family, and some treated the Hollow Men like livestock. They would waltz into the infirmary in pairs, discussing these supernaturally gifted killing machines as if the patient in question weren't standing mere inches away, capable of ending their pathetic human lives without blinking. Dr. Hagan was their opposite. He was kind and solicitous. He made it a point to learn the men's names and to use them. He regarded them less like finely built killing machines that must be serviced regularly for optimum performance, and more as gifted athletes who required guidance and proper diet training and physical therapy to achieve their highest potential. He knew what Henrikis Crane and his kind were capable of, and thus treated them with the respect they were due. Mr. Crane. Pleasure to see you, old boy. Dr. Hagan scanned his clipboard and raised an eyebrow. They got you out in this weather? Playing bodyguard all the way over in, By God, West Virginia, at this time of year. The very nerve. Come on down off that table and have a seat. May I? Crane gave a small smile and nodded his consent. Dr. Hagan drew an armless chair over, gesturing his patient toward it, and then retrieved a small adjustable stool on casters from the far corner of the room and sat down. Then he set to his work, looking into the Hollow man's ears and shining a light into his eyes. He produced a small rubber mallet to test Henrikis reflexes, which were, of course, excellent. He placed a stethoscope over various locations on Crane's chest, listening for things only a man of his training would even fathom, because no heart beat within any Hollow man's breast. The hollow breathed, the hollowed breathed, but merely out of habit or the need for speech, not necessity. And if they bled, it certainly wasn't blood that issued from their wounds. H well, you look fit enough. Getting a little long in the tooth, perhaps, but your physical form is perfectly serviceable. What do they have you in here for? Let's see. Dr. Hagen perused the second page of the clipboard. Oh, I see they filed a form M74 on you. Lapse in recall of events. Your noodles shorten that on you, Henrikus. You didn't forget the boss lady's birthday or something, did you? There's a saying amongst those who know and fear the elite soldiers of Barrow Mineral Resources that Hollow men never forget. Which is more than just an ominous warning. Hollow men have near perfect recall and can recount details of their work with preternatural clarity. So when Henrikis Crane and Johann Churchman reported there was a portion of their assignment in West Virginia, they could not remember that both men had in fact lost several hours of time. It was straight to the infirmary with them. I do not know what happened, Dr. Hagan. Johann, and I were right behind Ms. Barrow on the street in tourniquet, and then we were not could not tell you where we were taken or how. It was as if the snowstorm grew in intensity, and the next thing I knew we were a dozen meters away from her and hours had passed. I do not know if it had to do with Babylon and its collapse or yes, very strange. Very strange indeed, hagen muttered vaguely, mostly to himself as he flipped the page and perused through what must be Henrikis own report. No memory of encountering any unusual energy or enchantments? You don't recall anyone or anything moving you to a second location or anything of that sort? No strange voices giving you orders or telling you to do anything against your Nature. Nothing like that at all. Henryka's crane, who was as unshakable as a portcullis in a sea, blinked and shook his head. No, sir. It was as if one second we were there and the next you weren't. Yeah, Mr. Churchman told me the same. Dr. Hagan rose from his stool and tilted Henricus head to the side, looking at the space behind his ears, his fingers resting on the third cervical vertebrae of the hollow man's neck. He returned his head to center and then tilted it in the opposite direction. Then Hagen retrieved his clipboard, quickly scribbling some notes onto the first page. Oh, that reminds me. Mr. Churchman asked me to tell you he was going down to the vaults for a few days rest. Said the cold is hard on his old bones. He's fine otherwise. Yes, he mentioned he might on our way back from Tourniquet. He always complains about the cold. Says his joints are turning into rusty old hinges. Well, you two are a couple of the oldest bodies we still have in the field. We could fix that, you know. When was the last time you came in for a full renewal, Henry? A full renewal, sir? Surely we are not that beaten up. I thought we got all we needed from the breaking moon each year. Dr. Cranes set the clipboard down and settled back onto his stool, his expression becoming thoughtful as he met Henricus eyes. Well, I mean, you're still functional. You're a master of your gifts, and they've never been stronger, from what I understand. But you boys aren't immortal, Mr. Crane. You may not feel the elements or even pain the way we do. And yes, you wield the might of a small God compared to your average fellow, but you're still a flesh and blood construct. Flesh and blood have never been the most durable building materials. A full renewal would reverse wear and tear on your bones and soft tissues and make those joints as good as new. I've seen it give a bit of a boost to hollowed abilities as well. Barring anything catastrophic happening in the line of duty, it could add an easy 50, 60 more years to your lifespan just on the first go. Crane shifted uncomfortably in his chair. I mean no disrespect, sir, but I always thought the process was reserved for men irreparably damaged in the field. Like when Parsons ran afoul of those boys with the flamethrower last year. Oh, that was a mess. Yes, A man needed a whole new suit of flesh. But renewal isn't just for emergent cases. Your friend Marcus Trench comes in fairly regular for the procedure, from what I understand. I wouldn't call Marcus a friend, per se, but regardless. Renewal isn't just bodily repair, Henry. It also strengthens your ties to the company and the family. It's not as intense as hollowing, but it'll make you remember why you're here and who you work for. It's a renewal of your purpose as much as it is refreshing of your physical body. Fellas, I done it for come out feeling like brand new men. Promise me you'll think it over. I will, sir. Thank you for the information. You can go ahead and get dressed. You're cleared to return to the field. My report will say that Babylon's imminent collapse disrupted your sense of time and space, but that you acted with haste the moment you recovered your senses and posed no risk of failing in your duties. Dr. Hagan scrawled a few more notes onto the form as he spoke them aloud, finishing with the flourish of his signature that Henrikis doubted anyone could decipher. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will you be joining Johan in the vaults for a good nap? At least you look like you could use it. Henrikus Crane had turned away from the man to pull on his pants and was buckling his belt. He spoke over his shoulder. I'm afraid not, sir. No. No rest for the wicked and all that. There are matters to attend to in Pittsburgh that should not wait for Johan's recovery. Hagen opened his mouth, clearly planning to voice some objection, and Crane was quick to reassure him. Light duty, I promise you. I am not merely delivering a memo to a foreman who needs a gentle reminder that deadlines aren't deadlines. I'm taking the train, so I won't even be driving in this weather. I'll take in the sights. Make a day of it. There is a jazz club in the Hill district I enjoy. I will take some time to relax. You have my word. All right, all right. I made my case. Take care of yourself out there, Mr. Crane. We need good men like you to keep this company running. We would really hate to lose you. Thank you, sir. I would hate to lose me too. When the walls close in and the light gets swallowed and there ain't no place that feels like home the ones you love turn into strangers and you cast your eyes to the winding road Keep your foot on the gas, your eyes straight forward Clear your heart and mind Best to leave them ghosts behind when the hearth grows cold Home is nowhere Then you might as well when darkness goes around Log Hill the following afternoon found Henrika's crane stepping from a private passenger car into the frigid air of one of the coldest Pittsburgh winters on record. The unique fragrance of the Steel City filled his nostrils as he took in the sights, sounds, and smells of winter in Pittsburgh. The station was a veritable ocean of travelers as the holiday season drew to a fever pitch. Crane glanced down at his shoes and chuffed with disgust at their station. Hollow men should always look professional when about their business, so he lifted his eyes to search for a familiar sign. Shoeshine stands were prolific in train stations such as these. Men and boys alike hustled for the next customer, calling out prices and services to draw in weary business travelers who needed to look their best when they arrived at their ultimate destination. Commuters of a certain quality would bypass those hard working urchins and their mentors and make their way to a discreet alcove on the western end of the station. It was a place of brass fittings, dark wood, and fine leather upholstery where a man could get his shoes shined, his beard trimmed, and perhaps have a nip of something to fortify him against the cold. The men who worked in this fine establishment said little and heard less. It was a perfect spot for clandestine meetings and the occasional transfer of documents, money, or other items best not entrusted to the postal service. Crane sank into a plush leather chair and waited. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. If he'd been tired before, he was exhausted now. Perhaps he should have gone with Johan down to the vaults, if only for a few hours. That was not an option. He had his own itinerary and appointments he must keep. Before an attendant could approach him, he sensed that someone had taken the seat next to him. Mr. Crane? The man's voice resonated in his mind rather than his ears. Henrikis opened his eyes to find a man next to him who was in every way completely unremarkable. He was dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, beneath which Henrikis knew he would be wearing a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. His shoes would be fine patent leather and polished to a mirror shine despite the weather. This was the standard uniform for all those employed by Lock Rail's security division, with the exception of their captains, who instead wore a silk tie and a handful of solid colors, its hue giving some indication of who they reported to in the labyrinthine hierarchy of the Lock organization. The man sat looking straight ahead in his chair and did not turn to meet Henrikis gaze. And what is this one's name? You may call me Nelson, if you must. Address Me by name. I am in the service of Inspector Craley, who is under Yardmaster Heizer, who reports directly to Division Superintendent Hadrian Locke. I have my documentation if you require further verification. Henryka's side he hated dealing with the rank and file of locked security. He had hoped to meet with an actual person, but instead this thing had been sent. Despite their appearance, these creatures were less human than he was, though they were no less impressive in the array of horrific abilities they possessed, they had the personality and operational autonomy of a well trained slab of concrete. They were drones, automatons made of flesh and who knew what else, possessing no individual identity outside of their assigned chain of command. It was polite to ask what to call one of them, because you almost certainly weren't going to recognize them again, even if you'd met that particular drone before. Their faces were bland, neither attractive nor unattractive, and their features subtly changed and shifted daily, making them impossible for anyone outside the organization to identify. They also did not speak, their flat voices instead reaching out in a crude form of telepathy. They existed to be part of a system, wheels turning within wheels, that kept the interests of the masters of Lock Rail moving into the future. Hollow men were an elaborate quilt of personalities and individual gifts, working in hellish harmony for the good of the company. The servitors of Locke Security wore stamped gears powering a well oiled machine, anonymous and interchangeable, but just as deadly. There's no need, Mr. Nelson. Just Nelson, please. Very well, Nelson. You'll find the paperwork you were tasked with delivering in the satchel beside my chair. Your inspector should find all the documentation he requires from the Barrow Home Office. If he needs us to perform a site visit and inspection, we are available at a future date. You may contact the Office of Worker affairs to set an appointment. I trust that is satisfactory, Nelson. Henricus turned to the other chair and found himself alone. The leather briefcase and the unremarkable man in the black coat were gone. Well then, goodbye to you too, Nelson. Crane checked his watch. He had 10 minutes to spare before the car he had ordered would arrive to retrieve him from the Western Gate. It was a five minute walk, so he took another moment to close his eyes again and steel himself for what the night would hold. It would be the beginning of a long and dangerous road. Nine years ago, a ghost had opened a metaphorical door and shown him there could be a different kind of life for someone like him. A life where he chose his own path and lived out his remaining days on his own terms. He had never believed it possible until he saw for himself that it was. Since that day he had pondered and studied on the matter. He had corresponded with those who could help make such a thing happen. The thought of it made him sweat like a bridegroom on his wedding night, a life that was his, not theirs. He had dreams of retiring to some small cabin somewhere that nobody knew him, taking up oil painting as he'd always wanted to. But these visions always turned to nightmares, the company or the family drawing him back in and reminding him of who had made him what he was. The Barrows had offered him a place at their table when he had been a monster for most of his life. Perhaps he was still a monster, but he was a monster with a purpose. The company made sure he remembered his place, though there were rituals to observe, and minders and managers further up the food chain who could make him feel and believe things that might not have come to him in his own reasoning. It was a terrifying thing to have thoughts in his head that weren't his own, and even more terrifying when he was unable to tell the difference. It was in those times he began to plan for a different future. Henricus arrived at the Western Gate just in time to meet his driver, who stood in the blowing snow by a long white sedan holding a sign with the name Cronin printed on it. He nodded to the man, handed him his suitcase, and got in the back seat. Moments later they were on their way out of the city. After 90 minutes or so of driving, the hired car crossed the Ohio state line and delivered Crane to a rundown hamlet called Oak Mill, sleepy little town that appeared to have dozed off during the Depression and never woke back up. A short block of closed storefronts and abandoned houses passed by his window. In a breath, the driver pulled to a stop in front of a church that bore no signage indicating its denomination. It was a tall, narrow white box with a cross over the door and a layer of grime and dust thick enough to imply that neither the congregation nor the Lord had been in attendance for quite some time. It looked like a stained tooth against the whiteness of the evening snow. You're sure this is the place, sir? The driver nodded and reached over his shoulder to hand Henricus a folded slip of paper. He sensed nothing remarkable about the note, so he flipped it open. Inside, steady block letters written in a hand that suggested their owner had learned the skill late in life, offered instructions. Tip the driver. Knock on the front door. Ask for James Clay. Pay Joshua no mind. You can trust him. See you soon, the driver had already retrieved Crane's bag from the trunk and opened the rear door for him to exit the sedan, a clear enough signal that the man wished to be on his way. Sparkling flurries of snow fell from above as Henricus produced his wallet and passed the driver a pair of bills that made him raise his eyebrows and nod with gratitude as the car pulled away into the eastern Ohio night. Henrikis walked up to the front door of the little church and knocked. For a long moment there was only silence, then a thundering of footfalls as someone stormed on a flight of stairs. The door was snatched open with such violence that the crane took a step back and almost slipped on the icy stoop. The man who peered out at him was tall, shirtless, in hirsute, his broad, muscular chest covered in a thick pelt of hair that ran up his neck and merged with his impressive brush like beard. He squinted one eye and hunched down so he had to look up at Crane. Hey, who comes knocking in the cold dark night, eh? I see you there, partner. Don't you try to hide from me. Hey. The man was sweaty and breathing hard. His eyes were wild and his teeth were a busted fence of crooked and broken bone. Henrikus had the passing thought he might lunge at him like a wild animal. Are you deep, man? I said. Who comes knocking in the cold dark night? Are you a robber? You come steal my pickles? You got a pickle? Let me get one of them pickles and Rikes blinks. What in all of God's hells was this? He glanced back down at the note, asked for James Clay. Hey, Joshua. No, my I'm looking for James Clay. Are you him? Oh no, no, no. Hell no. No, sir. No sir. The man raised his voice and called over his shoulder. I wouldn't be that sour. Push, son of bitch. Who would eat all a man's pickles and then lie about it if I had to. Clay, it's for you. I ain't got time for this. Crane heard steady, heavy steps coming down the stairs, and soon a bald man, built like a butcher with thick shoulders, a full belly, and a silver van dyke appeared in the doorway. The other man poked and swatted at him playfully until he was shooed back into the building. Get back in the house, brother Joshua. You're gonna catch your death and quit. Josh, quit it now. Quit playing or you won't get no pickles at all. The half naked man howled with laughter and ran back up the stairs, which inexplicably seemed to be right behind the front doors of the church. Pay him no mind. I'm James Clay, the elder. What kind of Henrikis cut him off? My name is Henricus Cronin. I was sent here by I know who you are and who sent you. Don't need to say no more. I'll get the truck. He's waiting on you. Out on the ridge, the big man retrieved a fleece lined jacket from a hook by the door, pulling it on as he called back into the house. Joshua, I'll be back in a little while. I have to go see our friend out in the woods. You hear me? You behave yourself till I get back. There was a sound of laughter and cabinet slamming that indicated Brother Joshua was doing anything but behaving. James Clay, the elder led Crane around the back of the church to a rusty old Ford pickup and a few minutes later they were headed south. Before long the big man steered the truck off the blacktop and onto a series of logging trails. Your friend. Is he alright? He will be. There's a little slap happy every now and again. Josh is a good man. We worked together a long time. Get used to him. Has he always been simple? James Clay scratched the back of his head, pondering the question. Nah, he was as sharp as it come when we was working. Still is. Just hard going from being one thing your whole life and realizing you need to be something different. Change ain't never easy. Not quite understanding, but never one inclined to pry. Crane did not respond, so the big man went on. I hear you might be looking for a change yourself. Our mutual friend mentioned you might be ready and Reicha stiff and no one was supposed to know his purpose here. He reached into the shadows of the back of the cab with his gift. If you're thinking about killing me because I know you've been hollowed and you're considering starting over, you can calm down. You're among friends. You think you're the first he's offered to help James Clay? The elder shook his right wrist out of the sleeve of his jacket, holding it out for Crane's inspection. Even in the dark, Henryakis recognized it as a watch bestowed upon employees of Barrow Mineral Resources after 50 years of service. The rubies around the bezel and the silver letter B etched into its face were unmistakable. Joshua and I served alongside our mutual friend in the same unit as Marcus Trench, Danov Witt, Leonidas Baxter, the first among the hollowed Henriques. Head spun. The first of the hallowed were legends. Six men handpicked by the company founder himself and hollowed by his hand. The first had reigned terror upon the Barakol Empire for decades until Wit and Baxter were lost in the fires of the Avalon disaster. Shortly thereafter, the team of Godseed and Price were retired from service and never seen again. Then had come Copper Ridge, leaving only Marcus Trench. You mean to tell me that lunatics screaming about pickles is Joshua fit for battle? Godsy, one of the most fearsome and ruthless men to ever be Hollowed. Faster than a horse, stronger than a bull, with all the restraints straight of a busted handbrake. Stab him. Shoot him. Hit him with the train. Mr. Godsey feels no pain. A faint smile haunted the man's lips as he pronounced the sing song refrain of a morbid nursery rhyme that was more than familiar to Henrikus, to all the Hollowed who had come after the first, as Hollowing also fractured his mind. In a way it just got worse. Over the years he did great and horrible things in the name of the company, but he's growing harder and harder to control. Killed four different minders before they decided to retire him. By association. Me shook our hands, give us these fancy watches, and sent our mutual friend to put us down like rabid dogs. Stan, that stubborn old fool helped us get away. He's good like that. Oh, speaking of which, we're here. Crane had been so rapt listening to the man's story and so stunned to be in the presence of Clay Price, a man rumored to have the ability to boil a man in his own blood with merely a touch that he had failed to notice they'd reached their destination. Price had pulled to a stop in a small clearing, really just a wide spot big enough for a logging rig to turn around and head back down the mountain. He gestured toward the woods illuminated by the pickup's headlights. Head for that break in the trees ahead, Huck. About half a mile. You'll find him. Mr. Price, it is. It is an honor. I am sorry. I did not realize who you were. Never you mind me, son. I'm not Mr. Price anymore. I'm James Clay, the elder pastor of a small church in a forgotten corner of Oja. We run a food pantry every second Thursday and a prayer meeting every other Wednesday. That's all anyone needs to know. Now get on up there. Like I said, he's waiting. Henrykis made his way through the dark of a barely perceptible path past ice kissed trees and frozen creeks. He did not truly feel feel the cold, but he marveled at the sheer power of winter as it marched across the landscape of eastern Ohio, crushing everything in its path. After a while he came to a tidy little campsite laid at the top of the ridge. There was no sign of a tent or any sort of place to bed down for the night, but there was a fire that burned in defiance of the winter night. Set in a neat circle of stones, two camp stools cast long shadows in its flickering light. He settled himself onto one of them and waited. When about 30 minutes had passed, he heard a twig snap somewhere in the surrounding trees, followed by the skittering of nocturnal creatures through the brush. It sounded as if anything every critter for five miles had come to see who'd built a fire in their woods. Crane could feel their gaze upon him and he turned to see countless pairs of glowing violet eyes peering at him from just outside the circle of firelight. He did not know. He did not breathe. He waited, and gradually, one by one, those eyes winked out and a solitary set of footsteps crunched through the dead leaves and ice rimed brush as an old man wearing a thick flannel lined barn coat over coveralls and heavy work boots stepped from the tree line. Well, hey there, Henry. Mr. Stapleton, sir, I. Let's have none of that. You can call me Milton or not at all, you hear me? I gotta admit, son, I'm a little surprised to see you out here. You sure you weren't followed? Miss Polly ain't about to pop out from behind a tree or nothing, is she? Henrika shook his head with a rueful smile. No, sir. We just returned from an assignment in preparation for the solstice. Ms. Barrow and her brothers will be resting for some time. We. With the longest night approaching, it will be a goodly while before they are concerned about anything other than appeasing their father when he returns from his sojourn. Ah, yes. Old Man Bear is away and the mice will play, I suppose. Something like that, sir. I have been eager to see you again, mister. Excuse me, Milton. You gave me much to think about the last time we worked together. Oh, you mean when you helped me kill a handler who would have had you kill me? Thank you for that, by the way. Amos was a nasty son bitch, and I don't regret shredding him into pulp at all. That man caused as much suffering as any of us, but he always seemed to enjoy doing it to his own kind more than anybody else. Crane flinched at the mention of Amos Nunneley. Barrow and Milton Kinsman smirked. I see they still got their hooks in. You can't even think about harming one of them without Getting rattled, can you? I, I, no, sir. I'm afraid I cannot. We can get you past that easy enough. Separation from the family is actually the easy part. Well, as easy as any of this is, Will have to stash you somewhere they can't find you. Kind of place you can't get away from should they decide to call you home. We. We have to keep you locked up for a while, Henry. I'm sorry about that, buddy, but it's necessary. Mr. Stapleton. Apologies, Milton. I, I do not believe I can go. I will not betray you to the family. You have my solemn word on that. But I do not think I can leave. Uh huh. It was, as ever, Milton's polite way of saying horseshit. But tell me more, Henrakis continued, his voice growing agitated. I know you must think that it is the Hollowing that keeps me in their service, or the leverage they hold over my remaining family. But it is not it. Well, it is, Ms. Barrow. Specifically, sir. I'm gonna need you to explain that to me, Henry. Cause you ain't making a lick of sense. It's not the hollowing. But it is polybara. Son, the Hollowing is the only reason the bearers had the hold over you. They do. You've been made to feel that way. You know that as well as anybody. No. No. I am sorry. I did not make myself plain. Miss Barrow and I have been through a great deal together. I have grown very protective of her over the years. Of course you have, Henry. That's what they made you to do. They built you from the ground up to take care of the worst of them. And now what? You gonna tell me you have some sort of crush on the boss's daughter? We both know what she's capable of. Hell, I'm sure you've seen her do worse than I ever did. You can't fall in love with an abomination like that, you dumb bastard. She'd just soon bite your head off his kissy. I am not in love with her. Do not be so crass, Milton. Show some respect. Respect to what? The Queen of Salt and Bones? The monster who's used children as weapons and burned whole towns alive? As I understand it, you were with her when she took out that alkali plant in Palmer. Drowned a whole town on Christmas Eve based on some rumor they might try to organize. Boy, do you think she honestly gives two hoots from a barn owl about you? Henricus narrowed his eyes and the fire died down as shadows flooded the campsite. Enough. You will not speak ill of your Mistress. Listen to yourself, Henry. Free men don't have masters or mistresses. Not that kind, anyway. If you ever expect to have any kind of real life, you. Her brothers are trying to kill her, Milton. She told me this herself, and now I have seen it with my own eyes. She has always implied that Mr. Conrad and Mr. Benuel meant her ill, but I could not fully believe it. All siblings fight. My own brothers and I had our differences and petty squabbles. We bickered over money, over territory, over who would take over the family business one day. But those arguments led to bloodshed. Brother turned on brother and innocent children died in the crossfire. Children I was not able to protect because I did not fully understand what my siblings were capable of. I assumed her brothers were. Weren't like mine, that at the very least they would fear their father too much to raise a hand against her. But I was mistaken. They tried to feed her to a place that should have devoured her, but by some stroke of luck, she survived. They have caused her to stumble before, to fall out of her father's favor. If they should turn him wholly against her, he might throw. Throw her on the scrap heap and start again. I can think of worse things. Henrykis took a step towards his old mentor, and the shadows moved with him, twisting into tendrils, tentacles and hungry mouths sliding in and out of sight in the darkness. There was no Henry here now. There was only Mr. Craig. I warned you before, Mr. Stapleton, to mind your tone when you speak of my employer. Milton didn't flinch, did not stir from the spot where he stood by the smoldering fire. His gaze met Crane's, and he did not appear impressed. Eyes that had been baby blue when his name was Milton Stapleton then turned chocolate brown when he set down the mantle of the Hollow man and became Milton Kinsman, shimmered with the distinct violet light that whispered a third hidden name. Legion. Don't do this, Henry. I don't know what's got into you since your last letter. You were ready to pack it in and come with us. What does it matter to you who kills who in that snake pit? You told me what they done to you, what she done to you herself. Taking you out to Burghhold, showing you what they know about your living kin. Why in the world would you stick by somebody who'd threaten and disrespect you like that? Let her brothers kill her. Hell, maybe then you really would be free. Henrikus Crane cried out then, and in his rage and frustration brought a crashing wave of darkness down upon his old mentor, an ocean of ravening shade meant to crush and consume the old man with the shimmering eyes. But that lightless sea descended on only barren ground, and the sound of innumerable creatures scattering for cover filled the air as Milton shifted into not one shape but many. The scurrying of countless claws filled the air, and Crane felt the gaze of all those amethyst eyes upon him again for a moment as they streaked to the other side of the clearing, whereupon they reconverged into the form of a humble farmer who looked more disappointed than angry. Damn it. Cut it out, Henry. Henricus was lost now, caught up in memories of his time before and the feelings programmed into him by the Hollowing. He was too far from home, without a minder. It was all just too much. Perhaps he should just run back to Barra House, find Dr. Hagen, and beg for a full renewal. At least. Then perhaps things might make sense again. Dammit, Milton, why can't you understand? Understand? I've already lost Vondatl to the petty bickering of brothers. I'll be damned if I lose another. The tide of darkness receded as Henrykus fell to his knees and wept. Oh, you poor dumb bastard. She's not your. You know what? Never mind. I get it. You're not ready. Think you might be one day, but today ain't that day. I'm certain of that. Go on home, son. Maybe one day, if she don't get you killed, you can call on me again and we can see about getting you some help. I am sorry, Mr. Stapleton. You still have my word. They will know nothing of you nor the others. Milton Kinsman snorted and shook his head. I'll be honest with you, Henry. I suspect they've known about us this whole time. They're deeper in your head than you know. If I can say anything good about the bears is they know how to play the long game. I imagine they'll come to collect all of us eventually. The most I can hope to do is make them regret it. Good night, Henry. Afraid you'll have to make your own way back? The sound of dozens of creatures scattering into the brush filled the air, and Milton was gone. Crane rose shakily to his feet and began making his way carefully down the trail through the night. He found James Clay the Elder's truck abandoned in the clearing where he had last seen him, the keys still in the ignition. He climbed behind the wheel and took a deep breath. It would be a long drive home. Well, hey there, family. And that brings the second part of season five of Old Gods of Appalachia run like hell to a close. I hope you've enjoyed your time with the Barrow family and the denizens in their employ, and I hope old Henrikis does find some peace soon. Don't you think we could all use a little peace right about now? Speaking of peaceful times with the family that might bring you a small amount of solace in these trying times, might we invite you over to the Holler, our paid subscription service that features day early ad free episodes as well as an embarrassment of riches when it comes to exclusive storylines like Build Mama a Coffin Door under the Floor, Black Mouth, Dog Familiar and Beloved, and the ongoing tale of the Strangers, along with special features like Steve Reads, Cam Reads and our quarterly Ask Me Anythings where we answer your burning questions and pull the curtain back on the creation of of Old Gods of Appalachia. This is also your Find someone who looks out for you the way Henrikus Crane does. Ms. Polybarrow reminder that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Our theme song is by Brother Landon Blood and our outro music is by those poor bastards. Today's story was written and performed by Steve Schell and edited by Cam Collins. Since this is the end of a story arc, we'll be taking an extra week off, but we'll be back on Thursday, May 8, 2025 with a brand new tale. Until then, we'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon. Through God's dark heaven go wide Through God's dark heaven go I the hunt it is over the Lord he won't answer the walls run with blood oh this house is a cancer and in this abyss I've lost all control Is this path to glory it's so hard to touch hell Through God's dark heaven go I Go I Through God's dark heaven go away Through God's dark heaven go I Through God's dark heaven go I. We all have that one friend whose opinion we trust on everything. 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