transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:01] Well, hey there, family. If you love Old Gods of Appalachia, and 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 ACAST supporter feature. No gift too large, no gift too small. Just click on the link in the show description, and you too can toss your tithe in the collection plate. Feel free to go ahead and do that right about now. Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast, and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences. So listener discretion is advised.

Speaker 2:
[01:49] When the voices call, but in the end, long shadows fall.

Speaker 1:
[02:23] Roanoke, Virginia, 1991. It had been an unusually warm December, with temperatures hovering in the low 60s. And by the Sunday before the holiday, all but the most stubborn of optimists had pretty well given up hope of a white Christmas. Usually, Tony Crawford would have been disappointed by that. But today, he had driven two and a half hours up I-81 on an errand for his employer, and had been grateful for the mild weather. On this, the shortest day of the year, the sun had set just after five, and it was already full dark when he turned his dad's old blue pickup into the parking lot of the city of Roanoke's crown jewel, the Dominion Tower. Completed just two months before, the tower was brand spanking new and stood at 320 feet, 21 stories. Now for someplace like Philadelphia or Atlanta, it might not be all that impressive, but Virginia's newest skyscraper was also now its tallest building, and folks in Roanoke were mighty proud of the brilliantly lit new centerpiece of its skyline. In spite of the weekend, expensive cars lined the parking lot, and lights glowed within the office structure. A doorman in a gray wool suit with a dove vest and gloves and a silver tie greeted men in tuxedas and women in brightly colored party dresses as they entered the building. Tony patted his pocket, double checking that the invitation was in his suit coat. It wasn't his invitation, not really. But Mr. Fields had asked that he go in his stead, offered him a bonus to do so, as he always did when he asked Tony to undertake some task outside the scope of his usual responsibilities, particularly on a weekend. The card had arrived at Mr. Fields' Paradise Office by Courier on the first Monday of December. It was printed on heavy card stock with a silken feel, edged in silver and embossed with a complex design whose details he couldn't quite make out at the top. It featured some sinewy lizard-like creature, something like a cross between a dragon and a snake. That much was clear, but beyond that, he couldn't have said. There was something about the spikes and whorls of the embellishment around the creature that made his eyes simply slide off of it, never quite taking in the whole of it. Jack had later explained it was the family crest of the Locks, owners of Lock Rail and one-half of Barrow and Lock Mining Combine. And they invited you to their Christmas party? Jack had merely shrugged. We've done some business from time to time. The invitation was lettered in elegant calligraphy. The pleasure of your company is desired on the solstice for the annual Lock Holiday Party and celebration of the opening of our new facility in Virginia's newest and tallest professional structure, Dominion Tower, RSVP. A personal note in a thin, spiky hand had been scribbled on the back. I have located the item you described in the family vaults. Send an envoy. He will not wish to see you there. Tony hadn't particularly liked the sound of that last part, but the bonus his boss was offering for this particular errand was significant enough that he figured he could deal with a little potential awkwardness. He had an invitation after all. He wasn't being asked to crash the party, and at least he wasn't being sent to some creepy old haunted medical facility this time, Tony reflected with a shudder. His visit to the old Woodhaven Sanatorium nearly three years ago still gave him the occasional nightmare. Rub elbows with some rich folks at a fancy party, snack on a few hors d'oeuvres and sip champagne, he could handle that. Jack had taken him to downtown Paradise to be fitted for a new suit by his own personal haberdasher, William King. Not a tuxedo, like many of the men Tony now saw entering the building, just a nice suit. When Mr. King had asked if a tux would be more appropriate for the event, his boss had just missed an ocean out of hand. The locks don't warrant that much effort. Besides, the boy will get a lot more use out of this. It was a fair point. It was a fair point and a nice fringe benefit of agreeing to take on the task. So Tony had waited patiently while his boss and Mr. King debated the merits of solid versus pinstripe versus windowpane, neckties over bowties and color choices for all of the above. In the end, he found himself outfitted in a neat suit of all-season black wool, a crisp white button-up and a green knit tie. A pocket square and red and green check completed the look with festive flair. The shiny new patent leather loafers felt stiff on Tony's feet as he approached the front door of Dominion Tower. The doorman smiled politely. Your invitation, sir. Tony produced the silver-edged car to the man, glanced at it briefly, and then returned it. Thank you, sir. Welcome to Dominion Tower. Elevators on the left, the parties in the atrium, 21st floor. Thank you. The tower's lobby was tiled in white marble, with brown marble insets on the shining floors. A nondescript man wearing a black suit, shirt, and tie sat behind a cherry wood security station. His cold eyes raked over Tony as he walked past, assessing and then seemingly dismissing him as a threat. Tony followed the doorman's directions down a hallway lined with gilt sconces set with frosted glass. Gold elevator doors polished to a mirror shine showed his wide-eyed expression and Tony quickly schooled his face. He adjusted his tie and pressed the button for the 21st floor. The elevator glided smoothly to the top of the tower. A chime pinging softly as the doors opened on a party that was already in full swing. Tiny white Christmas lights crisscrossed the ceiling and lined the edges of seemingly every surface. A giant fir tree dominated the far wall decorated in more white lights, silver garland and silver snowflake ornaments. On a small dais next to it, a live band cranked out jazz renditions of various holiday songs. Waiters dressed in dove gray vests and silver bow ties circulated through the well-heeled crowd, carrying trays laden with champagne and foie gras on little miniature slices of toast. Buffet tables lined the wall opposite the enormous tree, overburdened with fine food of every description, tender spiral sliced ham all but dripping with honey glaze, turkey and duck and what Tony was fairly certain was even a traditional Christmas goose. Potatoes served roasted, mashed or fried, all manner of vegetables dressed up with herbs and frequently bacon, pies and cakes and cookies and chocolates and more things he honestly couldn't quite identify. Tony felt his stomach rumble. He glanced around and spotted a section of the room where small round tables were clustered, some already occupied with folks enjoying the feast. Feeling somewhat at a loss for what else to do, he joined the buffet line, helped himself to some ham and mashed taters with gravy and a few stalks of asparagus wrapped in bacon, oh and a slice of goose which appeared to be served in a cherry sauce. He'd never eaten goose in his life, never even seen it on a restaurant menu, so he felt duty bound not to waste this opportunity to try it. He added a scoop of dressing made with sausage and apples to his plate, ladled a little more gravy on that than headed toward the seating area. Not knowing anyone here, he chose one of the smaller tables with only two chairs near the back, the better for people watching and tucked in to his meal. The food was excellent, perfectly seasoned, the meat tender and juicy, the vegetables tender but still crisp. He snagged a drink from one of the passing waiters and gazed around the room curiously. He didn't have any idea who he was supposed to meet here tonight. Mr. Fields had said that Tony's contact would find him. All he had to do was show up. Over the years, he had grown somewhat accustomed to his employer's maddeningly vague arrangements, but it was hard not to feel a bit awkward in out of place. Even with the fine suit Jack had purchased for him, by far the nicest clothing Tony had ever owned, he knew he must look like a pauper among this crowd. Most of the men were indeed wearing tuxedas as Mr. King had predicted, and of a cut in fabric that were far more expensive than anything he'd ever seen. None of these were rentals from the local bridal shop. A man at the next table wore a gold watch that had probably cost more than Tony's granny's house. Across the room, a tall, elegant woman with raven hair and very pale skin stood flanked by two men. One stocky, the other ray thin towering over his companions in sober black suits that seemed to be of similar quality to his own. The taller man conceding a tiny nod to the season with a small candy cane pin on his lapel and the other radiating grim holiday cheer with a green and red tie shot through with gold thread. The woman herself wore a form fitting white velvet dress and a necklace festooned in glittering diamonds. All the women, in fact, were bedecked in jewels of some sort from the statuesque beauty across the room to a white haired old woman hunched in a wheelchair on the other side of a group of tables. As he scanned the crowd, he noted there were in fact others wearing less expensive suits. They were all dressed like the man at the security desk in a black jacket, black shirts, black ties, and all had equally forgettable faces. It was frankly a little odd, Tony thought. The men didn't look alike aside from the outfits, and yet he felt he'd be hard pressed to tell anyone apart from another. There was something unsettling about it. Almost a voice at his shoulder interrupted his line of thought. Excuse me, sir, may I see your invitation? Startled, Tony glanced up to find one of the black-suited men, who were quite obviously security, standing just behind his chair. He fumbled in his jacket pocket and handed the card to the man who proceeded to inspect it with a great deal more thoroughness than the doorman had. His eyes scanning not only the printed invitation, but also the message crawled across the bag. He did not return it. His eyes seemed to go curiously blank for a moment, and then gestured to Tony, Come with me, sir. Feeling a little embarrassed, Tony glanced around as he rose, but no one appeared to be paying any attention to the two of them. The man led him through the crowd back to the elevator bay. He pressed the button marked with a down arrow, and the two of them stood in silence, waiting for the elevator car to return. That soft chime sounded as the door slid open and the black-suited man motioned for him to step in. As the doors closed, Tony finally spoke up. Excuse me, is there a problem? There was no answer. Rather than pressing one of the numbered buttons on the elevator's control panel, the man from LockRail's Security Division removed a key from his pocket and slipped it into a keyhole located above the button array. It turned smoothly and the elevator began to glide downward. A digital counter above the door displayed the floor numbers as they descended while the corresponding button numbers lit up. 20, 19, 18. As they sailed past 14, Tony pondered just how he was going to explain to Mr. Fields that he had not only failed to acquire the package he had been sent to collect, but had been kicked out of the party for no offense he could actually name. The elevator pulled to a stop. Tony glanced at the control panel to find all the numbered buttons dark. He glanced up at the screen above the door to find it displayed the number 13. A floor that technically should not exist. Not that there was no 13th floor. All buildings of 21st story certainly had one, but even in the modern era the old superstition about the number 13 held sway with builders. No floor was numbered 13. The floor number is simply skipped blithely on to 14, omitting the supposedly unlucky number. There should be no 13th floor. The display should have simply read 14, but here they were. The elevator doors had opened to reveal a long, darkened hallway. The black suited man stepped through them, not looking back. He simply made a curt gesture with one finger over his right shoulder indicating Tony should follow and set off down the hall at a brisk pace. Tony hastened to follow, nearly needing to jog to keep up as the man led him down first one hall, then turning sharply down another and another, and there were no lights, save the glowing red safety lights mounted every ten feet or so at ceiling height, which were meant to lead people out of the building in case of emergency, and he quickly lost track of how many turns they'd made as they navigated the labyrinthine corridors that wound through what he guessed must be the Roanoke offices of Lockrail. Finally, the black suited man stopped before a pair of carved double doors at the end of the hallway. He rapped twice and a voice called from within, Enter! The man opened the door and Tony followed. He found himself in a spacious corner office. The lights of Roanoke glittered through the windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. The interior walls were fitted with built-in bookcases of rich dark wood and a matching L-shaped desk dominated the room. Four leather chairs were situated to face it. Behind it sat a man in a finely tailored suit the color of gunmetal. The lines of the man's jacket made Tony feel as though his fancy new suit had been salvaged from the bins at Goodwill. His shirt was a crisp, snow-white affair set off by a tie of swirling silver and black at his throat that was tied into a neat pratnaut. At his wrists glittered cufflinks that probably cost more than his dear departed daddy had paid for the truck Tony now drove when it was brand new. The man was of average height and weight, well-groomed with light brown hair. Tony couldn't have guessed at his age. He had the sort of mobile face that could have been 30 or 50. The only remarkable thing about him was his eyes, which were in a resting green. He sat watching Tony, his chin resting on his steepled finger, his expression impassive. He didn't even glance at the man from security as he approached and retrieved something from his pocket. The invitation he'd taken from Tony. He slid it across the desk and the green-eyed man picked it up, examining it. He waved a hand dismissively. Get out. The black suited man made a gesture that was more a bow than a nod. Backed up a couple of steps, then pivoted and walked toward the door. Tony turned to follow him, but the man's voice drew him up short, not you. Sit down, Mr. Crawford. Listen, I don't know what this is about. I have an invitation. I will just sit. Tony could hear in the green-eyed man's voice that here in this space he was used to being obeyed. The idea rankled, but given the situation, he sat. The man behind the desk set the invitation down and regarded him thoughtfully. In point of fact, this invitation wasn't issued to you. However, the author of the note is correct. Listen, man, I don't know who you are or what beef you got with Mr. Fields, and frankly, it's none of my business. My name is Solomon Locke. Locke Rail is my family business. This is, for all intents and purposes, my party. And that makes you, as Jack's envoy, my guest. He delivered these words with a weight that gave Tony the sense there was some significance to them he didn't quite grasp. Okay, well, whatever's between the two of you, it's got nothing to do with me. I'm just his employee. He asked me to come here and meet somebody and pick up a package, so I came. I'm sorry if I look like a party crasher or something. I never... The lights above Tony's head flickered, and there was an ominous feeling in the air, like static electricity just before a storm. The shadows around Solomon seemed to darken. His hands clenched into fists on the desktop. Tony could have sworn he saw the man's eyes flash with silver light. Then Solomon drew in a deep breath and let it out again. His hands relaxed, and he tilted his head from side to side as if to relieve the tension in his neck. Jack is an old acquaintance, and unfortunately, he reminds me of times I'd rather not think on. I'm sure he thought it would be all right for me. Solomon laughed out right at this. I highly doubt your employer gave any thought at all to the situation. Locke leaned across the desk and leveled a frank gaze at Tony. You should think carefully about who you ally yourself with, Mr. Crawford. You're Mr. Fields. I can't believe he's still using that one after all this time. Has a long history of taking on young protegees such as yourself. Hasn't always worked out so well for them. Tony Crawford sat back in his seat as he met that cool green gaze. He couldn't think of any reason this stranger should give him advice, nor see any sense at all in taking anything the man said to heart. If he was honest with himself, it was true that he found himself in some situations working for Mr. Fields that felt, well, off in one way or another. Sometimes he merely suspected that maybe something his employer was involved in might not quite align with the letter of the law. And other times he found himself in some truly unnerving situations such as this one. Ultimately, however, Mr. Fields was the devil he knew. He couldn't trust the word of the stranger, especially knowing there was some bad blood of some sort betwixt the two. Tony also didn't think it was a great idea to be rude, given the sense of rising power he just felt around the man. So he met his eyes unflinching and simply nodded. I appreciate the advice, Mr. Locke, but at the moment, he's my boss and I'm just trying to do the job I get paid for. Locke spread his hands and shrugged, a gesture of acceptance. Fair enough, fine. Jack may have the trinket he requested. It's of no real value to us, a curiosity at best. Solomon Locke rose from behind the desk and crossed over to the wall of bookcases behind Tony's chair. I'll just be a moment. Solomon fiddled with something on one of the shelves and there was a soft click. A section of bookcase swung forward, revealing a concealed doorway. He stepped through and pulled it closed behind him. Tony could hear another click as the Locke engaged. The Locke air was gone for several minutes, during which Tony tried and failed to relax, feeling certain he was being watched and trying not to squirm. Finally, the door in the bookcase swung open behind him again, and Solomon stepped out, carrying a palm-sized wooden box. He presented it to Tony and returned to his desk. Tony stared down at the box in his hands. It was smaller than he had expected, and obviously old. Age and handling had softened its corners and rusted its hinges, but when he lifted the lid, they swung open quietly. Inside, he found a painted oval brooch. Its subject was an eye, a brown human eye and part of the brow. The eye was set inside a golden ureboros, the classical snake eating its own tail. Inside a band of black lacquer bordered in gold, there was something about that eye that Tony didn't like. It was rendered almost too well, too realistically, almost as if he held a peephole through which someone was really looking back. There was an intensity to that gaze that made him uncomfortable. Unsettling, isn't it? Tony flinched, so lost in his contemplation of the brooch, he'd almost forgotten about Solomon Locke. What the hell is it? It's called a lover's eye. They were popular gifts between betrothed couples, spouses and such back in the late 17 and early 1800s. I never quite understood the sentiment. Like, I love you, but I'm watching you. Solomon chuckled and nodded. I suppose they didn't think of it that way, but it certainly reads that way now. That's creepy. Indeed, Tony snapped the lid shut, obscuring the gaze of the off-putting bit of jewelry and tucked it into his coat pocket. Solomon Locke rose to his feet behind his desk, signaling the end of the strange interview. I believe it's time to return to the party. I'm sure my guests will be wondering what happened to me. Tony nodded and stood, relieved that he would apparently be allowed to go now. Thank you. I'll be sure Mr. Fields gets this. Solomon clapped him on the shoulder as he came around the desk. I'm sorry to have interrupted your dinner. Please, feel free to enjoy the rest of the party. Jack could wait until tomorrow. Thank you Mr. Locke. Locke led Tony back to the elevators, a much shorter route than the man from Locke Rail's security division had taken, and the two of them rode back up to the party together. Solomon Locke shook his hand at the door, then slipped into the crowd of partygoers to mingle with his other guests. Tony lingered at the edge of the crowd, sipping from a flute of champagne and nibbling without enthusiasm on a canapé, just long enough that he hoped wouldn't seem rude, and then hurried back to the elevators. It was a great relief to slide behind the wheel of his daddy's old pickup, and an even greater one when he sped out of the parking lot, heading for I-81 and the road that would lead him home to paradise. Well, hey there, family. Welcome to our little way station in between story arcs here in season six of Old Gods of Appalachia, Long Shadows. Looks like Jack's got Tony Crawford out here risking his neck for another doodad. Sending that boy in to meet a grown up Solomon Locke. Shoot, we ain't seen him since he was a pup back in season three. I wonder what this portends for the ride we're about to go on in this next set of episodes. Hope you'll come back and find out, but I think you will. Family, I want to take a second and give a quick shout out to our musical family and those poor bastards who let us use their amazing song Sick and Alone for our previous story arc. Those fine fellers have a brand new record out called Black Tongue, and you can find a link to purchase it in the show notes. It's a wild, strange record full of dark and distorted musings that will probably freak you out a little bit, so go check that out if you dare. And while you're taking a look there in the old show notes, you can find links to our merch store where you can find t-shirts, hoodies and other fine accoutrements, as well as home goods like coffee mugs and throw pillars. And there's a link to oldgodsofappalachia.com where you can learn more about the show, or join us on The Holler, our subscription service, where you can listen to every episode ad free, and for just $10 a month, access exclusive stories like Build Mama a Coffin, Familiar and Beloved, and our ongoing series, Unhallowed Grounds, featuring Cecil Baldwin and DJ Rogers, and so much more. And this is your yes, that is a live version of Panthers on the Mountainside playing underneath me, so I'll hurry up and hush reminder. That Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of DeepNerd Media and is distributed by Rusty Quill. Today's story was written by Cam Collins and performed by Steve Shell. Our intro music is by brother Landon Blood. Our outro music is by brother Jon Charles Dwyer and the Jon Charles Choir from our 2023 Price of Progress Tour. You can find a link to that down in the show notes as well. We'll talk to you soon, family. Talk to you real soon.