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Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast,

and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

So listener discretion is advised.

Hello, Prutus. I've been expecting your call. I assume you need a favor. Yes. Brutus locks blood drop to the temperature of well water as the voice seeped into his ears like poison.

He was no longer alone in the luxurious private car.

He held his breath, listening for the tale-tale whisper of the speaker's breathing,

but the rocking of the train was the only sound.

Reluctantly, he turned his head to find a man sitting in the plush armchair to his left.

His lustrous dark hair was neatly quaffed, his temples kissed with just a hint of salt and pepper that complimented the

bespoke charcoal gray suit that fit him like a shadow. One finely crafted leather loafer bounced idly

atop the opposite knee to the rhythm of the train as it rolled down the tracks, and in his hand was a rock's glass that held a generous pour of whiskey.

The stranger looked right at home in what had once been Brutus' younger brother, Mordecai's favorite chair.

It worked. You came. I wasn't sure you would answer.

Oh, Brutus, you wound me. You came all this way. You said the words, even spilled your own blood.

There's some on your shirt, by the way. You might put a little club soda on that before it stains. Brutus glanced down,

and sure enough, he'd bled all over the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The cut to his palm

had been shallow, but he'd always been a bleeder. He pulled a handkercher from his pocket and pressed it into the laceration to staunch the flow.

When he raised his eyes again, he found the man in the charcoal suit eyeing him expectantly,

...