Act 1: The Hungry Pines

Mood Music: "O, Death" performed by Ralph Stanley

"Well what is this that I can't see,
with ice cold hands takin' hold of me.
Well I am Death, none can excel,
I'll open the door to heaven and hell."

-- O, Death, a traditional Holler folk song, creator unknown




The Town of Waller Hole
Holler, 1930

Waller Hole sits at the base of Shoehorn Mountain - a peak of the Great Craggy Mountain Range in northwestern Holler. It was, and still is, a town of mining families.

Coal miners are a proud breed. Mining is hailed as a time-honored profession in Holler, and many miners are descended from generations of such laborers. Those who work the coal mines take an almost militant pride in the fact that their efforts help to power the world. Despite the inherent dangers, poor working conditions, and environmental consequences, most embrace digging in the darkness. But it's common wisdom in Holler that if you take from Mother Earth, she takes from you. In return for steady pay, the coal plants dark kisses in your lungs. It's accepted that some who climb into the depths won't climb back out.

When coal was discovered up-mountain from Waller Hole, the Big Boys' representatives showed up talking about mineral rights and promising buckets of money. Blinded by so much potential wealth, the locals -- a people that don't typically trust easily -- were quick to accept the terms offered. The resulting underground mining operation served to bring jobs and grow the town. Before the mine unexpectedly went dry, the community seemed poised to develop into a full-fledged company town. The mine's sudden closure, however, caused an exodus of residents from which Waller Hole has never recovered. Today, barely three-hundred people remain.

'Town' is a generous word for what's left of Waller Hole. The tiny community is a collection of dilapidated structures huddled together in the shadow of the mountain's escarpment. It consists of a post office, a dry goods store, a church, and a single-room school house. Surrounding these are several dozen dogtrot houses and older dwellings that the local folk built themselves. Most of these homes are little more than shacks that were constructed a century ago, and it shows. Paint is profusely peeling from walls, roofs are missing clusters of shingles, and basic plumbing and sanitation are non-existent. Several hovels have even taken on a tilt that makes one worry a strong breeze might one day blow them over.

Nearby one finds the "wallow hole" ("waller" in the Holler dialect) after which the town is named. It sits beneath a fetid layer of dense green algae. At one time, the small watering hole was a popular hangout spot for locals, who enjoyed swimming and relaxing in its clear, cool waters to escape the summertime heat. But then the Big Boys brought their synthetic chemicals for farming. Rain washed these chemicals out of the fields and down the mountain. Fertilizer runoff has eutrophicated the pond, and an aggressive algal bloom now chokes the life from anything in the water: fish, frogs, and even, supposedly, people. Nowadays, no one in their right mind ever goes near that pond. Not in years.

Following the muddy road out of Waller Hole takes one up and around the mountain, ending at the entrance of the defunct Mine Number Eight. If coal mining was once the life blood of the town, then Old No. 8 was its beating heart.


It's sunset. Almost twilight. As the daylight rapidly disappears behind the mountains, the sounds of nighttime begin to grow in intensity. Cicadas buzz and click in deafening unison, Whip-Poor-Wills chant their evening song as they forage for food, and, somewhere in the distance, you hear the strains of a banjo being played from someone's front porch.

At this time, residents are leaving their homes and walking to the center of town. Throngs of people - whole families - trudge up the dirt road that serves as Waller Hole's main street. They're heading to Pastor Caleb's church in order to attend the gathering. You watch as parents drag their uncooperative broods of children, and infirmed old-timers are helped along by younger family members. The church is the only structure in Waller Hole large enough to accommodate all of the residents, but even then, it's going to be tight.

Pastor Caleb's church is typical of the Protestant churches in the region. It's a simple rectangular building with a gabled roof and steeple. One could say that its defining quality is perhaps how plain it is. In contrast to Catholic places of worship, Holler's Protestant churches largely reject iconography and ornamentation. Thus, the unassuming building consists of little more than a single elongated nave for the congregation to sit. The interior walls are windowless and painted white; their only embellishment is a series of evenly-spaced sconces holding guttering candles. The altar at the front of the room is nothing but a table and podium.

People shuffle into the church and take seats in the pews. Most seats are offered first to women, children, and the elderly. When the pews have been filled, the remaining folk group together along the sides and rear of the nave. As more and more people arrive, the room gets increasingly packed. Given that this isn't a church service, everyone is dressed in their work clothes or leisure clothes instead of their Sunday best. There is a constant drone of conversation intermixed with the sounds of people coughing and babies crying. You can hear several attendees wondering aloud why the elders called a gathering of the whole town. This kind of occurrence is rare, so the gossip and speculation are already running rampant. From listening in on various discussions, it becomes apparent that no one seems to know what's happening.

Reverend Asa Hackett is a tall, thin man who looks to be in his early thirties. His facial features are mostly nondescript with the exception of a wide forehead and nice teeth. He has brown eyes that shift in intensity at the sight of cardinal sin and other religious stimuli. One moment they’re soft and friendly, and the next they're smoldering with fiery indignation. Yet it's Asa's sharp-looking clothes that mark him as different from the other townsfolk. What most would consider their "Sunday best," the reverend wears as his daily outfit. He sports a black suit with a white dress shirt, black vest, black shoes, and a black colonel tie. Atop his head he wears a wide-brimmed black fedora that serves to conceal his eyes when he tilts his head down. He's the very image of an itinerant Protestant preacher. Other than a small travel satchel, Asa's only belonging is a well worn copy of the Good Book, which he carries in his hand.

Asa enters the church and stands along the wall as close to the altar as possible. He'd already checked out the church earlier that day and had an opportunity to meet Pastor Caleb. Seeing as Waller Hole already had its own clergyman, Asa was about to leave the town when he learned about the gathering. Out of respect to the town's elders, he decided to stay and see what the fuss was about. It was getting dark, anyway, and the reverend had no desire to travel the woods at night.

Asa stands silently and observes the townsfolk. He nods and smiles to anyone who acknowledges him but doesn't say a word. To conceal the ink on his knuckles, the reverend keeps his hands in his pockets. The tattoos, though indirectly religious in nature, are a relic of a previous life. Nonetheless, Levitical law frowns upon such marking of the skin. For Asa, they draw unwanted attention at times, but they are also helpful aids when coupled with the right kind of sermon.

"Only as far as the next village," Tobias mumbles (as if comforting his tired feet), eyeing the darkening skies above the heads of the pines. His itinerant life has given him this quirk, and conversations with his self are commonplace in his journeys.

His long day has not been a good one, as the lightness of his satchel testifies. The rumored dump site he was seeking revealed to be nothing more than a scattering of rotten timbers, not even salvageable as firewood. Even the few rusty nails were crumbling and useless.
"Waller Hole's just 'round here, somewhere. Just hopin' to get there before dark. I ain't fallin' in that waller, not if me eyes can help it..."

Now, with the approaching of the night, shelter and a bonfire become his priorities. Just as he is descending along the downhill side of a thickly wooded butte, the sharp sound of a church bell startles him. It seems close, and he hastens his pace.

To a witness he would appear as a rugged man in his late thirties, his tall and dry frame slightly hunched by a few loads too many. He has large hands and a bitter bend about his mouth, that gives him a grim countenance. He is however capable of mirth and loud laughter, particularly when hooch is freely flowing.

Once at the small hamlet, he sees something important is afoot, with everyone converging towards the church. He joins the gathering crowd and gets inside the simple place of worship.
The place is full, and he stands at the back, removing his hat.

He looks at the folks surrounding him, trying to read their expression. Concern? Puzzlement?
Whatever it is, these folks ain't here for no regular mass... he thinks.

Macky notices things. An avid writer, his curious eyes are drawn instantly to the new man in town, a preacher, who he sizes up in his mind and decides that he'd like to meet him. Learn what he can about the world this man came from. He catches the man's eye, nods, and smiles back.

He's dressed awful nice, Macky thinks and then chastizes himself for his poor grammar. He reckons the preacher might be why the unusual meeting was called.

Feeling out of place dressed as he is in the church, he brushes some specks of wood off his thigh. Normally he puts on his Sunday finest but today he is wearing faded blue overalls covered in sawdust. He had been chopping firewood when he got word of the meeting. He supposes he didn't have to feel so self-conscious about what he is wearing. He isn't the only one there in his workday clothes after all.

Norma Jean is a long term resident of Waller Hole, a retired widder woman who at one time taught school in a one room shack. She's independent, has her own place, but is poor even for these parts. Her pride and her faith are nearly as well known as her sharp tongue.

Today she stands beside Preacher Caleb, and watches the folks line up into the pews. She has no position whatsoever in the church, but you wouldn't know that to watch her. Her eyes flash when someone missteps, and her nasal retort pierces the bustle. "Jimmy Cartright you stand at the side. You're big enough now to give your seat up. Go on, and don't give me that lip." Jimmy is growing fat, though what he's eating the good Lord only knows, and while he's young enough to sit with the children, Norma has judged him in need of no more coddlin'.

She adjusts her skirts. They're worn out, the seams torn and resewn more often than she can count. With her eyes not so good as they once were, those seams aren't as straight as she'd like. Her stylish hat sits proudly though, her once nearly immaculate possession. What she lacks in things, she makes up for with an assumed dignity.

Jack Spriggins is a skinny boy with darting eyes. His father (better at farming than at mining) suddenly went missing and after a period of eager searching was assumed dead. His mum decided to sty here, tending meagre farms and livestock. She works hards and keeps herself to herself. Jack helps out as much as he can but he is always looking for trouble. He picks fights with alsorts (usually more able able boddied adults) as though he has some kind "axe to grind". If you ask him about his dad he will either swing at you or (if he considers you earnest) will start telling you about some fanciful staries of giants living in the mountains that killed his dad which his mum and himself fled.

Jimmy Cartright looks up at Norma Jean with a start and then sheepishly stands to make room for another child. He moves near to his parents and glowers at the older woman.

People continue to trickle in as the sun fully disappears from view and nighttime takes ahold. By thirty minutes passed sundown, there are no further late arrivals, and the church's big brown doors slam shut with finality. Candles and lanterns illuminate the interior of the church, though what light they provide is dim at best, leaving lingering shadows throughout the nave. There is a mildly unpleasant odor in the air that is unnervingly similar to burned meat. The culprit seems to be the wall candles - the tallow comprising them likely wasn't rendered enough. You glimpse more than a few people in the crowd crinkle their noses in disgust.

A number of attendees are dressed in their work outfits. Presumably, many of them have just finished their shifts and didn't have time to stop home to clean up. Based on their apparel, it's not difficult to deduce people's occupations. The loggers and woodcutters are sporting plaid buttoned down shirts and suspenders. The millhands are wearing slim-fitted trousers and shirts with rolled-up sleeves (to keep their garb from getting caught in the textile machines). The farmers are clad in coveralls or overalls that betray tan lines along the arms and neck. And then there are the coal miners, whose vocation is the most obvious of all: dark shirts and pants, hard hats, and bandanas. It's all but impossible to miss their blackened, soot-stained faces staring from the crowd. A scan of the room reveals that a sizeable majority of the men (and some of the older children) work in mining. Seated at the head of the room are the six oldest people in Waller Hole, whom the townsfolk have respectfully dubbed "the Elders". Each of the elders looks ancient; decades of hard living have taken their toll. They are copiously wrinkled, gray or white-haired, and nearly all are missing some (if not all) of their teeth. With inhabitants of Holler having an average life expectancy of 55, it's considered an accomplishment to reach one's 60s or older. Waller Hole doesn't have elected leaders, but the community's oldest residents are accorded a degree of implicit authority not too dissimilar. The oldest among the townsfolk are greatly esteemed, as though they possess some secret wisdom that has allowed them to live so long. While their words are in no way law, the elders are shown tremendous deference by the rest of the population.

Pastor Caleb sits to the side of the altar, having conceded his headship of the room to the elders. A middle-aged man of unremarkable height and weight, the pastor has a long face and hawkish nose, upon which rests a pair of wire frame spectacles. The glasses have the effect of making him seem bookish and shrewd. He stands out as perhaps being the most formally dressed person, next to Reverend Hackett. Caleb sports pleated brown trousers and a white dress shirt. He's the only one in the room wearing a straight necktie rather than the bowties more common in Holler.

With a grunt, one of the elders begins to rise carefully from his chair. Abner Bechtel is the most verbose of the elders and tends to speak on their behalf. Pastor Caleb moves to assist Abner, but the old man motions him away in irritation. Coming on 83 years of age, he stands with a slightly stooped posture, dressed in his usual white long johns and farmer's overalls. His thinning, winter-white hair is slicked back, and you can smell the old-time hair tonic that he rubs into his scalp every morning. Once a man of impressive physical strength, the old sharecropper is now a time-worn shadow of his former self. The skin on his arms sags and hangs loosely as he moves.

Abner takes several slow steps to the nearby podium, and as he does so, much of the room begins to quiet down. He takes the ratty straw hat in his hands and waves it several times to get people's attention. Within a moment, all conversations cease and the church becomes silent enough to hear a pin drop.

"Thank y'all fer takin' the time to be here on such a short notice," says Abner. He places his hat down on the podium in front of him.

"Hey, what's this all about, Abner? Why we here?" calls out a man standing along one of the walls.

Abner looks in the direction of the interruption and frowns. "I'm gettin' to it, I'm gettin' to it. Bite yer tongue fer a minute, Will Haskell. Ain't a-needin' none o' yer lip right now," snaps Abner. Though the old man was never a jovial sort, he seems more ornery than usual. He exhales loudly through his nose and redirects his attention to the rest of the room. "I'll keep this quick so y'all can get home fer yer suppers."

You hear him mutter "Tarnations" under his breath before he continues. "People o' Waller Hole, we got ourselves a right big emergency. As some of ye have heared, the Clanton Boys have gone a-missin'. Hiram and Amos. Bothen been missin' since yesterday evenin'. They went a-huntin' fer possums and never came home. Them boys knowed they suppose to be home 'fore the sun goes down."

Abner's face softens a bit as his gaze fixes on a heavy-set woman sitting in the front row. Maisey Clanton, the boys' mother, is quietly sobbing and wiping away tears with a handkerchief. Women on either side of her are hugging her and attempting to console her.

"We need volunteers to look fer them boys." There is a sudden burst of noise as dozens of townsfolk vocalize their desire to help with the search. Abner immediately motions for everyone to quiet back down. "Listen here, there's more. We had the town's best trackers, Big Elroy and his son, tryin' to find them boys this mornin'. Big Elroy's hound dog ketched the boys' trail and followed it up the mountain. It went all the way to the edge o' the Whatleys' land."

At the mention of the Whatleys, all of the previous bravado instantly drains away. The room again grows quiet. Many of the townsfolk exchange concerned glances, and a few make the sign of the cross.

Charles probably should have left Waller Hole when his job did, but like a lot of folk 'round here, he was too proud to leave his home. So he traveld further than most folks do to get to work, but he still had his family home, meager as it was.
Tonight wasn't a long walk though, just a short hop over to the church to see what all the fuss was about.

Charles, let's face it, most people called him Chuck, (Some called the husky cook Chuck Wagon, but he could never figure out if it was because he ran a mess hall, or if it was because of his girth), Chuck got to the church later than most, but still hoped to find a seat. He didn't want to be standing for however long this was gonna be, but it looked like that was the case. Even the good spots to lean on a wall were taken. He was tall enough to see over most folks, seems that's what he was gonna have to do, so he found a spot near the back and waited.

...oooOOO(this might be me a chance to find them giant folk that took my pa. Then the'll see i aint crazy.)
Thinking! not saying nothing aloud as my ma will probably be in the church with me and she might gimme a swift back-hand.

Norma Jean looks at the assembled masses, almost darin' them to say no, just so she can tear into them some. Maisey Clanton sobbing was a good touch, anyone who refused would be heartless and a cowart too.

Maybe the pump needsa primin'. She stands taller and moves forward a bit. Her voice carries and she's pleased to see a few wince at what might come.

"The Lord shines on those boys, Maisey Clanton, none you worry. Holler folk stand together when it comes time, don't weer?"

Heck... if them boys are missing near the Whateley devils, that ain't no good... Makes finding them kids a right pain in the butt... he thinks.

Tobias remembers the old stories about the solitary family, and the strange feeling in his stomach wherever his peregrinations led his steps near their lands.
Then again, not many folks dare to go that way. Which means... stuff to scavenge may lay there, undisturbed. This is worth stayin' for...
He cranes his neck this way and that, trying to read the room, observing the elders, and the effect their words have on the congregation.

This definitely wasn't something Charles was keen to do, but he didn't want anyone calling him yellow. He looked around the room, trying to make out the murmurs and whispers. He ain't gonna be the first to volunteer, but he weren't going to be the last neither.

Mackey sure was excited and for a number of reasons. He had always been a curious young un', never taking to fits of yellin' and cryin' like his brothers who had long since left the holler. That was on account of his endless fascination with everything and anything. Here was a chance to get away from his boring chorin' and find things to stash in his constantly imaginatin' mind in preparation for the big novel he planned to write someday. As long as he could bring a book along, he would never complain, never be bored. He started to think right away about which book he would take on this hunt for the missing boys. His mind pictured his fingers running lovingly along the spines of his little stash until they settled on the perfect book to read again. The Haunted Woods. It was dogeared and dirty but my oh my did he love that book so.

Did the Whatley's scare him? Sure as tootin' they did but that was part of the attraction. How else could he write about things if he didn't experience them and writing a grand horror novel was one of his dreams.

Unlike most of the room, Mackey stood up. "Count me in. I only got me my paw-paw's black powder rifle and maw-maw's pistol but I reckon they'll do, huh?"

Reverend Hackett listens intently as Abner explains the situation with the missing boys. He feels a sudden swell of pity for the boys' inconsolable mother. That pity quickly changes into something else when Asa hears mention of the Whatley family.

On his travels around Holler, he'd learned of the Whatleys and their sinister reputation in these parts. Some of the stories paint them as incestuous heathens. In fact, every story about the family describes their casual disregard for one Biblical prohibition or another. The thought of those pagan idolaters stealing away children is enough to set the reverend's blood aboil. He senses a familiar fire begin to smolder in his belly; a righteous fury which the Lord hath given him. His hand clenches tightly around the Good Book until his knuckles are almost white.

Asa notes how silent the church becomes, and the fear in the townsfolk's faces. Remembering where he is, the reverend closes his eyes and takes a few deep breathes. This isn't a Pentecostal congregation or a tent revival, so he decides to keep the righteous indignation in check. He hears an old woman speak up to reassure Maisey Clanton, followed by a young man quickly offering his assistance and his guns. People were beginning to step forward. The reverend nods approvingly. Leave it to The Lord to choose the most unlikely of warriors.

He addresses the room with a voice accustomed to sermonizing to a crowd. "I know I ain't one of you folk, but I'm at your disposal. Everwhat y’all need. Can't go a-knowin them boys might could be in the hands of evil." Reverend Hackett looks at the elders. "What elst can you learn us about the Whatleys? I only know the stories folks be tellin."

When Macky speaks up, Tobias leans closer, trying to remember why he looks familiar.

As the man turns his way, his face catching the light from a cluster of candles, the penny drops.
I know, it's the book fella... Mickey, or something. The one who's asked me to keep an eye out for 'im for any books. .. As if them books was an easy find...

As more voices are heard, and more folks step forward, he looks around, seeing a fine opportunity for self-promotion. It isn't every day that he can talk to a gathering of this size...
Worth a shot, old fox, he decides.

Waiting for a lull in the conversation, he steps closer to Macky and nods at him in salutation.
"How ya doin' pal..."

Then, clearing his throat, he raises his hand stepping in a better lit patch. He lets his voice resonate loud and clear in the simple nave.

"Ahem... 'xcuse me, fellas... Reverend... Elders... I go by Tobias Phipps. Some of ya good folks know me from me tradin'... Ya know, I trek here 'n there, a-bringin' fine goods for fine folks...

Anyway... Just wanted to say I'm awful sorry for them kids, for what it's worth... Woods and bogs and ditches after dark ain't no place for lil' ones... Especially 'round them Whatley creeps...

Anyhow... I was headin' that way for me journey, happy to lend a hand if ya can use another set of peepers to find those boys...

That is all I wanted to say, fine folks..." he concludes glancing around.

Charles finally decides to speak up himself; "Ain't got no weapon myself, but sign me up."

"Oh, howdy Tobias. Glad you're coming too. Not sure about that reverend fella though. I don't know him from Adam and that other one, I seen him around but he ain't got no weapons."

Wrinkling his lips in thought he hoped maybe a few more would volunteer. There was strength in numbers, wasn't there?

"Glad to see ya too... Well, a reverend can open a lot of doors..." he replies, "that might be his weapon, who knows..."

He then looks around to see if his little show elicits any more reactions.