Folklore in truth. Truth in folklore. The two were interchangeable. It was like that old kid's song "London Bridge". At the end one child was bound by the others. This was like that.
Children made it seem like fun and games. Children always made everything seem like a fairy tale. But this was less of a fairy tale and more of a house of horrors.
The binding was real though. The binding was always real. It formed the very foundation of who She was. Human blood ran upon steel bones.
The binding was strong. Strong enough to withstand a Depression, a World War, and all four elements, Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. The worst each could put out always fell short.
The binding was insatiable. It demanded more. It always demanded more. And the more it took, the more it gave to She who formed its foundation.
A trade was made. One soul for another. One family leaves, another takes it place. Equilibrium. For there must always be equilibrium.
Stories will be told. Made out in the form of ladies playing the piano or little girls next to a swimming pool. But they always hide that darker truth.
The truth of the binding. And in the meantime the great wall of steel moved inexorably. She breathed in and out, as alive and aware as any human.