Kelly Santaguida - The Author
Kelly Santaguida has loved telling stories and reading since she grew up on her grandma and grandpa’s non-operating farm. Her imagination ran wild in the fields as she explored under rocks, in holes, and especially when she and her aunt went into the strictly forbidden woods. She has been devising characters, plots, and inner dialogue ever since.
When she is not writing, she is the senior author manager at Gatekeeper Press, where she helps authors get their manuscripts published.
Prologue
Milepost 412 of Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina
1935
Pigeon Gap transmission tower was one of the first in the area. It ushered the Blue Ridge Parkway into the age of radio. No longer were mountain folk cut off from daily happenings or forced to rely on larger city’s newspapers to get the current news. The tower transmitted local radio channels. Families would gather around their radios to hear a variety of programs, and the national news. It brought them together, providing entertainment, news and community. Not every household on the mountain could afford a radio. Those that could, would open their homes to their neighbors. The neighbors would come to listen, bringing what they had as a thank you for the invitation. Homemade breads, canned jelly, a fresh rhubarb pie, a jar of moonshine. They brought what they could, and it was received with a gracious nod and an open door.
That was the way in the mountains. People watched out for each other and helped each other. Life was difficult; could make or break someone after just one brutal winter and completely cut off the inhabitants from town. Mountain people grew their own vegetables, trapped and killed animals for meat and fur. Between the hard labor and long hours, they maintained their homesteads as best they could. To many, this lifestyle sounded harsh and overly dangerous. But the people who called the Blue Ridge Mountains their home, lived there because they loved it. They could breathe fresh air unpolluted with factory’s pollution or car exhaust. Their nearest neighbor was miles away, so when they unbuttoned to answer nature’s call, the only eyes would be their own family, if they had one. And if they did, they were raised the same way, joining them in their morning piss. They lived their lives as they chose, and had been on the mountain for so long, they had outgrown any civilized tendencies generations back. And that fit them just fine.
There are no secrets in small towns. There is no room for them. Folks knew what their neighbors were doing and most gossiped to fill in those that weren’t privy to the news. While they may not have called them out to their faces, it was well known that Sal Ulham was fixing more than Jane Cobb’s gutters.
People didn’t spy on their neighbors in the mountains. There was too much work to do. Just like squirrels, you spent your spring, summer and autumn preparing for winter. If you didn’t, you risked not surviving that winter. While the Donner Party out west had been a tragedy, mountain folk understood the severity of that situation. So, you worked harder nine months of the year, so that you didn’t have to resort to eating the Smiths during the remaining three darker months.
Most of the families in the mountains had a love-hate relationship with the progress that was happening. Yes, it was good to hear the news each day. Yes, The Shadow was enjoyable to listen to as they cleaned up after dinner. But it also brought more people onto the mountain. The result of progress was downed trees and new roadways popping up off the Parkway.
The new Pigeon Gap transmission tower had its advantages, but long-time inhabitants felt the change when it went up. The air had changed. While daily work on the mountains was noisy – cutting firewood, tending to chickens and livestock, tilling soil for your family garden – there were quieter times. When you fell asleep, the forest still made sounds, but growing up in the mountains, you recognized them. Cicadas, rustling of a deer walking through the fields, the hoot of an owl, the calls of the coyote. These familiar sounds lulled mountain dwellers to sleep each night. That and back breaking daily chores.
Electricity brought hums and vibrations that crept into their heads. It kept them awake at night, like a dripping faucet that was never fixed. Their hard-worked bodies and minds could not get the same deep sleep they were used to. They had adjusted to electricity, but the new transmission tower seemed to give off a hum all its own. The buzz was barely audible, loud as a freight train, depending on who you spoke to. It crept into their subconscious, tapping at their brainwaves and making their hearts beat faster. The already overworked mountaintop residents were unable to turn off their exhausted minds when they tucked themselves in at night. They slept in fitful pieces, their neurons firing on all cylinders long after they had closed their eyes.
Chapter 1
Milepost 409 of Blue Ridge Parkway, North Carolina
1937
Even after chopping firewood for seven hours, Johnny could not sleep. His mind raced, his heart beat faster than it should, despite his aching muscles and spent brain. His wife Anna slept soundly beside him. He listened to her steady breathing as he tossed and turned, trying to not wake her. She was with child and even though she would never admit it, he knew she tired faster the longer into the pregnancy she was.
The baby was due in February according to the midwife and that was only four months away. It was their first and they were overjoyed to start their family. He knew it was customary to want a boy, but he honestly didn’t care. He could not wait to hold his child, girl or boy, in his arms.
Thoughts of his expanding family were not the reason he could not sleep. He knew what it was like to work hard during the day, wash up, eat dinner and then fall into a deep sleep with ease. He tried to remember how long it had been since that had happened.
They had built their home two years ago. Johnny had grown up on the mountain; the thought of living in a city, with all the people, noise, factories, streets, and now cars made his mind hurt. Three generations of his family had made their home in the Blue Ridge Mountains. He’d choose mountain life any day. He might have aching feet and sore muscles, but he could see what his work produced. The firewood he split that day would last them three weeks. With the previous logs he’d cut, he had three months’ worth. He knew he needed to cut enough firewood to get them through to spring. He would make that happen; he had to take care of his growing family.
The last time he remembered getting a decent night’s sleep was earlier that spring. That had been eight months ago. It didn’t start out as much. One night it took just took a bit longer for his brain to drift off than it had the night before. But it seemed that each week, it took a bit longer to reach that wavy state where his mind would turn from thoughts to dreams. He yearned for a sound sleep, and to wake up with a refreshed mind and body, like a drunk fantasizes about the bottle.
He finally slipped off around 3:30am, but his dreams were vivid and frightful. He was in the forest, walking on mountain trails, but he did not recognize his surroundings. He had always been able to get his bearings in the forest, but in his dream, while the trees were still mountain birch, sugar maples and hemlocks, they looked foreign to him. None of the shrubs, meadows or trees familiar. They had the same leaves, but they were not the same lush green colors they should have been. The locust, redbud and hawthorns were yellowed with black spots, spindly and sparse. He reached out to touch them and was surprised when they were dry and brittle.
His heart quickened and his mind registered alert, but he forged on, sure he would find his way just around the next bend. Each turn of the trail brought more confusion and unfamiliar landscape. Everywhere he looked, plants were smaller than they should have been, discolored and dying. Upon inspecting the leaves more closely, he didn’t find signs of an insect infestation. He puzzled what could be happening to the normally healthy forest. With each step he took, the color drained from the vegetation. He looked behind him and sucked in his breath. (It was also varying shades of pale yellow and brown, even though it had some shades of green, be they sickly, just moments earlier.)
Johnny walked on, hoping to find the reason for the dying forest. A bird fell from the sky landing four feet in front of him. Its body smoked; its once black eyes turned to a milky white. His heart quickened as he searched the sky for what had killed it.
He saw only the sky above him. Peering into the distance, he saw the Pigeon Gap transmission tower. He was apprehensive but strangely drawn to it at the same time. He turned away, willing himself to wake up. When he turned around, the tower was there, now only thirty feet away. He spun on his heels, with a grunt. The tower was there. He turned his head again. Now the tower was only twenty feet away. Everywhere he looked, the tower appeared, looming, ominous, omnipresent. He covered his eyes, pushing hard, blacking out all light with his fingers. He opened them behind his hands, and slowly slid one of his fingers away. He blinked and the red hue diminished. The tower came into focus. Now it was only ten feet away.
He fell onto the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and screaming out.
“Johhny! Wake up! John! You’re dreaming.”
Panting and sweaty, Johnny sat up, opened his eyes and looked around, confused where he was. He coughed, trying to catch his breath, realizing he was safe in bed.
“What were you dreaming about?”
“I was…” He blinked, trying to remember his dream. “I was…I…I can’t remember. It’s the damndest thing. I was just dreaming. But now, I…I…I can’t remember any of it.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I…I’ll be alright. Can you get me a glass of water, hon?”
Chapter 2
Columbus, Ohio
2014
“Do you smell that?” asked the teenage girl, the acrid scent burning her nostrils.
“What?” sneered her father, waving his bottle of Yukon Jack. “What’d you say?”
Lana ducked out of reach of the bottle. Repulsed by the sight of him, she turned away, sniffing the air. The heavy scent changed to new putrid layers. She covered her nose, trying to shield her burning nostrils from the myriad of stench attacking her nose and mouth. She ran to the kitchen, gagging. Each second seemed to unearth a new layer of revulsion. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but that brought on retching and dry heaves. She thought about taking long, deep breaths to be able to focus, but that was not an option. Everywhere she turned, there was a new assault of putrid reek that was now making her eyes sting and water. The unwavering assault attacked her senses — disease, death, acerbic rot, mold, shit, dust, sawdust, beans, ham and onions simmering for dinner next door, diesel exhaust from the ambulance that had driven by earlier, the cat marking the maple tree across the street, her own sweat and body, despite her shower this morning.
The menacing swirl of odors made her lightheaded as her stomach jumped into her throat. She stumbled, bumping into the kitchen table. A high-pitched sound let out as the table legs screeched across the dirty linoleum floor. “Watch it, girlie,” slurred her father, narrowing his yellow eyes.
Lana mouthed the word, sorry but no sound came out. Her vision sharpened. She blinked. Opening her eyes, she could see the burst blood vessels under her father’s yellowing eyes. Each watery eyelash was in focus, as if she was looking through a telephoto lens. She gasped, shaking her head, and closing her eyes. She opened them as a hoopty passed by their house. From the kitchen, she could see the license plate number through the ripped sheer curtains in the living room – VP4905S. That car was at least 100 feet away. What in the HELL was happening?
She ran her fingers through her hair, trying another method to try to calm down. As her fingers raked her scalp, she cried out. She had bitten her nails down to the quick as she had since she’d been a kid. Holding her hands out in front of her, she yelped, and took a step back. What the fuck? To her horror, her fingers were changing, right in front of her eyes. She screamed out as the first two joints of each finger withdrew toward her hand. It was painful, but more mind bending than actual pain. It stung and felt like she’d hit her funny bone, but in her wrist. Panicking, she continued to scream. She pushed herself back, unsuccessfully distancing herself from the horrific tangle on the ends of her arms. Scanning the room, she could see her father yelling from his chair, waving his bottle and screaming obscenities to her.
“Shut the fuck up, bastard. Help me!” she bellowed. Frantically, she tried to take a step toward the man, but stumbled. Catching herself on one of the kitchen chairs, she gazed in horror at the claws that now replaced her thin hands. “Did you drug me, fucker?” she roared, jerking her head towards the drunken shape in the living room. “What did you dooooo?” she cried, in deep, raspy tones.
The old man gripped the arm of chair with his left hand, keeping hold of his precious bottle with his right. “Lana?” he squeaked, gawking at the changing form in front of him. Attempting to stand, he fell back in his chair. The half empty bottle landed with a thud, adding a fresh amber stain atop years of previous drunken stupors. Layers of hardened rings could be extracted to tell the unspoken history – the beverage of choice, the weather, the atmospheric changes, the amount of rain. Today’s Yukon Jack would be the last of those intoxicated traces.
A howl pierced the air in the tenement, raising the hair on the old man’s arms. His screams were muffled quickly, replaced by frantic clawing, crunching, gurgling. Skin and cartilage were ripped, bones snapped. No piece of William Maisy would ever be located.
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