Chapter 1
Miles passed by. No destination in mind, no forethought, just trying to stay ahead of some inescapable horror. The rising sun peeked out from behind the horizon. We've crossed the North Carolina border. A massive sign greets us. The early morning rays shone off of it. My father, Lynwood, believes we’ll be ok, that we will find a sense of normalcy in these many miles. There was a sense of optimism in my Father's Ford Taurus. But it goes unfulfilled.
I had already begun writing my last will and testament in the notebook on my lap. You're reading a dead woman’s scrawl. I know my end was coming. It's the reason that the pen felt so heavy, why the words felt so heavy. I always regretted not spending more time with my father. Now I have that moment, but it’s fleeting like blood seeping from a dying man. All that I am was not, but blood circling the drain, running away like so many years.
That's why I'm telling you this story. Once I’m gone, who will remember the terror and tragedy? You must go back to where it all began.
My name was Martha Evert. I lived in the Greater Point Pleasant region my entire life. My first encounter happened when I was 14. I was a blonde teenager with a classically attractive face, pronounced high cheekbones, and a narrow, angular chin. I was already at my full height of 5’4, but hadn't resigned myself to looking up at people. I thought that's what high heels were for. I don’t remember the exact date, but it was during summer break, probably during the dog days of summer. The oppressive heat lasted late into the night. That didn’t stop us from having a bonfire for the vibes. Music blared from boomboxes and drifted on the air, rolling over deserted back roads and over grassy nolls. It was summer break, and I was partying with friends. We’re doing all the things your mom told you not to do: making out with strangers, drinking, and doing drugs. In hindsight, I probably would have fucked the quarterback and regretted it later. But he had eyes for my friend, whom I secretly hated. I miss those days when that was the big concern. I didn’t have a ride home, nor the attention span long enough to think that far ahead.
No big deal. I would hitchhike home. It's not like nobody's hitchhiked in like thirty years. After the party, I was walking home down the old Potter's Creek Road and crested a hill. That's when I noticed a pair of red lights following me. Now, keep in mind this was before drones became widespread, much less popular. I thought it was an airplane, but they still don’t make them that small.
The object continues to follow me onto highway US-9 and all the way to the edge of town. Then it flew close enough to knock me to the ground. Nothing too traumatic. I was wearing a pair of jeans and a low-cut T-shirt. I stared up into the clear, cloudless night sky, with a waxing moon high in the distance. There was a good amount of moonlight sparkling down. I got a good look. It was a man with onyx colored skin that seemed meant to camouflage himself at night, massive, fuzzy, membranous wings, and glowing red eyes.
I rushed home and started panicking in the doorway, in front of my mom, Margie, who attempted to console me. My mother gave me a knowing, worried look that would come to haunt me in later years. But at the time, I didn’t understand. Her anger quickly turned from concern to complete anger, crossing into borderline rage over my disobedience. I was already grounded for sneaking out the previous two weeks.
My mom thought I would grow up to be a whore, which she was quick to point out that night.
"You're sneaking off at all hours to what? Lose your virginity. You're trying to send yourself straight to hell. Jesus died for what? For you to flush your soul straight down to hell?"
No, mother, Jesus died so fake as pretentious moms can't pretend to be righteous while spitting on the Bible," I said with years of built-up snark
"Why, you harlot," My mom said and smacked me across the cheek. I felt the blow reverberate throughout the night as it stung.
"Why did you marry Dad?" I screamed. "You're cheating on Jesus. You're the harlot."
"I'm a bride of Jesus," she screamed back and brought her hand up to strike once more.
My dad, Lynwood, calmly walked into the room. "You hit our daughter one more time, you'll be the one getting hit next." There was a cool, simmering, threatening edge to my father's voice. My mother knew not to mess with him. But that day, she decided to test his patience anyway. The blow against me left me reeling, but it was nothing compared to what was coming for my mother. It was wrath from a vengeful god that left her cowering.
Serves her right, I would fuck the entire football team to spite her face. My dad was the complete opposite of her. I could come out somehow, both trans and gay on the same night, and my dad would say, "Attagirl. I’m so proud of you." That night, my dad had to calm my mom down. Then dad gave me a wink and a nudge and whispered, "I’ve done worse. I lived through the sixties." I never told my mom that my dad knew all about me sneaking out. In fact, I straight-up told him. He just did his usual chuckle and said, "Be careful. Don't break your old man's heart."
My so-called circle of friends, the popular kids with shity absent parents who raised brats like me, never called that night to make sure I got home safely. So the next day, I acted like nothing happened. If they didn’t care about me, then I don’t care about myself. With no outlet for my frustration, I took it out on kids less fortunate than me. Kids like Billy Martin, one of my classmates from high school. Billy wasn’t the town's quarterback or one of my popular friends. He was one of the ugliest students in Point Pleasant High. Billy was a chunky kid with a pimply, fat, lop-sided face with a I can’t bother haircut parents gave their children, and a squeaky, high-pitched voice. The only thing going for him was his piercing blue eyes. He was a complete nerd back in the day, playing Dungeons and Dragons and not shutting up about anime. You know, nerd stuff that will get you anti-laid. That boy was more miserable than me, and I made sure to remind him of that. Hell, I made it my life's mission. I knocked the books from his hands, pointed, and laughed. "Look at the Unabomber. Are you going to shoot up the school, loser?" If I told anyone about my mom, her religious obsession, or that night’s event, I would be like Billy. I would never be like Billy or my mother, a loser.
