Chapter 1

The Discomfort Zone

It was a crisp Friday in early October, and it was shaping up to be the worst day I’d had in ages.

I’d started on the wrong foot by oversleeping. Too many beers the night before. If a police car with the siren blaring hadn’t screamed past my building at 7 a.m., I’d probably still be in bed.

My stomach had been rocky all morning, but I managed to call on my elderly clients in the rural part of the county. Delivered groceries. Did a little light housework. Got everybody’s garbage out to the main road. Spent some time chatting with the always unintentionally entertaining Margaret Dobbs, then headed back toward Parkersburg.

There was a mandatory all-staff meeting at the home office of the West Virginia Happy Homemakers at 3 p.m. We’d never had an all-staff meeting and it had me on edge. I’d only been to the home office twice. Once for my interview and once for the half-day orientation.

I turned onto Murdoch Street and checked my watch. I was 20 minutes early. Thank God for small favors. At least I can relax a bit before the meeting starts, I thought. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and glanced across the street. If this damn light would ever change, I could run into that Mini Mart and snag a pack of cigarettes. A quick smoke would do me a world of good. How long has it been? I did a quick calculation back to my 46th birthday, the night I’d stupidly accepted a challenge to quit smoking. Three months, two weeks, one day and five pounds ago. OK, eight pounds ago. Just keep driving. Just keep driving. Just keep driving.   

As I pulled into the Happy Homemakers’ lot, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, and a gust of wind brought a shower of crimson maple leaves onto my windshield. I parked next to a pickup with a Confederate flag duct taped over the missing the passenger side window and followed a scrawny woman in white Crocs and thread-bare scrubs to the conference room.

I’d planned to make a beeline for the back row, but no such luck. The room was set up with round tables and there were frigging assigned seats. I found my place and surveyed my coworkers as they trickled in. All women. Lots of laughing, chitchatting, and whispering. There I sat at my table. Alone.  

Just as I was wondering whether I could squeeze through the emergency exit without setting off the alarm, a middle-aged man with too much hair gel slid into the chair next to me.

“Hello,” he crooned.

I ignored him.

“My name is Chuck Gimbus.” He leaned forward and read my tented paper name plate. “Nice to meet you, Ginger Stewart.”

“Likewise,” I mumbled.

“Are you a homemaker?”

“Yes.” I opened my purse and pretended to be looking for something.

“How long have you worked here?”

“About a year. Why?”

“Just trying to be friendly,” he said.

A tall woman dressed to the nines, right down to her expensive leather boots, entered the conference room and sat down at the speakers’ table. Two older guys in dark suits joined her a few minutes later. They looked like funeral directors.

The woman stepped up to the podium and tapped the microphone. Her enormous diamond ring sparkled in the glint of the overhead florescent lights. “Take your seats, everyone. We’re ready to start.”

The room quieted down as the last few stragglers tiptoed in and filled the remaining empty chairs. 

“For those of you who don’t already know me, I’m Patsy Akers. My parents founded the West Virginia Happy Homemakers 35 years ago to serve the elderly population of our beautiful state. Thanks to the hard work and dedication of people like yourselves, we’ve made a positive difference in many, many lives. Thank you.”

People actually clapped.

“But it’s time for a change. I have sold the Happy Homemakers to Health Star Solutions, a wonderful group out of Atlanta. Representatives of the company are here with us today.” She turned and nodded at the morticians at the speakers’ table. “Let’s give them a hand.”

More clapping.

“This is Edward O’Brien, Chief of Operations.” One of the suited men stood and bowed slightly. “And this is Frank L. Stevens, Lead Attorney.” He didn’t bother to stand.

“I know you’re all wondering what this means for you. So, let me introduce Chuck Gimbus, the head of Human Resources.” She smiled at the reptile sitting next to me, who straightened his acid green tie, and sauntered to the front of the room.

“I am thrilled to be here,” he said. “I’ll be working onsite to make sure our transition goes as planned.” He paused and let his gaze travel around the room. “I’m not going to lie to you.”

Yeah, right, I thought.

“There will be promotions. There are also going to be layoffs. Our personnel decisions will be based on performance reviews, educational background, professional credentials, and a new special skills survey we’ve developed.”

Special skills survey? I bet it doesn’t include questions like: Do you have experience dealing with mythical beings, magical creatures, or supernatural entities? How did the time you spent inside a fairy mound make you a better homemaker? What coping strategies have you devised to relate to people who haven’t had otherworldly experiences?

“And, of course, we’ll be assessing intangibles like friendliness and openness,” he looked directly at me, “those special personal qualities that make Health Star Solutions team members Health Super Stars.”

Jesus, I am so screwed.

“And speaking of teams,” he continued, “we’re going to organize you into work groups of three, plus a supervisor. We call them Constellations. Each Constellation will compete with the other work groups for the best assignments, bonuses, and other incentives. How does a three-day cruise to the Bahamas sound?”

Like an all-expenses-paid trip to hell? I glanced around the conference room. My coworkers were hanging on every word.

“You’ll continue working on your own until we get everyone transitioned into a Constellation. That will take a few weeks. In the meantime, we’re turning over a new leaf by changing everyone’s territories.” He leaned forward and put his lips against the mic. “There are folders with your new assignments under your chairs.”

We all ducked and reached for our folders. It was like bobbing for poison apples.

 My new territory was a small college town called Walker’s Gap. I had three new clients, one of whom was a retired art professor. Undoubtedly a know-it-all. How much worse can this get?

The tattooed woman with purple and green hair sitting across from me asked what my new assignment was. I didn’t think that was any of her damn business, but I told her anyway.

She slammed her fist on the table and glared at me. “That should have been my territory.”

I folded my hands in my lap and tried to avoid making further eye contact with her. I glanced at the emergency exit again and estimated it would take about 30 seconds to make a break if I needed to. Maybe 25.

“By the way,” Mr. H.R. added, “your new assignments are effective immediately. Monday, in other words. Questions? Comments? Concerns? No? Well then, ladies, have a nice weekend.”

The corporate posse fell in line behind Patsy Akers and left.

The room was silent for a few long seconds, then all hell broke loose. Some people began wailing. Others hugged and cheered. A frail little person near the door rocked back and forth and quoted Bible verses in a low, menacing voice. On the other side of the room, a gigantic woman in skin-tight WVU leggings disintegrated into spasms of whimpering and twitching. I couldn’t tell if she was ecstatic or devastated.

Jesus, what a nightmare. Not only was I going to be on a work team with some of these raving lunatics, I could end up trapped on a ship in the middle of the ocean with them.

I grabbed my purse and headed straight for the Dew Drop Inn.

The Dew Drop is my favorite hangout. Some people think it’s a scuzzy shit hole and it sort of is. But it’s close to home, and it’s nice and dark inside even in the middle of the afternoon.

The bar smelled mustier than usual. It was still early and the Friday after-work crowd hadn’t piled in yet. There were only three guys at a table in the corner and two scary-looking women shooting pool.

I climbed onto a barstool. “Hey, Wayne.”

Wayne Vickers was the only decent bartender at the Dew Drop. He and I had known each other for a year or so. We’d gone out a few times, but after our third date, we let things drift back to a casual friendship. That was fine with me. The last thing in the world I needed was a boyfriend. I had enough problems of my own without worrying about someone else’s crap.

“Tough day?” he asked.

“The worst.”

“Well, I have a little more bad news. The power was off until about 20 minutes ago. We don’t have cold beer. We don’t have ice either.”

“At this point, I don’t care.”

He set a room temperature Bud Light on the bar. I took a big swig. Once I got through the foam layer, it didn’t taste too bad. I took another gulp then belched without opening my mouth. A little foam fizzed out of my nose. I don’t think he noticed.

“So, what’s going on?” he said. “Work problems?”

I started with how I parked next to a truck with a Confederate flag for the all-staff meeting and went on from there. I told him a big corporation had bought the Happy Homemakers. I described how sleazy the new people seemed. That there were going to be layoffs. How I’d made a terrible impression on the H.R. guy. I even told him about the nightmarish prospect of work teams. I didn’t have an off switch.

“Hey, you never know,” he said when I finally took a breath. “Work teams could be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Sure. You can gossip about the other teams, cover for each other, and if there’s a problem, you can put your heads together and figure out what to do.”

I took another big hit of lukewarm foam.

“What do your friends at work have to say about all this?” he asked.

“I don’t have any friends at work.”

“Maybe you should make some.”

Not if I have anything to say about it, I thought. “On top of everything else, they’ve changed our territories. Effective Monday, for Christ’s sake. They didn’t even give us a chance to tell our clients what was happening or to say goodbye.” I shook my head and imagined how confused poor Robert Collins was going to be when I wasn’t there to make his lunch.

“So, where’s your new territory?”

“Walker’s Gap.” I sighed. “I’ve never been there. Have you?”

“Yeah, but it’s been a long time. It’s nice. Upscale. Sort of hoity toity. Lots of professors and rich college kids from back east.”

My stress level, which had been rising all day, shot into the red zone. “I’m thinking about quitting.”

“Can you afford to do that?”

“Probably not.” I rubbed my forehead, which was starting to throb. “I have a bad feeling about all these changes. I’m going to look for another job. Have you heard of any openings?”

“The Waffle House is always hiring.”

The bar was filling up. I wasn’t in the mood for the noise or the stupidity which would soon be on full display, so I downed what was left of my warm beer and headed home.

Before I went up to my apartment, I stopped at my mailbox. I hadn’t checked it in a while and it was so full, I had a hard time getting the door open. A big brown envelope from the landlord stamped “Official Business” was wedged between the bills and junk mail.

Not now, I thought as I tossed it onto the kitchen counter. I stood at the sink, inhaled two bowls of Lucky Charms, and chugged the sugar milk. Then, even though it was only 7 p.m., I crashed.

I only slept for a couple of hours. I couldn’t stop worrying about work. Around 4 a.m., I quit pretending I was going to go back to sleep and wandered out to the kitchen. While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I opened the envelope from the landlord. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. My apartment building was being converted to condos. As a long-term tenant, I had the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to purchase my apartment for a mere $250,000. All I had to do was sign the enclosed contract and provide a $20,000 deposit. Construction was scheduled to begin in three months, on January 2. Condo buyers would be accommodated in other buildings until their units were ready. The rest of us had to get the hell out by December 31 at the latest. Happy New Year to me, I thought as I let the letter slip from my fingers.

I poured myself a cup of coffee and picked at the cracked Formica countertop. There’s no way I can look for a new job and a new apartment at the same time. I have to resolve this housing situation first.

I went into the living room and stared out the window. A pile of newspapers, fast food trash, leaves, and God knows what else had blown up against the chain-link fence around the parking lot. I can’t believe they think they’re going to sell condos in this neighborhood for a quarter million dollars. 

After a long shower and two more cups of coffee, I felt a little less shell-shocked. This isn’t the first time I’ve been down and out, I thought. I can handle this. I got out the spiral notebook where I make lists of the hateful shit I need to do, turned to a fresh page, and started writing:

“Find a new apartment. Not too expensive. Furnished. Utilities included. Doesn’t have to be fabulous but a better neighborhood would be nice.”

I glanced at the peeling ceiling paint and the rusted door hinges on the ancient fridge. Finding something better than this dump shouldn’t be too tough.

“Find a new job. I need to make at least what I’m making now. I do not want to be stuck in an office. I do not want a supervisor breathing down my neck. Jesus, I do not want to be part of a work team. I’d like to get a raise occasionally. Health insurance, retirement, and vacation time would be nice. It would also be great to be able to put a little money aside. Maybe get a new car one of these days.”

I put my pen down and poured another cup of coffee. The thing that pisses me off the most about this situation is I enjoy the job I have now, the way it is now. At least I did until yesterday. All I want to do is drive around the countryside, call on my clients, and spend my evenings relaxing at the Dew Drop Inn. That’s it. I’d even be willing to keep living in this crappy apartment if that was an option. But apparently that’s way too much to ask.

I picked the pen up again and tapped it on the table. Maybe I can get one of the promotions at work. That would fix everything. Money-wise, anyway. Wait. Who am I kidding? With just a high school diploma, there’s no way they’ll promote me. I wouldn’t want one of those promotions, anyway. I’d have to supervise the nutcases I saw in the staff meeting yesterday. That would never work. It’s obvious what’s going to happen. I’m going to be laid off or assigned to a work team. Hard to say which would be worse.

I sighed. Not a pretty picture, but at least I know where I stand and what I need to do. I’ll start looking for a new apartment this afternoon. As far as work goes, I’ll have to kiss ass and do everything I can to avoid getting laid off.

I better spend Sunday in Walker’s Gap, make sure I know where my clients’ houses are. I need to time the commute, see if there’s road construction or anything else along my route that might slow me down. I cannot risk being late Monday. 

I turned on my computer so it could start warming up, which usually took about five minutes. When my client Mr. Barnes gave it to me, he said it was about 15 years old. It was on its last legs. I was glad to have it, though. There was no way in hell I could afford to buy a new one.

The computer emitted a series of pops as the screen lit up, flickered, faded, then came back on. I searched for apartments in Parkersburg. It had been a long time since I’d looked at real estate listings and rents were much higher than I’d expected. Most of the available apartments, even the horrible ones, were out of reach. I jotted down the addresses of the three that were in my price range, gathered up my dirty clothes, and headed over to the Wash and Spin.

After I finished my laundry, I swung through the Beer Barn’s drive-thru and picked up a case of Bud Light, a six-pack of Mountain Dew, and a jumbo bag of BBQ potato chips for dinner. Then I drove to the first apartment on my list.

It was on a quiet residential street with curbs, sidewalks, and big trees. Unfortunately, the apartment was in someone’s house and there didn’t appear to be a separate entrance. I don’t like people knowing every little thing I do or what time I come home. I didn’t bother getting out of the car.

Choice number two was in a one-story cinderblock building that looked like an annex of the West Virginia State Penitentiary. It backed up to a graffiti-covered wall that separated it from the freeway. Not a blade of grass, bush, or tree in sight. Two shirtless men sprawled in lawn chairs on either side of the front door. One weighed at least three-hundred pounds and the other had a stringy blond mullet and a sunken chest covered with tattoos. I kept driving.

The third apartment was in a drab four-story brick building. Uneven street with a few potholes. A dumpster overflowing with garbage on one side. Parking lot on the other. Cracked sidewalk. Almost identical to my current place, but $100 per month more. A major disappointment, but since it was the last one on my list, I decided to check it out anyway. Maybe it would be nicer than it looked from the street. I didn’t get a chance to find out. It had already been rented.

This is going to take longer and be much harder than I expected, damn it. Who knew there was so much demand for apartments in Parkersburg?  

When I got home, I decided to shift gears. I tuned on my computer again. By the time I finished putting the laundry away, it was up and running. I cracked a cold brewski, ripped open the bag of chips, and pulled up a map of West Virginia. Walker’s Gap was a simple 53-mile trip. Route 2 all the way . I’d have to leave home earlier than normal, but that was OK. Venturing into an unfamiliar part of the state might be fun. It was sure to be a scenic drive with the autumn leaves and views of the Ohio River. The change of scenery would do me good.

I zoomed in on the map of Walker’s Gap. The town was much smaller than I’d expected.  I wonder what kind of information is floating around about this place, I thought. Maybe someone has posted pictures. Since there’s a college, there must be bars. Maybe I can scope out some of those.

I typed Walker’s Gap into the search bar and a surprisingly long list of links popped up. Most included the words “ghosts” or “paranormal activity.” What the hell? I clicked the first link and watched as “Welcome to the Most Haunted Town in West Virginia” appeared over a black-and-white photo of the creepiest graveyard I’d ever seen.