Tales From the Valley

By WATCH Youth

The Ohio Valley’s Rich Stories and Fables...

Can Anna Lee change her town’s history when she spins back in time? Can Tracy save her family when nightmare creatures drop from the sky? What could go wrong when a woman turns her father's murder into a profession? Can a loner help a girl find a survivor community in the wasteland before it’s too late? What happens when a teen hunts to escape a chaotic home life and finds himself the hunted? Is Tori gone forever, lost in the murky waters of the Ohio River? Will Von overcome Their malicious demeanor and break the chains of Their oppression? Will a fun-loving cheerleader learn she doesn’t have to stay the victim of her domineering boyfriend?

Come along as we traverse the richness of the valley...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dancing Lemur Press LLC
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781939844941

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By WATCH Youth

FREEDOM FOX PRESS

Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C.

Pikeville, North Carolina

http://www.dancinglemurpressllc.com/

Copyright 2023 by WATCH Youth

Published by Freedom Fox Press

An imprint of:

Dancing Lemur Press, L.L.C., P.O. Box 383, Pikeville, North Carolina, 27863-0383

http://www.dancinglemurpressllc.com/

ISBN: 9781939844941

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system in any form – either mechanically, electronically, photocopy, recording, or other – except for short quotations in printed reviews, without the permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by C.R.W.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022952480

The future of literature is bright and hopeful with the young authors who make up this collection of short stories. Not only do they show a highly developed imagination for writers of such fledgling age, they are already adept at structuring and pacing the action. Each tale is coherent and a constant page turner. I couldn't put the book down until I read each one all the way through. Keep up the great work and never stop creating and writing, for the only thing that sustains us as indispensably as food, psychologically, emotionally and physically, is imagination. And imagination is our only real weapon against ignorance and the recidivism of humanity. - Dave Shelton, multi-award winning film and TV writer, cartoonist, musician, voice actor and author. His credits include Everybody Loves Raymond, Nickelodeon, Warner Bros., Cemetery GoGo and the International Book Award winner, Bag Boy and Sweet Slob

This book is dedicated to anyone with roots in Appalachia. You can and you will because you were born to climb mountains.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Making Detectives by Adyson Stadler

Foothills by Patrick Ingold

Friolero by Annie Roberts

They Watch From the Sky by Ashlyn Walters

Zoey and Travis by Abigale Brady

Anna Lee & Lewis Wetzel by Lily Giovinazzo

Taken by Sydney Balcerek

They by Landon Harris

Conclusion

Introduction

Appalachia is a strange place and Wheeling a strange town. The cracked and broken road that brought me here reveals the foundation of brick laid over a century ago when the city was the bustling hub of the coal, oil, and steel industries.  Now, here on Stone Street, there’s a fancy casino, its modern façade and neon signs offering false hope. Farther down the street, set in the midst of solid-looking family homes, there’s an old, ramshackle house that probably shelters some unfortunate soul, their lives stolen by drugs.

It’s a place of pride and despair.

Maybe I notice the irregularities in this town because in my mind, I’m just passing through to someplace better.

I guess I could be called a run-away, though I consider myself a young traveler. My journey started from a small town several miles south along the banks of the Ohio River. I walked from there to here. In Wheeling, I have a choice of borders to cross and will decide where to go tomorrow. Tonight, the sun is setting against the hills and trees on the horizon, so it’s time to find a place to sleep.

Around the block, I see an elderly gentleman sitting on the steps of a timeworn house in desperate need of paint. He appears as old as the brick poking up from beneath the road and wears a bright red jacket with a yellow stripe going down the side with the words U.S. Marines. His withered hands lay folded over the top of an ivory cane he is using as a place to rest his cheek.

What are you looking for?

It takes me a moment to realize the man is speaking and even longer to realize he is talking to me.

I shove my hands in my pockets. I’m uh, not sure.

Lost? he asks, lifting his head from his cane.

I nod.

The man’s wrinkled face twitches in what could be called a grin. Aren’t we all? I was too, a long time ago. Maybe I still am. I’ve been in every nook and cranny of this valley; know it like the back of my hand, and I still have no idea where I am.

Worried that this might descend into a long-winded rant where he forgets I’m even there in the middle of it, I take a step back.

What’s you hurry? In too much of a rush to listen to an old man and his stories?

His words shame me, so I take a seat on the porch beside him. I have a minute.

Good to hear. You see, I know all kinds of stories from all kinds of folks. Wanna hear a few?

I nod and he smiles…

Making Detectives

By Adyson Stalder

The Beginning

In the kitchen, my landlady, Mrs. Harris, is making breakfast, something I never have time to eat. I grab a waffle, a cup of coffee, and my backpack on my way out the door.

Bye, I say, stuffing a bite of waffle in my mouth.

Mrs. Harris smiles and shakes her head. Be safe, honey.

I’m off to my office, which was once my dad’s old auto garage. Inside the garage, I throw my backpack over an old tool box. I turn on the lamp, open my bag, and grab my journal, some post-it notes, and the red yard I need to work on a project I’ve been focused—no, more like obsessed with— over for the last three years of my life.

How many people did Dad have contact with? I mutter, staring at the tangled web of threads.

The old metal garage doors burst open and I pull my sidearm (force of habit) and spin toward the sound. It’s my partner, Logan, carrying a tray of coffee and a box of donuts.

Morning, boss, he says with a smile, seemingly unfazed by the gun pointed at him.

Why would you burst in like that? I could have shot you.

Yeah, yeah, he says, lifting the donut box and shrugging.

I’m serious, I say, holstering the sidearm at my hip. Logan is nice, but not always the brightest.

Logan stares at my project as he sets the donuts and coffee on the table. Don’t you think you’ve gone kinda overboard?

Hands on my hips, I follow his gaze. I don’t know. Maybe? But how can I not? It seems like everyone but me has forgotten. My dad’s murder can’t go unpunished. I have to know who did such a horrible thing. It’s been over three years and that’s going to change. I grab a cup of coffee, take a sip, and return to my desk.

Logan hovers over my shoulder and says, You’ve stared at that paper all week. Do you think staring at it will make it talk back to you or something?

I turn my head slowly, sending him a dirty look and an eye roll before returning my gaze to the contract on my desk. I have stared at this piece of paper for days. My gut says this paper is the key. But I can’t see it. Leaning back in my chair, I look over the progress from the last few years. Clues on a board linked together with red yarn.

My dad had been a lawyer in New York City for years—long before he met my mom and they had me. Shortly before he died, his partner bought out his share of the firm and Dad hung up his ties and did what he’d always wanted to do: open an auto garage. This one.

This is where Dad was happiest. I would come with him as often as allowed. I’d help him do oil changes and tear apart engines. Without him, the place sits empty of cars, but full of those good memories. I’ll never part with the space, so I made it my office. And I will never stop looking for my dad’s killer, so I got my private investigator license.

Returning my attention to the paper on my desk, I finally notice something. The address on the contract looked familiar. I close my eyes and think. Larry Fisher! He used to send letters to Mom from that address. The property listed in this rental contract belonged to Larry Fisher. Until this moment, I never considered him. I’d checked every one of Dad’s old clients and contacts, adding more and more clutter to my yarn-covered clue board, but never, ever have I considered Fisher. Dad and Fisher were friends. Larry used to send Mom checks until Mom assured him Dad had left her and I financially fine…taking out a huge life insurance policy as if he knew he might not live long.

I close my eyes a moment and remind myself to be rational. It’s time to run a background check on Larry. I flip open my laptop and in seconds, red flags pop up, though I’d probably call them minor. A couple of DUIs and several speeding tickets, but that’s about it. I sigh and watch the site’s loading bar inch slowly across my screen as the entire profile loads.

Up pops a theft charge. Then another. I lean closer. Seems being a thief was Fisher’s hobby. I print out his picture and pin it to my wall of suspects before turning to Logan and telling him, Looks like need to give Larry Fisher a visit.

I pull a pen out of my desk and write down the address. 4098 Brooklyn Avenue.

We don’t have a Brooklyn Avenue.

I pull my car keys out of my leather jacket pocket, grab my backpack and sunglasses, and say, Silly guy. Brooklyn is in New York.

* * *

Mom and Dad were city people. Dad was from New York. Mom was from Tucson, Arizona. Okay, so Tucson isn’t nearly as big as New York, but it is way bigger than the tiny town of Sardis, Ohio where they met and lived in at the…well, end. How two people from two very different places ended up meeting at a little county fair is still amazing. Mom was in Ohio visiting relatives. I have no idea why Dad was visiting a tiny fair in the middle of nowhere.

No matter the reason, he was in town, met my mom, fell in love, and got married. Together, they moved to New York, had me, and lived happily ever after until Dad was killed. So devasted by his death, my mom moved back to Arizona. Too many memories, I guess. She put Dad’s life insurance money in a trust for me and went back home. I know she hopes I’ll give up the investigation and come to Arizona one day, but I won’t. This small town is where I am the happiest. Sardis is my home and it’s where I have my PI business, if you want to call it that. There’s little crime to investigate in this tiny town besides my dad’s murder.

A tap on my shoulder gets my attention.

Hey boss, we’re here.

I follow Logan off the train and through Penn Station. As we go up the steps to the outside, the noise of the city filters through like a hum. When we step outside the wide doors of the station, we’re greeted by horns honking and the smell of grease, filth, and grilled peppers.

It’s a world of concrete. I immediately miss the smell of grass and the lush green hills of home.

Let’s get to Larry’s and get home. I grab Logan by the elbow and pull him into a yellow cab parked at the curb. I give the cab driver the address and off we go. Logan says nothing as he looks out the car window at the sky scrapers slowly passing by in the bumper to bumper traffic. It’s his first time in the city. He stares and gapes. Not me. I’m over it.

* * *

At Larry’s apartment, I knock on the door. To my surprise, a girl answers. She looks like she’s about sixteen with long brown hair, green eyes, and a