The Triplets of Tennerton: Paranormal Appalachia, #2

By JD Byrne

Ben Potter is back in West Virginia, this time to stay. He's returned for a fresh start, to try and rebuild his reputation, his career, and his life, all the while staying active in the life of his daughter an ocean away. But the content on Ben's new website, Paranormal Appalachia, isn't exactly going viral.

 

Grace Crowe's legal practice isn't doing much better, lurching from case to case, representing clients for too little money and too little appreciation. Then a woman walks through her door that changes everything - the second wife of Sid Grimaldi. Sid has been charged with burning down his own home decades ago with his newborn triplet daughters inside. Sid's murder case is the talk of northern West Virginia and Grace can't afford not to take it.

 

Sid doesn't just say that he's innocent of setting that fire, but that he knows his girls are still alive. Ben agrees to investigate and when strange characters in black suits start showing up it looks like Sid might be onto something. Will it be enough to keep him out of prison? And what's this about astral projection?

 

From the author of Moore Hollow comes the continuing story of a man who can't help seeking answers, even if he can't quite figure out what to do with the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JD Byrne
• Release date: May 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224506194

JD Byrne

JD Byrne was born and raised around Charleston, West Virginia, before spending seven years in Morgantown getting degrees in history and law from West Virginia University. He's practiced law for nearly 20 years, writing briefs where he has to stick to real facts and real law. In his fiction, he gets to make up the facts, take or leave the law, and let his imagination run wild. He lives outside Charleston with his wife and the two cutest Chihuahuas the world has ever seen.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

LOCAL MAN CREDITS HIS SECOND CHANCE TO JESUS, NEVER GIVES UP HOPE OF SEEING HIS TRIPLETS ALIVE

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

BONES FOUND AT GAS SITE; GRIMALDI DENIES KNOWLEDGE

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

I SET THE FIRE, GRIMALDI TELLS CONFIDANTE; PAUWELS VOWS TO REOPEN COLD CASE

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

GRIMALDI CHARGED: THREE COUNTS MURDER, ONE ARSON

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

GRIMALDI IN CRASH NEAR TALLMANSVILLE ; ALCOHOL SUSPECTED; BOND REVOKED

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

GRIMALDI BOND PERMANENTLY REVOKED; PAUWELLS HINTS AT NEW EVIDENCE

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

JURY DIVIDED - GRIMALDI ACQUITTED OF MURDER, CONVICTED OF ARSON

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the Author

Books by JD Byrne

Chapter 1

Ben Potter was coming to a realization. While he stood inside a ramshackle house in a former coal camp, listening to the old woman waffle into his recorder, it hit him that she was of a kind he thought he’d left behind. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed this in the dozen or so interviews he’d done since leaving England and relocating to West Virginia, but something about this particular conversation was bringing it all into focus.

This old woman, he thought, gaunt and angry, with thinning white hair and huge glasses, sounded just like any number of English, Scots, or Welsh women of similar description. The accent was something else entirely, of course, but what she was actually saying, the way she was saying it, was all too familiar.

Now, you ain’t gonna use my name, right? She paused, simultaneously catching her breath and taking a long drag on a half-gone cigarette. Based on the vials and empty pill bottles strewn across her living room, smoking was the least of her vices.

You’ll be completely anonymous, Ben said for the fourth or fifth time. I want to make sure I can tell your story, Isabel, but I don’t want to put you in any danger. He paused for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other. Is there something, or somebody, in particular that you’re afraid of?

Isabel grinned a gap-toothed grin at him. You don’t need me to say it, do ya?

Ben made a show of pausing the digital recorder in his left hand. He knew some journalists who would never go off the record once they were on it, but in his particular line of work, the most important thing was to keep people talking, even if you couldn’t play it back later. If you don’t want it recorded, fine, but seriously, who are you afraid of?

She looked him up and down, not for the first time. You really ain’t from ’round here, are you?

Clearly not, Ben said, making a point of the accent, for once. He’d been in West Virginia for ten months. If he was ever likely to sound like he was originally from Logan instead of Leeds, it was going to take longer than that, but sometimes he did try harder to tamp down the Englishness of his voice.

Isabel waved her free hand, the one that wasn’t holding the cigarette that was nearly burned down to her fingers. It’s just, them, you know?

The police? Ben asked.

Pfft, she said. They can’t find their ass with both hands and GPS.

Ben decided to refrain from pointing out that it looked like Isabel made out pretty well from police incompetence, given that she wasn’t in jail on some kind of drug charge. Fine, then. The state?

She shook her head. Bunch of knuckleheads in Charleston. What’re they gonna do?

Ben moved on to the next potential boogeyman on the list. The feds?

She took another long drag—how long could she smoke this same cigarette?—while she thought. I wouldn’t put it past Washington, but they’re so messed up over there, they can’t do much of anything.

Ben stifled a chuckle. In his line of work, he talked with plenty of people who would buy any conspiracy theory without realizing how much competence it required to maintain such a scam. Isabel was nothing if not skeptical.

Nah, I don’t think it’s them, she said, finally stubbing out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the table behind her. It’s them weirdos, always wearing black suits? Sunglasses all the time.

Ben knew where she was headed. Men in black? They’ve been here? He also knew the answer to that, since they were most likely figments of her imagination.

That’s them. I’ve never seen ’em round, but sometimes, late at night, I can feel them. She nodded for emphasis.

But they’re not part of the government? Where do they come from? Ben was genuinely curious what twist of this particular conspiracy theory she had.

Now, look, I’ve got no way of knowing that, neither does anybody else.

It was time to move on. Never mind. I understand why you don’t want to discuss who you think doesn’t want you to talk, so maybe we should get back to you telling me what you saw. He held up the recorder again and pressed the record button.

Yeah, okay, where was I? Isabel paused to light another smoke and get the narrative train back on track.

Ben was pretty certain he could edit the parts of her interview into a seamless whole. He wasn’t even really paying attention to what she was saying, just the way she was saying it. There was something about a light in the sky. Not the standard UFO style, but something more warm and orange, almost like part of the sky had been on fire. Ben was certain it had a rational explanation, but this was the stuff his readers wanted to hear about, even if he found a way to debunk it later.

That part of his job was different now, at least. When he worked for the loony rags in the UK, for places like the London Journal of the Paranormal, actually finding the truth wasn’t even secondary to a good story. It was tertiary to the need to squeeze the text into a certain space, and sometimes it didn’t even rate that highly. He could still remember the row he had with Artith over one sighting of the Exmoor Beast that was clearly bullshit. She’d printed it anyway.

Bringing Artith to mind reminded him that she still owed him money. It wasn’t much, but every bit helped while his website, Paranormal Appalachia, was building a readership. He looked at his watch. He needed to wrap this up in a few minutes to make it back home for his next appointment.

Isabel stopped and glared at him. Am I boring you?

Now there was something he wouldn’t have heard back home. A Scottish granny of similar age with a similar story would have passively aggressively offered him another cup of tea, not directly called him out. No, of course not, he said. I just have another appointment. I can’t miss it.

Well, I’m about done, she said, then returned to her reverie.

Isabel went on for another five minutes. She stopped talking, drew in another lungful of smoke, and said, That’s it. Where’s my money?

Somewhere, Ben felt the last vestiges of his old, legitimate journalistic career cry out in agony. He fished out his wallet and pulled three twenties out of it. He showed it to her, then stuffed them in his front pocket.

Hey! She snatched at him, and Ben took a step back.

You’ll get it, he said, fishing a tablet out of his briefcase. I just need you to sign something first. He pulled up the release form he’d prepared and turned the tablet around. See there? Sign and the money is yours.

She slouched forward, like she was actually going to read the tiny verbiage, but after a moment she signed in the blank space on the bottom. What’s that do again?

Ben checked the signature, put the tablet back in his bag, and handed her the money. That’s a contract that says I’m paying you for the right to put your story up on the Internet. It means the interview goes up without me cutting stuff out.

That was strictly true, but also misleading. Ben would upload the entire interview, but he’d also write his own piece on Isabel’s story, complete with his opinion of whether she was a lunatic or not. But by agreeing to put her interview online in one piece, he told himself he wasn’t really paying a journalistic source. He was paying a fellow content creator. The fine print that nobody ever read made it clear that Ben was free to publish whatever else he wanted about the interview, up to and including saying that the subject was full of shit.

So, that’s it? Isabel asked, stuffing the money in the pocket of her faded jeans.

Ben nodded. I can let you know when it goes up on the website, if you like. He pulled a card out of his bag and handed it to her. Or you can just check here.

Isabel looked at the card for a moment. I’ll just do that.

Ben turned for the door. He couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. Whatever you like. Nice to meet you, Isabel.

Yeah, she said as he walked out. Don’t you go telling nobody who said this!

Ben had actually forgotten to make a mental note about her anonymity. He pulled out the recorder and pushed record one more time. Remember to keep Isabel’s name out of the interview or any subsequent articles. He paused. Also, find someone who can talk intelligently about lights-in-the-sky phenomena. Has to be someone kind of local. He pushed the button again and walked to the car. At least he should be able to grow his slowly expanding list of experts out of this.

The plain gray rental car Ben had been driving for weeks looked as depressed about that fact as he did. At least it wasn’t as bad as the big, floaty SUV he’d had when he first came to West Virginia, when he found Moore Hollow. No, that’s not right—that tank at least had some personality, even if it was one that drove Ben mad. This mushy tapioca pudding of a car was too soulless to get aggravated about.

He got in and hooked up the recorder. It took a moment for him to find the beginning of the first file, but before long he was climbing his way back to the highway, Isabel’s voice ringing in his ears again. By the time he got home, maybe he’d have some idea how he could make some money off all this.

Chapter 2

For years Ben had lived in London, right down in the middle of one of the world’s most congested, busiest cites. His new home couldn’t have been further from that, which was the point. If he was going to have a change of scenery, why not go all the way?

Sutton was almost the geographic midpoint of West Virginia. It sat on a major highway, too, so it was easy to get just about anywhere from there. Charleston, the state capitol, was an hour away. Morgantown, home to the state’s largest university, about an hour and a half the other direction. Between the convenient location and the lack of population, it was just what Ben had wanted.

Which was good, because there wasn’t much there anymore. If the county government ever decided to move, Ben thought the town might just shrivel up and blow away. Most of Main Street was boarded up, and Ben could see the ghost of better days that haunted the town. One notable exception on Main Street was the local chamber of commerce, which planned to share a converted drugstore with a new museum dedicated to the area’s primary paranormal attraction, the Flatwoods Monster. Ben had been intentionally staying away from that topic. He wanted the chance to do it justice and was too busy building an audience and trying to make a living right now.

Ben turned off Main Street and headed up the hill, where the road dead-ended at his driveway. He got out of the car and looked at the closed garage door longingly. He was almost in the house when he remembered to go check the mail. In among a staggering number of bills was a flat, hard envelope with a return address from the West Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles. He tucked the other mail under his arm and tore into the envelope like a kid on Christmas.

He reached inside and pulled out a new West Virginia vintage car license plate. He turned it over and smiled. It read IMA BRIT in block letters.

Finally, he said, fist pumping like a madman. He scrambled inside, checking his watch. He’d have time for that later.

The house was simple. One floor, plus a basement not good for anything more than doing laundry and collecting junk. There was a kitchen and small dining area off to the right of the front door. The living room actually had a couch now to go along with Ben’s solitary end table, but it wasn’t as if he was going to be doing any entertaining soon. Off the living room were three small bedrooms. He’d claimed the one with the attached bathroom as his own, and it felt the most like home. The one across from it only held a dwindling collection of boxes right now, but he’d make it a proper guest room eventually. He was planning on having guests someday.

The third bedroom he’d turned into an office. It was the most finished room in the house, aside from the kitchen, which was pretty much finished when he moved in. He put in a wide, deep desk that he could spread documents out on, with a computer station at a ninety-degree angle at one side. Two wide-screen monitors gave him all the space he needed, particularly for things like he was about to do. He fired up the computer, made a quick bathroom stop, and was back in the chair with a minute to spare. He launched Skype, made sure his camera was active, and did his best to make his mess of light-brown hair look presentable. Presentable enough for YouTube, anyway.

Skype indicated an incoming call. Ben accepted it, and the face of Aylen Thomas filled the screen. She had light olive skin and close-cropped black hair, with a prominent nose ring and black-rimmed glasses. It certainly made an impression on screen, which Ben assumed was the point.

Hello, Ben, she said with enthusiasm.

Hello, Aylen, Ben said. Didn’t think I was going to make it back in time.

Ooh, something exciting? Can we talk about it? She bounced a little in her chair as she talked. Her accent was maddeningly nonspecific.

I don’t think so, Ben said, before realizing he didn’t want to shoot down her enthusiasm that quickly. But if it turns into something interesting, you’ll be the first I tell about it.

"Fair enough. You ready to be on U Saw WHAT?!"

U Saw WHAT?! was a video blog dedicated to discussions of the paranormal, aliens, and various low-grade conspiracy theories. Ben watched a few episodes after Aylen had reached out to him. It was one thing to go on a show where the hosts could talk about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster with some seriousness, but there was a fine line between fun theories about people living at the center of the earth and people earnestly pushing bullshit about the dangers of vaccines or 9/11 being an inside job. Ben admitted that those who believed the moon landing was faked tended to fit somewhere in between. What Ben had seen of Aylen’s show was that she would enthusiastically discuss lots of topics with great sensitivity and never turn it into a lecture. Besides, he couldn’t afford to be too picky. U Saw WHAT?! had millions of views on YouTube across the dozens of episodes that were up. Paranormal Appalachia was lucky to get a few thousand visitors in a week, much less paying customers.

Thanks for having me on, Aylen, Ben said before they got rolling. I’m really just still trying to find my feet in this field, so any exposure to an audience like yours is great.

You’re welcome, she said. I think we’re going to have a good conversation that my audience will really enjoy. Ready?

Am I framed up right? Ben could never quite get the hang of making sure he was in the middle of the shot for a Skype call.

Close enough, she said. You’ve done these before, right?

Just with my daughter, Ben said. Back in England.

That’s great! Well, just think of me like her. Try not to get too into gestures or whatnot. Just be yourself.

Easier said than done, Ben thought. All right.

Aylen held up a hand and counted down from five to one, then said, "Welcome back to U Saw WHAT?! She really hammered the last word. The vblog all about strange beasties and unexplained lights in the sky. Today we’re going to be talking with a paranormal investigator from West Virginia, Ben Potter. Hi, Ben!"

Hi, Aylen, Ben said, suddenly getting self-conscious. Thanks for having me.

Now, Ben, my viewers are a pretty quick study, and they’re going to notice that accent. I’m going to assume you’re not a native to West Virginia.

Ben chuckled. No. I’m from around Leeds in England. I lived in London for many years before I came here.

Fascinating. So what brought you across the pond?

Ben had gone through the story in his head a hundred times, sanitizing it to protect what he’d learned when he first came to the state. All mention of zombies, protective townsfolk, and his promise to keep it all secret had been banished. A family connection, actually. My great-grandfather worked on the coalfield railways back around the turn of the twentieth century. There were some, let’s call them family legends, I had to try and sort out. That all had the benefit of being true.

Ooh, anything spooky? Aylen twirled her fingers in the universal gesture of creepy.

Now came the lie. Like I said, just family stuff. But I discovered that I really liked West Virginia, the land and the people here. I decided to come back and make the move permanent. Well, at least as permanent as I can right now.

That’s great, Aylen said, clearly getting ready to pivot. What made you become a paranormal investigator?

I kind of fell into it, really. That wasn’t so much a lie as it was not completely true. I’ve been a writer, a journalist, all my life, and I wound up working on some stories in Great Britain that fell into the paranormal field. I enjoyed them more than I thought. More lies, although this was one Ben was at least telling himself as much as others.

What was the first thing you investigated back in England? Aylen said.

It wasn’t in England, actually, it was in Scotland, Ben said. Ever heard of the Grey Man of Ben Macdui?

Aylen shook her head. I haven’t, but I bet some of our viewers have.

He’s sort of a Scottish version of Bigfoot. Ben Macdui is a large mountain. I climbed around up there one weekend, talking to a couple who claimed to have seen it.

Had they? Aylen asked. Or did you think they had?

I didn’t find their claims very convincing, Ben said. The story that had wound up in whatever loony rag paid for that trip hadn’t let him say that, however.

This would be a good time to ask about your website, Paranormal Appalachia, because it’s quite different from most I’ve seen.

I hope so, Ben said. It likely sounded more desperate than he intended. I mean, I hope I can provide readers with something unique and compelling.

Aylen continued like she hadn’t even heard him. What I mean is that lots of websites that deal with the paranormal, or podcasts and the like, tend to be either cheerleaders or debunkers, you know? They’re either pro or con all the time.

That was my experience, too, when I dug into them, Ben said. I wanted to be a straight shooter, someone who was interested in the truth, regardless of where it led.

Isn’t that the kind of thing that’s gotten you in trouble before? Aylen asked the question while smiling, like she couldn’t comprehend the fear that gripped Ben’s heart.

It was going to happen sooner or later. Someone Ben crossed—a bent-out-of-shape podcaster or someone looking to make a buck proving that Nessie exists—was going to look into his background and find the libel case that ended his legitimate journalism career. He hadn’t changed his name, and the details were all public, if a bit obscure from an American point of view. He had readied an argument about the importance of the First Amendment and how English law wasn’t up to snuff, but that wouldn’t hide the fact that the second big story of Ben’s career had been completely and utterly false.

He swallowed hard. What do you mean by that?

Just that, from reading some pieces on your website, you seem to have had confrontations before with editors about how to frame a story. Now that you’re your own boss, I guess you really get to write from your own perspective.

He tried not to let his relief seem obvious. That’s right. I’m willing to call out baseless claims, but I hope I’m fair enough to keep my mind open to all things.

From