The Monster in Whiteside

"There's a monster in Whiteside," his uncle had told him long ago.

He'd told Calvin that on their last trip to Whiteside's trails, about seven years prior. In that time, little had changed. Whiteside was a town that sat nestled in the thick pines like a concrete scab, stuck between two giant wrinkles in the Earth. Calvin Reilly was a local boy (born and raised in the town of Wrightsville no more than fifteen miles due southeast) and he knew the way to Whiteside. Straight-up SR 92 to where the forest starts to eat the road, and then drive until that forest breaks back into daylight.

That daylight was Whiteside, and Calvin had only seen it a handful of times before.

No one liked to go to Whiteside.

"It's a dead town," they used to say in school. "Not even a town. Half a town. Boring. There isn't anything to do there."

Plus, there was a monster in Whiteside.

Only a few storefronts had doors that still breathed. Most had suffocated under layers of plywood and dust, their names frozen and faded on their faces. The sidewalks were cracked, and it was one, two, three streetlights and the town was gone, as the forest once again devoured the road.

Yet, that day that Calvin got into his car and drove with purpose, the town was alive. It had a pulse. People lined the streets with the surviving businesses propping their doors locked open and welcoming. Vendors set up on the side-streets, and the buzz of a hundred conversations filled the air.

One day and Whiteside was granted the illusion of life. That was all that Calvin Reilly had hoped for, and he grabbed his pen and his journal, and he left his car parked in the lot of the town's tiny hardware store.

There was a monster in Whiteside, and, hopefully, there were some answers too.

--

"I can't talk long," said the woman in the red jacket. "I really can't, the parade's in fifteen minutes and my husband's watching the kids all by himself so could you make this fast?"

"I promise it won't take long," Calvin said, opening his journal. He clicked his pen, testing the ink at the top of the page. "You said your name was...?"

"Darcy," she said, trying to control the maroon hair whipping about her aged face. "Darcy Stephenson."

"Stephen not Steven? With a 'p-h' right?" Calvin asked, receiving a hurried nod simultaneously affirming his statement as well as urging him on. "Ok, have you lived here in Whiteside your whole life, Darcy?"

"Yes," she said. "Since I was three, at least. What's this about, again? Did you say?"

"I thought I had. I Just had a few questions about the festival. That's all."

Calvin gestured around, and Darcy nodded.

"Yes, of course. Go on."

"This festival," Calvin paused, looking for the right words. "Can you explain it to me? In your own words, what is 'Shaggyfest'?"

He smiled a bit at the ridiculous name. She did not.

"Well it's hard to explain, are you from around here at all?" She asked.

"Wrightsville," he said, looking up.

"Oh," she scoffed. "Well surely it can't be that unfamiliar to you. You've never made it up for one before?"

Calvin shook his head with a smile.

"Can't say I have, and I'm sure many others haven't either. So, to them, and to me, what is 'Shaggyfest' about?"