The What the Poison Remembers weaves a dual-timeline thriller through the Tudor court and modern-day Appalachia, where secrets steep as deep as the land itself.
1521, At Hampton Court, Thomas Tester tastes wine meant for kings—and for killers. Born to a bloodline of herbalists and poison detectors, Thomas risks everything to protect his family and the crown from betrayal cloaked in velvet and venom.
2025, Dr. Grace Blackwood uncovers a pattern of overdoses tied to falsified pharmaceutical trials. When whistleblowers start dying and her brake lines are cut, Grace must rely on ancestral knowledge, Appalachian resistance, and the long-buried Testers' ledgers to survive—and expose the truth.
Spanning five centuries and two continents, The What the Poison Remembers blends historical suspense, contemporary resistance, and the enduring legacy of those who refuse to be silenced.
Perfect for fans of The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane, Station Eleven, and The Poisonwood Bible.
84 pages, Kindle Edition
Published May 31, 2025
The What the Poison Remembers weaves a dual-timeline thriller through the Tudor court and modern-day Appalachia, where secrets steep as deep as the land itself.
1521, At Hampton Court, Thomas Tester tastes wine meant for kings—and for killers. Born to a bloodline of herbalists and poison detectors, Thomas risks everything to protect his family and the crown from betrayal cloaked in velvet and venom.
2025, Dr. Grace Blackwood uncovers a pattern of overdoses tied to falsified pharmaceutical trials. When whistleblowers start dying and her brake lines are cut, Grace must rely on ancestral knowledge, Appalachian resistance, and the long-buried Testers' ledgers to survive—and expose the truth.
Spanning five centuries and two continents, The What the Poison Remembers blends historical suspense, contemporary resistance, and the enduring legacy of those who refuse to be silenced.
Perfect for fans of The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane, Station Eleven, and The Poisonwood Bible.
84 pages, Kindle Edition
Published May 31, 2025
Carter County, Tennessee — March Fifteenth, 2025
Mist clings to my grandmother's headstone like breath refusing to leave the body.
I trace the carved dates: born sixty-two years ago, died three months before I could drag the truth into the light. The coroner called it an accidental overdose.
I know better.
I press wild yarrow to the granite. Its scent rises sharp and bitter, cutting through the fog. The same herb she tucked in her pockets, in her medicine pouches, beneath the mattresses of the people she tried to save. Painkiller, fever-fighter, spirit-clearer. Now it's an offering.
"I found the files," I whisper. "The ones they tried to bury."
The wind shifts like someone listening.
Two whistleblowers are already dead. One "fell asleep at the wheel." The other overdosed on his own research chemicals—convenient, considering his final report accused Northeastern Medical of falsifying addiction data.
I have their notes. Their access codes. Their ghosts riding shotgun every time I sit down at my computer.
This week, I testify before the state oversight committee. The data I've recovered—clinical trials, internal emails, dosage schedules—could spark criminal investigations. Maybe even shut them down.
If I survive long enough to deliver it.
The university medical building gleams across the foothills, white and sharp as a scalpel. Funded by the same pharmaceutical conglomerate that buried Grandma with a double dose of prescribed dependency.
They call this progress. In these hills, we know better.
This is extraction, dressed up in lab coats.
The parking lot is empty—it's a Saturday. My office lights flicker on as I swipe my badge. I should be home. But I need to work. To organize the files, encrypt the records, prepare for what comes next.
But before I touch the handle, I know.
Someone's been here.
The air smells wrong. Like pine cleaner covering expensive cologne. Like someone rich tried to erase their presence. But I smell intention.
My desk is too neat. The death certificates—three twenty-five-year-olds—are laid out with surgical care. Each one has a photo clipped: Jessica Winters, Marcus Tillery, Amber Collins. All local. All started on Northeastern Medical's "non-addictive" painkillers after workplace injuries. All overdosed last weekend.
These aren't statistics. These are people I know.
Jessica's mother reads to my cousin's kids at the library. Marcus played ball with Caleb before the accident shattered his spine. Amber's daughter lives three doors down from my Aunt Ruth Ann.
Grief connects us in these mountains like creek beds—on the surface, visible. But it runs deeper.
The pharmaceutical rep steps into my doorway like he owns the oxygen in the room.
Harrison. Tailored suit. Factory smile. No calluses on his hands. His presence smells like entitlement and aftershave.
"Dr. Grace Blackwood," he says, rolling the title like it's temporary. "Your research raises . . . concerns about our marketing practices."
My hand tightens around the flash drive in my pocket. The access codes stored there lead to three years of buried data—proof of targeting, of manipulation, of chemical weaponry disguised as care.
"You're emotionally involved with Caleb Tester, aren't you?" he asks casually, already flipping the blade.
There it is.
The word he wants to carve me with.
Addict.
As if that's the whole story. As if Caleb's crushed vertebrae, seven months of sobriety, and the legacy of mountain healing wrapped around his spine mean nothing. As if discrediting my relationship discredits the truth.
I keep my voice steady. "Three kids died last weekend from prescriptions your reps pushed. You tracked how many pills you could ship before raising federal red flags."
"You're treading close to professional misconduct," he warns. "Your tenure review is next week, isn't it?"
He places a manila envelope on my desk with a manicured hand.
Inside: surveillance photos. Me and Caleb at NA meetings. Me at his family's cabin. Moments twisted into ammunition.
Through the window behind him, the hills rise blue and knowing. These mountains remember every system that came to take—loggers, miners, factory bosses—and now this. Medicine made into a weapon.
"You're not from here," he says softly. "You're playing mountain savior. We see that type a lot."
Wrong again.
My grandmother taught me to read the ridges like scripture. She taught me what to plant for bleeding and what to burn for bad spirits. Her yarrow still grows along my porch. Her blood is mine.
I smile, slow and sharp. "Your company's not the first to underestimate mountain people. It won't be the last to regret it."
My phone buzzes.
Caleb: Found something in Grandpa's papers. Older than Prohibition. Testers before we were even Testers. Come quick. Don't tell anyone.
I stand, gather the files, the photos, the names of the dead.
Harrison doesn't move. "Some stories," he says, "should stay buried."
I walk past him, spine straight, voice calm. "And some truths don't rot easy. Not here."
Outside, the wind has picked up. The creek sings louder than it did this morning. The yarrow at Grandma's grave felt different too—like it knew what was coming.
This isn't just a research paper anymore.
This is testimony.
And the mountains are listening.
The Testers: The Poison Remembers by Gene Scott follows two people, centuries apart, who use their knowledge of poisons and their honed intuition to rail against corrupt forces backing them into a corner. Thomas Tester navigates the fraught court of Henry VIII, trying to keep the King—and his own son—safe, while in 2025, Dr. Grace Blackwood of Appalachia races against time to make her findings public before big pharma squashes them…and her.
Scott’s novelette is a fast-paced thriller that keeps readers engaged in his well-crafted story and invested in the fates of Thomas and Grace. He builds the world of the narrative with a straightforward plot that avoids bogging down the prose with expositional background (which most of the time keeps the reader in the action of his tale but sometimes leaves them with questions that pull them out of the story). The mythos behind the poison testers is an intriguing one that will leave readers wishing for more lore even as they try to decipher the symbols Scotts weaves in (which sometimes requires a second read-through). There is a hint of magical realism in this narrative that can frustrate in its vagueness, but the vagueness is intentional—it’s up to the reader to decide if it’s magic or poetic license. The prevailing theme of Scott’s tale is hope through resistance and community—hope that the future will be better and hope that as long as one person carries on the fight, all is not lost. While this theme is the only real mirror between Thomas and Grace’s storylines, it’s enough to keep them connected through the ages.
The Testers: The Poison Remembers is a compelling thriller whose moral emphasizes that sacrifice can lead to the triumph of the good of humanity over the selfishness of those in power. Readers who enjoy such thrillers á la Tom Clancy may find this a fun, quick read, while those who prefer more straightforward and less whimsical stories might not enjoy the novelette.