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06
Shout
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Sam watched houses flick by in rapid succession. She slunk deeper into the leather seat of the police car and crossed her arms. At least the sirens and lights were off.
As she peered out the window her mind wandered between what happened at the junkyard, Max, the undented car of Amanda Scully, and the possibility that she had been wrong about ghosts.
Officer Gray cleared his throat.
Sam glanced up and saw him peering at her in the rear view mirror, through the metal grate that separated the police officer from the back of the car. She couldn't help but feel like some sort of felon back here, even though he was just giving her a ride home.
"Who were you talking to?" he asked. "Back at the junkyard?"
"A friend," Sam sighed, resting her forehead against the cool window. She was surprised to have admitted it out loud. A friend. She— Samantha Manson— considered someone a friend.
"That place is dangerous, especially at night," Gray continued.
Yeah yeah yeah. Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She sighed loudly and oozed down the seat, heels out, butt on the edge, until her seatbelt reined her in. "Tucker called you and told you to get me, didn't he?"
"Good kid, Tucker. Known him since he was a baby."
So Tucker hadn't completely abandoned her. A little bit of her anger at him bled out. Sam breathed onto the window and drew a tiny skull in the condensation. It winked out at her for only a few seconds before it faded into nothing but the faint imprint of oil left behind from her finger. "How's your daughter?" she asked, suddenly.
She didn't know for sure that Officer Gray was Valerie Gray's father, but the sharp gasp told her she was right.
"You've seen Val?" he asked. His eyes trained back to the road in front of him.
"At school. I see her around from time to time. Seems sad. Lonely." Sam realized she could have been describing herself.
"She never used to be— Left or right? Where did you say you lived?"
"Left," Sam supplied. "And I didn't."
Gray's hands clenched on his steering wheel and he looked back into the rear view mirror. He seemed to guess where she was taking him and he didn't like it. Sam wondered what it was about her house that had everyone so on edge. Ever since her conversation with Danny she had kept her address under wraps.
"You live in that house," Gray stated, voice strange. He turned right.
Sam's hands clenched at her seat belt. She stared at the back of the officer's head, internally debating whether or not to say something. After a moment of indecision, she said lightly, "You missed that turn."
"I know."
"Where are you taking me? I have a cellphone. I can—" she trailed off. She could what? Call the cops?
"I'm taking you to the station," he grunted. "Trespassing illegally is enough to hold you overnight. Or, at least until your parents come get you."
Sam leaned back into the seat, hard. "What? You're arresting me? But I didn't do anything!" she exploded.
"Trust me. This is for your own good."
"With all due respect, sir, you have no idea what's good for me," Sam scathed.
"I know more than you think," Gray laughed humorlessly. He refused to look back at her as he drove further and further down an unfamiliar road.
Sam punched the back of the cage. It hurt. Blood welled up and dotted her knuckles. She didn't want advice. She… She didn't know what she wanted, but this wasn't it.
.
.
Officer Gray had been kind enough to let Sam sit in the lobby of the police station instead of in a cell. They both knew he wasn't going to really arrest her or book her or whatever.
Like a wounded cat, Sam curled up on one of the uncomfortable plastic waiting chairs, huddled her biker jacket around her, and shot mutinous glares at the back of Gray's head where he was ignoring her at his desk.
The door to the station whipped open and her mother strode in and spotted her. "Get up. Get your things."
Sam climbed slowly out of the chair. As soon she got to her feet and slung her backpack through her arms, her mother grabbed her by the elbow. Her fingernails dug through her coat and into her skin.
Pamela leveled her with a stern glare.
Sam flinched. She knew she was in a world of trouble when they got home. Her mother had too much tact to lose it in front of anyone else, but she looked about two seconds away from self implosion.
"Officer Gray," Pamela addressed. She turned to the ma. "Thank you so much for keeping an eye on my daughter. I honestly have no idea what's gotten into her. I promise it won't happen again."
"Just doing my job," Gray stated. He got up from his desk and wound around the station to the door, holding it open for the pair of them. They were halfway through it when he cleared his throat. "Hey, just so you know. Some really strange things have happened in that house of yours. You might want to think about moving."
Pamela's grip on Sam's arm tightened. "Excuse me? What kind of strange things?"
Officer Gray looked extremely uncomfortable. Sam wondered what it was he had against the house. Whatever it was, it was personal. Intimate. Gray's face paled and his eyes glazed over. "Unexplainable things, ma'am. Please, for your own safety, and for your daughter's safety, move."
Her mother stared at him for a long moment as if trying to ascertain if Gray was a lunatic or not. She cracked a careful smile. One of her activist, sweet, empty smiles. "My husband and I will discuss it. Thank you for your concern."
Gray opened his mouth to say something more, but her mother whisked Sam out the door into the cold empty parking lot.
"Unbelievable," her mother ranted underneath her breath. Her heels click-click-clicked across the pavement. She dragged Sam along forcibly. Sam stumbled trying to keep up. "Absolutely unbelievable. Unacceptable behavior for a respectable young woman. What if someone saw you, at a police station, or in the back of the cop car? What would people say?"
"Who cares?" Sam grumbled.
Her mother stopped suddenly. Her hands grasped Sam's shoulders and she yanked her, hard, to face her. She gave her a rough shake. "What is wrong with you?!" she screamed breathlessly.
Sam almost whacked her mother's hands off, but something in Pamela's tone made her wary. She knew she had pushed her mom too far this time. Instead, she ducked her head and glared down at her boots. "Sorry," she muttered.
Her mother froze as if trying to figure her out, before she shook her head and continued, alone, to her car. It was the only one, parked directly underneath a street lamp. Pamela slammed the driver's side door shut with a loud echoing boom that seemed to continue on endlessly through the empty lot. The engine started with a roar.
Would her mother would leave her out here? Sam wasn't so sure anymore, so she picked up her pace and trotted over to the passenger door, slipped inside, shut it, and put on her seatbelt without a word.
The drive home was silent.
.
.
She peered at her naked body in the mirror.
Her hand ran along her chest bone across smooth pale skin. At her right armpit she felt a bump and, as she inspected closer, she discovered an enormous scar that traveled from underneath her right breast, around her side, and gruesomely down her lower back. Or was it her left side? Seeing as she was looking in a mirror and all, and when one looked in mirrors they saw things reflected…
Two brilliant white lights appeared before her. They grew in intensity, as if approaching fast. The mirror exploded. Her jaw fell open in surprise and she got a mouthful of glass.
A horn assaulted her ears as she tumbled, smashing into things— steering wheels, car roofs, limbs, luggage, loose change— and fell through darkness. A hand reached out of the black. She lurched to grab it, but she was too clumsy. She missed. As she fell further and further she noted dismally to herself, aloud, that, "There's no way back up."
The longer she fell the less she smashed into things. Objects were falling in tandem, only, they flew upwards as she spiralled downwards. She caught sight of a shovel, a broken watch, a lock of blonde hair, and a set of dentures locked in a permanent grin. She winced as a toy rocket hit her square in the jaw.
She hoped she would hit the bottom soon and just get it over with. Death was better than this endless falling, this endless dread of what would hit her next.
Just as she started plotting how to off herself, Sam woke up.
She took in a few gulps of air and stilled in her bed. At first she was certain the dream had awoken her, but a split second later a wail, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass, erupted from down the hall. Her mother's.
Sam flung her covers back and raced to her parent's room.
Her mother was still in bed pointing— hair half out of her curlers— at her shattered mirror.
"What happened?" Sam asked.
"There!" her mother cried. "She was right there."
"Shh, sweetie. It was just a shadow," her father coaxed. He looked over Pamela's shoulder at Sam and gave her a look.
Sam frowned and picked her way around the broken glass until she reached the mirror. Her pale reflection watched her in what little pieces remained. A lamp lay, dented, on the floor where Pamela threw it. The shade was torn.
"It was not a shadow, Jeremy," her mother snapped as she wrestled her way out of his grip. "There was a young woman staring at me. She was standing right there."
"It was just a dream. People have waking nightmares. You used to have them yourself in college, remember?"
"I— Maybe, but... She was so real..."
Sam ignored them. A faint draft caught her bangs and she looked at the huge double windows that overlooked the front lawn. Outside the street was empty. The window was open. She shivered and walked over to it, grabbed ahold of the frame, and yanked it shut with a bang.
Her parents jumped.
"Did you guys open this window?" Sam asked.
Her father's gaze darkened. "Sam, you and your mother stay here. I'm going to go make sure everything is safe." He left the pair of them and descended down the stairs.
Sam stood, at a loss. She didn't know what to say to reassure her mom. Pamela's hair was sticking out on one side. Her hands clenched together in her lap, wringing helplessly. "Did she have long black hair?" Sam asked. She wasn't sure why she asked. It was doubtful that her mother and her dreams were the same, but it seemed too coincidental.
Her mother nodded.
"She say anything?"
"No… No… how did you know she had black hair?" Her mother got up from the bed and wrapped her silk robe further around her body. The room was still chilled from that open window. Outside, muffled, dogs barked.
"Lucky guess," Sam murmured. She bent to start picking up the pieces of mirror.
"Leave those. You'll cut yourself."
She ignored her mother, grabbed a piece of dirty laundry to wrap her hand, and started gathering the sharp bits. As she collected, she saw a shape move within all dozen of the glass shards. An outline of a person standing in the doorway holding what looked like a knife. Sam froze.
"Jeremy?" her mother asked. "Everything okay?"
Sam sat back on her heels and turned.
Her father peered at them from the doorway, kitchen knife in hand. Sam recognized it as the one he had been sharpening before. He furrowed his brow.
"Honey?" Pamela prompted.
He shook his head. "Yeah, no. Didn't see anything."
"Well, that's good." Her mother smiled.
"Strange... The window being open," he continued. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment before he shrugged. "Guess one of us opened it and forgot about it."
.
.
"You know, I'm starting to think that Lancer gave us this assignment just to mess with us," Tucker grumbled. He pointed his pencil at her, before shaking his head and looking back down at the stacks of newspapers.
Sam and Tucker were back in the library, this time without Mikey. It was Friday night. It wasn't like Sam had anywhere better to be, but this wasn't her ideal way to start her weekend.
Sam scowled. No matter how deep they dug into the archives, all history of Amity Park in the 1950's was gone. Even when they had discovered a box full of newspapers from that era, all contents were dull and uninspiring. She was beginning to agree with Tucker. She wasn't about to tell him that, though. She was still seething at the fact that he had sent a cop to go get her from the junkyard. Thanks to her brief stint in jail, her mother and her were on shaky ground. The only way she had avoided a grounding was by agreeing to go see Penelope Spectra every Monday for an hour. And Sam knew her mother would call and make sure she not only attended, but cooperated. Joy.
"Hey, about earlier this week… Sorry I kind of ran." Tucker said nervously.
Sam glanced up at him. "Kind of?"
"Ok. I ran," Tucker admitted. "But, you should have followed. It wasn't safe there. I thought you were right behind me. Why didn't you run?"
"Because, unlike you, I don't believe in voodoo," Sam sniffed.
Tucker fell silent.
Sam chanced a peek up from her papers and found him staring at her in disappointment. He was peering over the top of his glasses. "What?" she asked.
"Even after seeing the car… even after all that happened… you don't believe in ghosts?" Tucker asked incredulously.
"I— Well— Of course not," Sam struggled. She wasn't entirely sure anymore. She thought about Scully's undented fender and blood-free tires. Sam shifted in her seat uncomfortably. She didn't like thinking about it too hard.
"How do you explain the car?" Tucker asked.
Sam bit her lip. She turned to the next page of the newspaper. July 30th, 1964. "There has to be some logical explanation. Maybe the dog didn't dent the car like I thought it did. Maybe—"
"Sam," Tucker interrupted. "The news reported no dog at the crime scene. No body. Nothing."
Sam sucked in a quick breath.
"I believe you, though," Tucker continued hurriedly, "You and Amanda Scully saw a dog. A ghost dog."
Sam let out the breath and deflated a little. "Ok, fine. The dog could have been a ghost. Happy?" She wasn't completely convinced, but at least that meant she wasn't crazy. That she wasn't seeing things.
"It's a start." Tucker went back to his newspaper. June 15th, 1954. Together they were combing for any news reports of a circus disaster. He turned a page in the paper and sighed. "It feels like someone already went through these boxes and got rid of anything interesting. If I read one more advertisement for a microwave, I swear…"
Sam hummed in agreement as she scanned her newspaper, her eyes glossing over the ads a story about some lady whose Golden Retriever got first place in the Ohio State Fair.
"How'd you find out about this circus thing anyway?" Tucker asked.
"Danny told me."
Tucker stiffened. "How do you know him?" he asked.
Sam paused. She frowned and looked up at him. "He lives down my street. What was your problem, anyway? He helped us and you were a total jerk to him."
"He wasn't helping, Sam," Tucker said lowly.
Sam shook her head and continued to scan the newspaper. "How was he not helping? He made that Max guy back off. He found the bolt cutters. He told me about the circus…"
"Why doesn't he go to our school?" Tucker asked.
"Homeschooled."
"How did he know about something that happened sixty years ago?"
Sam shrugged. "He probably grew up here. Maybe he heard about it around town."
"Ok." Tucker leaned back in his chair. "So... what's his last name?"
Sam bristled at the interrogation. Despite only knowing Danny for a month she felt attached to him. For the past few weeks she had gone to the graveyard for his company. She considered him a friend, and she was nothing if not loyal to her friends. "I've only known him for a few weeks. Sorry if I haven't asked for his biography. I get it. You don't like him." She fluffed her newspaper up so it covered her view of Tucker's face.
"I think he's dead."
"Holy shit, Tucker," Sam exploded in exasperation. "He picked up the bolt cutters. He was solid. Not to mention he has a job. I doubt they employ people that are registered as deceased."
"I mean… Ghosts can—"
Sam gasped. Her eyes went cross-eyed as she spotted exactly what they had been looking for. Right there, page A3, a report of a circus disaster. "There!" she announced, slamming the paper onto the table. She pointed. "It's right there!"
Tucker frowned and leaned forward in his seat. "11 Die In Freak Circus Accident," he read aloud. He paused. "You'd think this would have made the front page."
"You're right," Sam said. "This should've been the top story."
Tucker grabbed the paper from her and began reading.
"Eleven bodies have been found after a massive fire burned a traveling circus to the ground late Saturday night. Identification is still underway. Paul Garrett, spokesman for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, told The Amity Daily newspaper that the fire was accidental. According to authorities, an electrical problem was the source of the July 29th inferno.
"'The collective heart of Amity breaks for the victims of this senseless tragedy,' said Mayor Masters on Monday, after visiting the survivors at North Mercy Hospital—"
"Mayor Masters?" Sam interrupted, scribbling the name down on a sheet of notebook paper. She underlined the name three times.
—Diary Entry, II—
Sunday April 12th, 1955
Dear Diary,
Tommy at school asked me to be his girl! He is very cute. He asked me to the hop. He has blond hair and brown eyes.
.
Wednesday April 15th, 1955
Dear Diary,
Tommy broke up with me. He asked Peggy to the hop instead. I cried all night. Now I have no one to go with and it's tomorrow night. Danny got in a fight with him and is in trouble. He said I could go to the hop with him but he's my brother. I can't go with him. It's against the rules. Besides, he's grounded now.
.
Thursday April 16th, 1955
Dear Diary,
Dad brought home the new record. We all danced around the living room to it. I got to wear my skirt after all.