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PART II: MURPHY'S LAW
13
I Hear You Knocking
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Sam felt as if 'it' was about to happen. 'It' manifested as the dreadful, looming feeling that something important was approaching.
She had this feeling moments before a semi collided with her car, sending it pinwheeling violently across a median in a spray of twisted metal and shattered glass. She had felt 'it' a few seconds before she had ripped out a girl's earring in a fit of rage. Most recently, she had felt 'it' before an imaginary dog had jumped out of a bush and killed a woman.
She was feeling 'it' now, as her mother and her drove towards Sycamore Heights— a sprawling, resort-like assisted living facility where her grandmother resided.
Sam kept her headphones on full blast and her eyes glued resolutely out the car window, ignoring her mother for the entire drive. They had been sidestepping each other ever since what happened last night. Her, coming home late and not answering her phone; her mother, with one too many glasses of red wine. So far her mother hadn't brought it up, but Sam knew it was only a matter of time. Her mother hadn't figured out the right punishment.
Sam tore her way out of those thoughts as a building with twinkling lights appeared ahead. It was nestled within a thick forest which, combined with the raw wood siding and the amber lanterns that dotted the driveway, made it feel like some sort of holiday getaway. The main building resembled a log cabin. It's roof jutted out to form a covered carport like a hotel lobby. On either side of the main building were long rows of apartments. Each door had little white cartoon ghosts and skulls.
Sam's thoughts drifted to the skull in the hunter's cabin. They had been doing that all day. She shook her head and followed her mother into the lobby.
In Sam's opinion, the inside was just as revolting. It looked like a Halloween sprite had vomited up black and orange glitter everywhere. As Sam and her mother entered, their movement triggered an animated witch with a pointed black hat, bobbing her head up and down, cackling, "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too!"
"You go ahead," Pamela said. She adjusted her sunglasses, no doubt hungover from last night. "I need to have a word with someone about next month's payment. You remember which apartment, right? 205B."
Any other time and Sam would have waited until her mother could go with her— her grandmother made her uncomfortable— but she had some questions better asked without Pamela. She took off out of the main lobby and down one of the foyers, went up to the second floor, and followed the signs until she found 205B. It was the only door without decor.
Sam knocked.
"It ain't time yet!" came a loud reply, followed by what sounded like something whacking drywall.
"It's Sam," she said awkwardly, leaning towards the door in hopes her voice would carry.
"What? I can't hear— Oh— come in already," the voice griped.
Sam tested the doorknob and found it wasn't locked. Inside was dark, made up of a living room with an attached kitchen and a hallway that had two doors— one to a bathroom, one to a bedroom. It was musty and smelled of lavender Febreze. Deep maroon curtains blocked sunlight. Underneath Sam's boots lay plushy non-offensive beige carpeting, and equally bland plushy furniture marked each corner of the small living room. Only one stood out from the rest— a deep emerald velvet armchair with regal mahogany legs where, shrouded in a black crochet shawl, a tiny old woman with a bun of white hair sat perched like some sort of absurd crow.
"Don't just stand there. Close the door. You're letting light in," the crow complained.
Sam shut the door with the back of her heel and walked down the hallway. "Hi, Grandma," she greeted.
Ida Mendel peered through inch-thick lenses and squinted. Sam could see the gears twirling in her head, before she gave a huge smile. The force of her grin wrinkled her face unrecognizable. "Sammy. What a surprise. How nice of you to come visit your only Bubbe."
Sam winced at the barb. Her grandmother was known for her wit, sharp tongue, and tendencies to call you out. "How are you?"
"Peachy." She craned her neck around, which looked difficult as she had a permanent hunch. "Where's your mother?" she asked after a second.
Sam tapped her fingertips along the back of the couch. "She had to talk to someone about paperwork or something."
Her grandmother's eyes weren't clouded with age. They were bright, with a mischievous spark that made Sam wary. "Sit, why don't you." Her wrinkled hand waved at the adjacent couch. "Tell me things. What are young people into nowadays?"
Sam noted the black nail polish and the overabundance of rings. Ida had at least two rings per finger. All different types. Some plain silver, some giant rectangular slabs of jade set in gold. On her right hand sat a gold jewish star; on her left pointer finger a silver crocodile. Sam walked around the end of the couch and sat.
"Last time I saw you, you were about to move into that house and start school," Ida continued.
A shrug. "School's fine. The house is…" She stopped herself. The house was alive. Each night it creaked and rocked as if stretching. More and more often Sam woke to the sound of slamming doors, or her bedroom window wide open. She had been living there only a few months and already knew it was something else entirely. "...It's a house," she finished.
Ida hummed with a look that said she knew Sam was hiding something, but didn't press it. "So who's the lucky boy? Or girl?"
Blood burned Sam's cheeks. "There isn't a boy," she denied. "Or a girl," she tacked on hastily.
"Honey, you usually walk around like you've got superglue on the bottom of those boots and your own personal raincloud to keep you company. These past two years you've barely said one word to me, much less come visit. But here you are, all bright eyed and full of vowels." Ida leaned forward conspiratorially and raised a heavily penciled eyebrow. "Give me some credit, honey. I'm old, not senile."
"We're friends," Sam muttered. She kicked her boots out and looked at the bottoms of them, half expecting to find evidence of glue. There was only dirt.
Ida merely nodded a few times, then stared at her. "So?"
"So, what?"
"Why are you here? I know it isn't to swoon at my beauty."
Sam couldn't help but smile as she peered around at the dark curtains, the velvet chair, the black shawl, the no-bullshit coarseness and the too-sharp lavender eyes. Her and Ida were one in the same. They were too alike. To everyone else Sam was unreadable, yet to Ida she was transparent. "I wanted to talk about your childhood," Sam said.
"My childhood?"
"It's for a report," Sam continued. "For school."
Ida barked a laugh. "Heavens. Am I finally at the age where kids interview me for history class?" she asked, her eyes scrunching up in mirth. "Alright, fine. Shoot."
"I'm doing a report about what Amity Park was like in the 50's, and how it pertains to American History," Sam explained. "You grew up here, right?"
"Born and raised. But I'll be barely any help. I was born in—" With a waggling a finger and a twinkle in her eye, Ida caught herself. "Let's just say I was very young during the 50's."
"Do you remember anything about the town?" Sam asked.
"That was so long ago," Ida said in a faraway voice. Eyes dimmed, she glanced out the window. "I remember the fireflies. This town had a bunch of fireflies. There's not so many anymore, some years back something wiped 'em out, probably the drought, but I remember them in the summertime."
Sam dug in her backpack and pulled out a pad and a pencil. While she sketched a firefly in the corner, she asked, "Do you remember if anything big happened? Anything noteworthy?"
Ida merely shook her head. "I wish I could help you out. As you get older, your memory only tells you what you want to hear. Hell, this town was so small back then about the most noteworthy thing was the summer Mac Driscal got first place in the State Fair for his ugly overgrown gourds. The old coot never let anyone forget."
Sam wrote Mac Driscal—Gourds. "Do you remember who was mayor back then?" she probed.
Ida shrugged.
Did her grandmother remember anything important at all, or was there anything important to remember? "Ever heard of Vladimir Masters?" she asked hopefully.
Ida blinked, startled. "Yes. Yes I have. He was the mayor when I was a senior in high school. Rich. Mysterious. Lived in that big mansion over on Pine. I remember he had long white hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was a doctor of some kind, I think. A lot of the girls in my class had a crush on him," Ida rolled her eyes a little and made a gagging motion. "All they cared about was finding a rich husband, getting a white picket fence, and popping out two kids."
Sam refrained from mentioning that that was exactly what Ida had done. Instead she scribbled some notes. Rich. Doctor. White hair. None of these attributes surprised her. Someone with the name Vladimir Masters had to own an extensive vodka collection and an Ivy League doctorate degree. She paused and considered her grandma. "How come you remember him so well?" she wondered aloud. After all, Ida had been evasive on everything else until this point.
"Oh, I remember everything about that summer vividly," Ida stated flatly. Her eyes darkened, grew distant, and flicked away to the window; her hands tightened around her shawl. "Anyone that lived here during the summer of '62 remembers. Some things stick with you. But your report is on the 50's. Won't do any good."
Sam's stomach flopped and writhed. There was something in her grandmother's look that told her whatever this was was serious. This could be the break she had been looking for. "Project aside, what happened?" she asked, fighting to keep the excitement from her voice.
Ida sighed a slow steady sigh. "That was the summer that boy went missing." Adjusting her glasses, she turned her attention back to Sam. "White kid, from a nice family. Everyone tore Amity apart looking for him. It really shook everyone up, that a kid could go missing without a trace in this town where everyone knew everyone. I remember the father coming to our house looking for him. The look on his face..." Ida shuddered. "Desperation is an ugly thing, Sammy. It changes people, and not for the better."
Ice spread through Sam's veins.
Ida adjusted her shawl and dusted off a few white hairs with a sniff. "Anyway, once they started digging around they found out he wasn't the only one missing. Lots of kids were missing, from as far back as '53. Only, no one ever bothered to notice, 'cause they were all kids with no families. Orphans." Ida darted a look at Sam for a second. "And black."
"1953?" Sam echoed, well aware of the righteous anger in her tone. "How did nobody notice until almost a decade later?"
"Try to understand, Sam. I'm not saying it's right, but things were different back then. In a worse way. One white boy went missing and the entire town went into an uproar, but a bunch of black kids went missing right under everyone's noses and no one says a word..." Ida tutted softly and slowly unwound herself from her chair. Grabbing her ebony cane, she took off unsteadily for the kitchen. "This is some heavy stuff. You want tea?"
"Uh— no thank you," Sam mumbled. She watched her grandmother move with the speed of a tortoise towards her kitchen just when they were getting to the good stuff. Unsure of how much more time she had alone with her grandmother before her mom showed up, Sam's eyes darted towards the door. Sam leaned back in her chair and let out a slow breath, trying to channel whatever small amounts of patience she had.
From behind her, a teacup clattered and water began to hiss in a kettle.
Sam glanced down at her scribbled note taking. Finally. Something significant.
Ida shuffled back to her chair. She slowly eased her way into it, cradling her teacup to her chest. Steam fogged her glasses as she took a small sip. "Now. Where were we?"
"Missing kids," Sam prompted.
"Right." A nod. "So, after people found out about the other missing kids, naturally, everyone thought we had some sort of serial killer out and about. My parents never let me out of their sight that year. I always had to walk with a friend to school and back. I had to call to check in with them if I went over to someone else's house. Everyone was on edge."
Sam leaned forward in her chair. "Then what?"
Her grandmother took a sip of her tea. "Nothing."
"...What?" Sam frowned.
"Never found who did it, never found the bodies, and the kidnappings stopped." Ida pointed a finger at Sam. "I tell you what, this town has been weird ever since. A string of bad luck. First the draught, then the crops died, the forest fires, that circus burning down, the suicides... It's no wonder people started to move away."
A question stirred and burned within her. "The missing boy. What was his name?"
Ida opened her mouth, paused, then closed it. She leaned back in her chair and eyed Sam appraisingly. "Oh, some common name. I don't know. It was so long ago... I can't recall," she said, lip twitching into a coy smile. "I'm sure I'll remember sometime next week. Probably on Wednesday, after 7pm checkers. Guess you'll just have to come back and visit me."
With a wink, Ida went back to sipping her tea.
.
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Two hours later, Sam was pacing the upstairs hallway of her house.
Missing children, a serial killer, and a coverup... Sam smirked. Was this 'it'? Finally! She was getting somewhere. Her nose itched that this was something big.
Her first instinct was to call Tucker and tell him everything— about the kids, about the cabin in the woods, about the—the skull. Sam froze mid-stride. What if that skull was human? Shouldn't she do something? Tell someone? It could be one of those missing kids. Guilt gnawed through her. She grabbed her phone to call Tucker, then paused. Tucker would ask her how she had found the cabin, she would have to tell him about Danny, and he would get mad. When Danny had become more important than Tucker's friendship she didn't know. He had just crept into her life when she hadn't been looking and made a little nest.
Sam slipped her phone back in her pocket. No. She wouldn't tell Tucker. Not yet anyway. It wasn't time. She had a feeling Tucker wouldn't understand.
With a shake of her head, Sam began pacing again.
What else? She should call the police. But, after everything that had happened with the dog… would they take her seriously? And if they did, she was sending them deep into the woods— a place Danny had explicitly warned her was dangerous.
What were her other options? She could go into the woods and retrieve it herself, but she didn't know the way and she would have to take it to the police to run analysis on it anyway. Besides, if she walked into the station with a human skull and dropped it on Officer Gray's desk, he'd think she had something to do with it. Or, barring that, he'd ask her where she found it, and he'd go into the woods anyway to search for more evidence.
She could keep her lips shut and let it rot there in the forest until it turned to dust… Never find out if it was a gorilla… never find out if it was one of those missing kids…
No. Her dark hair fluttered as she shook her head, hard. The not knowing was unacceptable. She couldn't sit around and do nothing. Couldn't pretend she hadn't seen that skull.
"Goddammit," Sam groaned aloud. She strode down the hallway into her room. Fine. She'd go to the police. The thought of never knowing if that skull was real or not was unbearable. She snatched her jacket off the back of her chair and slung it on, wound a scarf around her neck, and made for the stairs. She had one hand on the doorknob when a voice rang out behind her.
"Get back here."
Sam screeched to a halt and whirled around. "Mom," she greeted. She tried to arrange her face into something innocent. Oh who was she kidding? That was a lost cause.
Pamela scowled at her and crossed her arms. "Where do you think you're going?"
"Wanted to go for a walk. Get some fresh air."
"Not so fast," her mother growled. "We need to have a little chat about last night."
Sam shut the door and rolled her eyes where her mother couldn't see. With a sigh, she took her hand off the door handle and spun back around. "Okay," she said tiredly. "Let's chat."
"You're lucky you're not grounded until next year, young lady," Pamela snapped.
Sam stared at her for a beat. The idea of her mother having any control over her behavior was downright hilarious. It took all of her willpower to keep a straight face. "Ground me, then. I'll just sneak out while you're passed out drunk," Sam countered.
Pamela froze and sucked in a quick breath. Uncertainty flashed across her features.
Sam winced. It had been a low blow and she knew it. Her gaze darted to the floor, ashamed.
"I— I need to know where you are," Pamela forced out. "I'm your mother. Regardless of what you believe, I love you and I worry about you." Her voice cracked and Sam felt lower than a piece of shit. "All the time, I worry."
Her mother's eyes had taken a glassy look that could only mean she was two seconds away from crying, which was not good. Sam edged away and kicked at the entry rug. Grinding her teeth, Sam realized— with a flash of irritation— that Pamela's guilt trip was actually working. "Look, I'm sorry I came home late and didn't answer my phone," Sam murmured. "I was hanging out with a friend and lost track of time. I'll pay more attention."
Her mother scanned her face. "Your father and I are glad you're going out and making new friends. That you're showing interest in something, even you won't tell us what it is. It's better than… well… before..." Pamela trailed off, struggling fruitlessly.
This was the sticking point; the reason why she was so angry with her mother all the time. "Why can't you talk about it like a normal person?" Sam burst out. "It's like you don't want to acknowledge what happened. It drives me crazy. Just say it. Joy Nguyen. She's dead and I loved her." Sam stared defiantly at her mother, daring her to comment. "Say her name," she demanded.
"Sam, that's not fair." Taking a step forward, Pamela raised a hand like she wanted to run it through her hair, but paused and thought better of it. "I don't like dwelling on it the way you do."
Anger bled out until she felt hollow. "Say her name." This time a whisper.
Her mother hesitated and Sam turned her back, disgusted.
"I— I love you so much, Sam. You know that right?" Pamela pleaded.
Sam paused, one hand on the doorway. "Whatever," she scathed, and left.
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—Samantha Manson, 1950's History Paper (Rough Draft)—
The 1950's time period was dominated by fear of communism. The "Red Scare" —what historians use to describe this fear— heavily influenced the politics and propaganda of the era. To Americans, communism was in direct opposition to capitalism and therefore evil.
On October 4th 1957, Soviet Russia launched the Sputnik 1 satellite, shattering the notion that America was the most technologically advanced nation (Zohair, 10). Not one to come in second, the United States launched NASA in 1958 in direct response (Clemmons, 49). The frenzied Space Race began. The American public became swept up in the blind chase to win over Russian Totalitarianism, and seduced by the thought of space travel.
The Space Race is attributed to America's desire to exert technological superiority. Basically, we wanted Stalin to take communism and stick it up his ass. The Cold War was more of a political tactic than anything else. It's like the government wanted everyone looking up at the moon instead of taking a look around at how shitty minorities were being treated. Segregation was still a thing. And let's not forget sexism. Let me quote an advertisement: "Men are better than women! Indoors, women are useful— even pleasant. On a mountain they are something of a drag. So don't go hauling them up a cliff to show off your new Drummond climbing sweaters! (Drummond)" This is an actual advertisement from 1957. I bet a panel of probably at least ten different white misogynistic dicks looked at this, took a puff of a cigarette (because people were in denial back then that tobacco causes lung cancer), took a swig of bourbon (because people back then were functioning alcoholics), and said, "Perfect. Yes. This ad is perfect—