The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

by Corinne F. Gerwe

  He drove up the steep drive to the mountaintop lodge and stopped before reaching the lot. From where he sat, he could see the film company vans parked in a row. One of them had pulled up to the lodge entrance to let passengers out. He’d heard about the gatherings at the lodge tavern and wondered if she would go there tonight or stay in her room. He couldn’t take the chance of going inside the lodge to look for her or ask for her room number at the registration desk. He assumed she had one of the better rooms, maybe a suite, so that narrowed it down. He drove on through the lot and around the perimeter of the lodge, scoping out the layout, and then parked in a dark corner of the lot.

  His idea was to get a message to her and leave it at that. A message would get her thinking of him. Someone had convinced her to stay at the lodge instead of overnight in the trailer, something to do with the movie. Maybe she’d been too distracted to do her lines right. He’d probably shaken her up too much. He was sure she wouldn’t have told anyone about him, she wasn’t the type. She’d be too ashamed. That was his edge.

  He picked up a large brown envelope from the car seat and removed his work schedule from it. On a notepad from the glove compartment, he wrote a short message, letting her know he’d been greatly disappointed and expected to see her the following night, hinting a demand. He slipped the note into the folder, drove to the entrance, and went inside.

  A mature female clerk with a kindly voice was talking on the phone behind the registration desk. He waited until she hung up. She would be an easy target.

  “I’ve been sent by the screenwriter to deliver an important script change to Miss Murphy. I need her room number please.”

  She cast a suspicious glare at him and her kindliness dissolved into an officious, yet polite reply. “I’m sorry, sir. I cannot give you her room number.”

  He held his temper in with difficulty. “Would you please deliver this envelope to Miss Murphy’s room?”

  “We can do that, sir,” she agreed, dismissing him by attending to the register, further fueling his barely controlled rage.

  When he reached the bottom of the gorge and pulled into the carport, his mood had not improved. He needed to release his anger and aggression somewhere. Margaret would have to do.

  Within the safety net of her comfortable suite, Megan reflected on her traumatic encounter with Zack and the disastrous day of filming that had followed. She felt like she was falling apart, disintegrating. The only thing that had kept her going all these years was her inborn talent. Without it she would have been destroyed long ago. Her childhood had been lost to her mother’s insatiable ambition, relentless auditions, countless humiliations, and experiences she could not bear to think about.

  Her mother would constantly compare her to other child stars, living or dead, her favorite being Judy Garland. She’d say, “Judy performed on the stage before she was five and look at the legend she’s become; the Wizard of Oz will never be forgotten. You are just as talented and can be just as big a star if you listen to me and do what you’re told.”

  Megan remembered what happened to Judy and marveled that she had lived as long as she had. Megan feared her end would come much sooner.

  By age thirteen, her roller-coaster ride of success, promiscuity, and self-destructive tendencies had begun. The roles had come, and she’d given them all she had, but her personal life had continued to deteriorate. The only thing she hadn’t succumbed to was the addiction problems many of her peers had suffered that led to their downfall. She’d had enough self-preservation to avoid that pitfall, but now realized that sex had similar devastating consequences and had led her to Zack Tanner.

  She felt deeply ashamed and frightened. The cost of filming was exorbitant, and she’d ruined a whole day of it. She thought of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz and identified with his desire for a brain. What had she been thinking? If word got out about her behavior on the set, she’d be in the next edition of People Magazine. A reputation for causing problems during filming could start a slow decline into oblivion. Acting was her life, her stability, her source of self-esteem. Her fans provided the only real love she had ever received, reminiscent of Judy.

  She continued to berate herself for having lost sight of this, for being irresponsible, for allowing another failed relationship to trigger a need for someone, anyone, to fill the void she felt inside. And who had she chosen? A stranger she knew nothing about. She’d allowed herself once again to be debased and humiliated, and had gained none of the control she had so arrogantly and stupidly thought she would have. In one night she had been reduced to nothing in the arms of a man she had completely misjudged. Had it not been for Buddy’s kindness today, she might be considering suicide tonight. He was the reason she had hope for tomorrow.

  A slight knock sounded at the door. An envelope was slipped under the door. When she opened it and read the note from Zack, requesting she meet with him, Megan started trembling. Had he been outside her door? He’d expected her to be at the trailer and was not going to go away because she hadn’t been there.

  How could he have the audacity to come to the lodge? How could she make it clear that she would never see him again? She could threaten to have him fired, but that would require another communication. He might threaten to reveal everything to get back at her; had probably saved the note she had written inviting him to the trailer. She suddenly felt a chill.

  She shook it off with a stubborn vestige of rebellion. Then came to the unrealistic conclusion that Zack would have to accept, without words between them, she had time for nothing but total focus on her role. It had been an overwhelming day. She felt exhausted, in need of sleep.

  She would dream of Evangeline, of hiding, and then disappearing within her character.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  TRENT WILLIAMS AND DANNY FOSTER HAD only recently become friends. Before then, they had existed unnoticed on the fringe of high school society. They were not considered outcasts, they were simply not seen. There was nothing about either of them that garnered attention. Both were socially awkward and would have been remained loners had they not met. Trent was the brighter of the two, Danny his apt pupil. They were drawn together by a common interest in horror comic books. Their current passion was a Marvel Comics issue entitled, “Dead of Night,” featuring Scarecrow, a fearsome night prowler with ties to a century-old cult of blood.

  Trent lived in Serena with his parents in a modest home near downtown. Danny lived with his mother in a rental across the ridge by the interstate. Both came from home environments that left them with too much unsupervised time. Neither was involved in extra-curricular activities at school, but had created their own within their comic-book world of horrific make-believe.

  At the far end of an expansive summer-home property near the Williams’ home, an ivy-covered prefab outdoor storage shed had become their new hideout. It was virtually hidden from view. Like many of the older homes in Serena built in the early nineteen hundreds, this one had been handed down through generations as a summer retreat. It sat empty most of the year. Some properties had caretakers. This one did not, making it a perfect spot for intrusion.

  The homes on the ridges surrounding town were a mixture of old and new, modest and elaborate, with structures as varied as renovated boarding houses, practical farm and frame houses, quaint cottages, authentic log-cabins, newly-constructed log homes, and high-end contemporary dwellings. The narrow lanes that wound around Serena from downtown up to the peak of the ridges were intertwined with tributary lanes that created an interwoven system of short-cuts to and from town. The boys used this system to their advantage when meeting and planning their escapades. They also managed to create short-cuts of their own by cutting through the back yards of empty houses and forested lots to avoid attracting attention.

  Had they not discovered the shed, they might not have taken things so far, but they had and it was ideal for their needs. It was windowless, wired for electricity, and totally private. The interior was used to store garden tools
and lawn equipment, had a workbench and stool, and space leftover for them to move around. They’d added a portable desk-size infra-red space heater, along with blankets, a pile of old clothing, yards of burlap, and a loose bale of straw. Their comic books were neatly piled in the corner, protected by a plastic cover. The shed may have been a temporary hideout, but to them it was their home away from home.

  Trent had scoped out a route from his house to the shed and from the shed to an adjacent lot that extended down to Church Street. Church Street ran horizontally along the high ridge until curving right in front of the old church where Kate and Dev lived, descending two blocks down the steep hill to town. At the other end of Church Street, Trent’s route descended down a tributary lane, coming out one block closer to town, directly across the street from the well-kept community garden. Cutting through the garden led him to the back lot of the large First Baptist Church. Through the church parking lot, he could cut across to the Serena Public Library on Main Street, not far from the county high school bus stop where he and Danny met each morning.

  The after-school hours they had once spent alone were now spent together sharing fantasies based on their favorite comic book scenarios. The scheme to bring the fictional Scarecrow character to life was formulated after reading about the sensational “Scarecrow Murder.” Their newfound hideout gave them the perfect place to store the materials needed to recreate the frightening straw-man creature, and each in turn would costume the other for appearances. They considered their interchangeable roles a clever device to deflect suspicion and provide alibis.

  Trent had charted out a map of homes where kids he knew lived and key places around the school and in town where other kids might pass by alone. The idea was to spread a little terror among the younger ones while preparing for the big scare on Halloween. They figured by then, their older peers would be the only ones brave enough to go out trick or treating after dark. It would be the ultimate climax, their comic book hero scaring the daylights out of the jerks at school who thought they were so special. Trent had made a list of potential targets, knowing most of them came to Serena on Halloween night.

  Serena was indeed the place to go on Halloween. Mountain towns had a long history of celebrating All Souls Night, dating back to the early settlers who combined pagan rituals with religion. The custom had grown and flourished into a merchandised industry, each town displaying their harvest-time specialties and elaborate Halloween decorations. Serena was the smallest town in the region, but had a reputation for having the best Halloween Stroll. Every business in town stayed open past closing time to give out treats. Several streets closest to town were designated as part of the stroll. Many homeowners participated by dressing in costume, serving mulled cider for the parents, and homemade cookies for everyone. The effort to create a safe experience for the children was a fairly new concept for Halloween night. There were those who held to the older tradition of going from door to door throughout the neighborhood, beyond the confines of the stroll.

  Trent was counting on this. He felt excited about the fear they were generating, and was busy devising a plan for his next outing. Thinking it too risky for another daytime sighting, he chose Sunday night. Serena residents wound down at the end of a weekend. Tourists who’d come for the peak autumn season would be heading back to where they came from. All would be quiet and his victim unsuspecting. She lived some distance from the hideout, on the other side of town. He’d mapped out a circuitous route to get there, but one easily managed by careful planning, using caution, and taking advantage of the darkness.

  Trent had an internal compass, a talent for logistics, and could find the shortest way to any local destination. His knowledge of the area was enhanced by studying topographical maps. Danny couldn’t find his way out of a box and had an eight o’clock curfew. He’d been useful for the daytime sightings. His plan was to scare the living daylights out of Sherry Miller, a fifteen year-old classmate who acted as though he didn’t exist.

  Trent had already scoped out her home and knew she slept on the second floor of a three-tiered frame house complete with a deck and stairs leading up to it. There was a massive tulip poplar tree with branches near her window. He’d learned where her bedroom was located by lurking outside and watching, without Danny’s knowledge. It was a voyeuristic obsession Trent didn’t care to share with his friend, but one he factored in to their current collaboration.

  He’d caught glimpses of her through the window on previous visits. She was always alone despite sharing a busy household with three siblings, a grandmother who lived with them, and parents who slept downstairs. He judged her demand for privacy as part of her snobbish behavior and thought she deserved to be taught a lesson. When dressed as the Scarecrow, Trent felt powerful and omnipresent, as though he could glide through the night without obstruction. He also felt awakened in a way Danny could not understand, but perhaps one day would. After all, he was Danny’s mentor and guide, and protector. Danny would have been lost without him, shunned and rejected. Trent thought it his duty to teach him how to survive, exact revenge, and feel the power of disguise. So far, all Danny had felt was fear and excitement during the two assignments Trent had given him. He was still immature, but had made worthy attempts and had not been caught.

  When Sunday night came, Trent moved through leafy pine-woods, over vine entangled split-rail fencing and rock-walled terrain, avoiding street lights and lanes leading downtown. The yard around the Miller home was bordered with thick shrubs and tall Hemlocks. He eased into his hiding place behind the bushes and looked up. Her bedroom light was on. He waited until he saw movement, hard to define from below. His costume presented a hindrance to tree climbing, so he climbed the stairs of the deck until he could reach the familiar limb. He wondered why her parents hadn’t noticed the accessibility from the deck to the branch near her window. They probably enjoyed the shade the tree provided without thought of its further potential.

  He scooted along the limb, losing straw along the way. He regretted the limb would be probably be removed, possibly the whole tree, after tonight.

  When he reached the place of best observation, he held his breath and waited. The burlap chaffed at his throat and scratched around his eyes, but he could see clearly. She walked past the window in a thick white bathrobe, and then walked toward her dresser and opened the drawer. She lifted out a blue-flowered nightgown and let the robe fall to the floor.

  He had never seen her naked and almost fell from the limb. She was perfectly shaped and glistened from the shower she’d taken. She lifted her arms up to let the gown slip down over her head, covering her body. Then she walked over to the wall by the doorway and turned off the ceiling light switch, leaving on the lamp by her bedside.

  He scooted further along the limb, and then reached up to pull down a higher branch. He took the rope he had tied to his waist and wrapped it around the upper branch, using it to lessen his weight on the lower one. His lanky body, stretched to its limits, was fueled by excitement and sheer determination. When he reached the window, he was able to get close enough to see inside. She was lying in bed reading by the soft lamplight.

  He tapped lightly on the window, rat-a-tat, and then once again, rat-a-tat. She put her book down and sat up. She had a curious expression on her face, perplexed.

  He tapped again, rat-a-tat, and she jumped up, looking towards the window. He moved closer to the windowpane, pressed his face against it, and watched the expression on her face change from confusion to fear as she tried to grasp the image before her. Her mouth opened wide, emitting nothing but silence, until she was able to scream.

  The scream ripped through the quiet night like a banshee wail. He pushed his face against the window for one last dramatic effect. Hysteria ensued as he quickly retreated, pulling the rope from the upper branch to use on the lower one to aid his descent. He hit the ground running, dragging the rope behind. He didn’t look back when every light in the house came on and the family was brought into her nightmare.<
br />
  CHAPTER TWENTY

  KATE AND DEV WERE SETTLED in on Sunday night and so was their guest. Steve had told them about the problem on the set and his need to spend the evening making adjustments to the script. He’d explained how, after Megan’s emotional crisis, she had come to a new commitment to her role after spending Sunday morning with Penelope. Their meeting had resulted in a call to Sherwood, thus the needed changes.

  According to Steve, Miss Pen, as he now referred to her, not only had a calming effect on Megan, she had influenced Sherwood to alter the screenplay to reveal in depth how a brave and vibrant beauty like Evangeline could have fallen victim to the cruel whims of her lover and father before her tragic death. It was Steve’s job to put this into words.

  Kate said to Dev in a sympathetic tone, “Darling, I’m a bit concerned about Steve. He’s been put under the gun with these script changes. From what you’ve told me, it’s not good for a person to have too much pressure in early recovery. I’m worried that he has no social life other than us. Shouldn’t he be going to meetings? I feel like the burden of support has been put on your shoulders instead of a support group.”

  “Katie, my dear, you are such a wee mother hen, worrying about our lodger. Don’t you see that you’ve made him so comfortable and secure here, he’s happy to return each night to a place he can peacefully work? Deadlines and script changes are part of his profession, a reality that will always be there. This film is a test for him, and why he’s limited his social and support obligations. When I initially suggested he attend AA meetings, he told me he felt safer in seclusion, but would start attending after the completion of the film. He does claim to benefit from our discussions, but gives full credit for his improved state of mind to your cooking. He says the daily care packages you provide him each evening, when not dining with us, are the reason he is being so productive. I worry what will happen to him when he leaves us to face the world without your caring attention. That is a world I would not wish to live in.”