#suburban white women are scary

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Markos Moulitsas (kos) at Daily Kos:

Feels like a lifetime but it was just last week when I last checked in on Donald Trump’s presidential campaign, and it was a bit of a mess.  Thankfully, things don’t look any better for them now.  President Joe Biden dropped his reelection bid on July 21, and even though two and half weeks have passed, Donald Trump refuses to accept the reality that he will now face Vice President Kamala Harris in November. Instead, Trump’s clinging to bizarre fantasies like this one:  “What are the chances that Crooked Joe Biden … CRASHES the Democrat National Convention and tries to take back the Nomination, beginning with challenging me to another DEBATE,” he wrote Tuesday on Truth Social.

While everyone else has moved on, Trump can’t let go, whining to everyone who’ll listen. “It’s unfair that I beat [Biden] and now I have to beat her, too,” Trump groused in a phone call to an ally last weekend, according to The Washington Post.  Every day that he’s mentally battling Biden is a day he’s not focused on running against the real Democratic nominee. And it shows in his most recent efforts to attack Harris, including calling her “Kamabla” for some reason. “Kamabla” is—what? Is it supposed to sound foreign and scary, like the way he writes “Barack HUSSEIN Obama”? The last thing Trump should want to do is remind a major swing demographic—suburban college-educated white women—of his racism and sexism, and yet he’s going all-in on both. 

But really, everything about Trump now seems old and tired. He looks old and tired, and he sounds old and tired. He’s basically just an old man yelling at a cloud now. His insults, once effective, lack punch. He can’t even manage to hit the campaign trail much these days. In the six weeks since his infamous June 27 debate with Biden, Trump has held just eight campaign rallies, not including the Republican National Convention, according to The Washington Post. Those rallies include ones held in Florida, Minnesota, and Virginia—none of the most important battleground states. At best, he’s held just five electorally significant rallies in six weeks. And he’s got only one rally scheduled for the week ahead—in Montana, which he won in 2020 by 16 percentage points. So, not a battleground.

[...]

Over the past several cycles, Democrats have refined their get-out-the-vote game. And while there is always room to grow—young voters don’t turn out at high enough rates, for one—Democrats have a well-oiled machine, a collaboration between the party and key advocacy groups to maximize effectiveness.  Republicans, on the other hand … it’s always been a bit of a mess. Some of you may remember Project ORCA from 2012, and how this tech-heavy GOTV effort collapsed on Election Day. Still, they haven’t needed GOTV programs as much. They largely rely on older, whiter voters, who are among the most likely to turn out. And Republican voter-suppression efforts have always made it much harder to vote in urban areas, with nefarious officials doing things like closing polling places and limiting ballot drop boxes. But Trump takes Republicans’ GOTV dysfunction to new levels. For instance, after he installed his preferred leaders at the Republican National Committee earlier this year, they slashed staffers … including much of their planned GOTV operation. 

Trump is still angry that he’s no longer facing Biden, and has had a hard time adjusting to that fact.

[elfgarlic]

honestly scary how true crime mind poisoning has convinced well off white women that their gut feeling is never wrong and definitely can't be influenced by things like racism, ableism, queerphobia, classism, etc.

like do they know that they are so threatening to marginalised people? when i'm out in public i'm not afraid of the elderly homeless guy asking me if i have a cigarette, i'm afraid of jumpy suburban moms calling the cops on me for having a meltdown in a loud mall or being visibly trans while i'm using the women's bathroom

[alive420]

i work at a deep dish pizza place and i cant stop thinking about recently when this lady really wanted a chicken bacon ranch pizza and then she specified on a deep dish all wanting to substitute the hella marinara w ranch and i was like. let me get my manager. and when my manager explained that like that would be really not possible w a deep dish she had this american psycho look on her face. incapable of processing the fact that her request was not honored by the pizza physics gods. who wants a bucket of ranch on a savory pie. this lady does and shes pizzed the fuck off bro. customer service can make u see a unique darkness in a suburban white mom that only the stepford wives had even come close to relating to the public. and even then it is darker than that bc the stepford wives were robots and these are real women in the world, facing each day with the stifled rage that can only come from a harrowing marriage with the emotional intimacy of a ball and cup toy, and birthing children hoping to find an answer and not finding it , instead finding tyler who screams slurs on his ps4 since the age of 7. and tyler wants his chicken bacon ranch pizza. her eye twitches. these types of women are genuinely scary to me.

[citromello]

I feel like these takes of mocking someone for their discomfort is a startling turn-about from Tumblr's usual stance of "your feelings are valid". The lady doesn't look all that scared, and as mentioned above, doesn't even mention what group she's defending against. My read is that living alone is an unusual situation for her that makes her feel uncomfortable and she's lucky enough to be able to afford all sorts of little bits and bobs to make her feel better about it. Isn't that understandable? I was scared the first time I lived alone. What does it matter that fears don't always line up with statistics?

There's a lot of good points in the above posts - that there's different danger in insolation, and in the known as well as the unknown. But it feels like this video became an excuse to pile on politics to a barely related unpopular portrayal of stranger danger, and it made me want to defend it. So I'm going to.

I don't believe stranger danger is an unreasonable fear. When I lived in a city, I experienced way more complete strangers trying to (admittedly mildly) harm me than when I was in a sheltered suburb. I suspect this was a combination of different norms around what constitutes harm and just the sheer density of people in the city. There's people trying to scam me, people following me to hit on me, insulting me, trying to scare me, shoving me. It's not like it was every day, or every week, but it did happen every couple months. It took me a good while to go from "oh god what was that" to "ok it doesn't seem like it'll escalate past this so... I guess that's ok". There's strangers out there going "seeing me"->"random expectation of me", and "disappointment"->"anger", and "anger"-> "desire to harm" with very little input from me. When I don't understand what prompts strangers to do this, or what constitutes acceptable harm in public in their minds, stranger danger feels like a reasonable caution.

City culture was a mystery to me, and there wasn't really a way to figure it out without pushing boundaries with strangers already more willing to escalate than I understood. I still went out and did things when I was in the city but there was always a certain amount of tension that's not very good for enjoying what you're doing. It's what you don't understand and can't predict that's scary, because you have no illusion of control. That's a real stranger. That's stranger danger. I think it's an understandable human fear. City, suburban and country folks all have different norms and knowledge, and when they're in a different environment than usual they're gonna feel uncomfortable and maybe scared.

This line in particular from previous post made me feel sad: "I find myself wondering how many wealthy or comfortable white women are reacting to losing the privilege of walking down the street without paying any attention to their surroundings." Isn't being able to relax after work and be tired and miss things in your daily life a great thing for everyone to aspire for? Is it really so unreasonable a privilege to have?

[nunuisancenewt]

So Shelter Euthanasia rates have been going up the past few years, disappointingly reversing the trend in the 2010s, especially for dogs, and Gen Z are more likely to get an animal from a breeder over a shelter then millenials are

Beyond the numerical data I just wanna talk about some cultural trends I’ve noticed on social media, that reflect how people think about dogs and adoption

First, theres the obvious material comparison to get out of the way, more Gen Z live in apartments and don’t have room for a dog, especially big ones, the three most common breeds to appear in US mixed breeds ancestry are all big dogs, American Pit-bull Terriers, German Shepherds and Labs, combined with landlord rules against “Dangerous Breeds” and weight limits and it becomes convenient to buy a Yorkie or french bulldog ( or adopt a cat? )

Which brings us to Pit-bull hate, particularly, which seems like it’s on the rise. With pitbull hate becoming a racist dog whistle , and the rise of R/banpitbulls and R/Dogfree. then the UK , which previously banned American Pit-bull Terriers, banned “ XL American bullys” leading to more rounds of debate from people who had basically no experience with them talking about how hyper dangerous and aggressive and lethal and stupid and ugly Pit-bulls were and how only horrible people would ever want one

This Is the part where I point out that in a shelter context “ Pit-bull” is basically any medium or large dog with short fur and a large head, wether it be part Rottweiler, mastiff, boxer, chow chow etc whatever, discussion of actual breed characteristics have little relevance to predicting the behavior of mutts based on looks , and people are really bad at guessing a dogs ancestry

Golden retrievers are cool now I guess, used to be they and Labradors were the ultimate symbols of conformity to the Americana suburban dream with 2.5 kids and a white picket fence, but now every goth black-cat bi girl needs a Golden Retriever( blond? Friendly? White? Loyal? i didn’t understand this trend) Gamer boyfriend. Everyone is mocking the designer poodle mixes now, labradoodles and the like, as the ultimate symbol of the upper middle class suburban family, but this time mocking them as “ overpriced mutts”

Purebred fetishism is big again it seems, Tiktok likes the phrase “ Adopt or Shop Responsibly” , The dog nerds don’t talk about Puppy Mills at all, they only mention “ Backyard breeders” which is a vague term for any small scale breeder they don’t like, but particularly those that produce mixed breeds/designer dogs/dogs that don’t fit AKC standards or aren’t registered/ “ unrecognized” breeds, There are a-bunch of people convinced It is important to support “ Ethical Breeding” , but treat that as a synonym for AKC certified, the Organization that determined a Pekingese should look the way it does

Theres a hint of misogyny to it all also? Aimed at white millennial women for being dog lovers, the mockery of them and pit-bulls and poodle mixes, of cringy doggy moms with fur babies, the bestiality meme with racist undertones, the “ I can excuse racism but draw the line at animal cruelty” snippet from Community , the trend of joking about white women approaching scary dogs and eventually any big dangerous animal that was on TikTok awhile, just this hatred of hippiedom the left has now Ive mentioned before ,

[omamervt]

I think something about callout posts and the way they're weaponized that gets left out a lot is that it creates a stigma not just around a person but around entire topics, as well as makes it difficult to call out actual bad behavior, knowing how some people might respond to it.

For instance, there was a thing on Twitter a couple years back where, for reasons not entirely clear to me, someone decided to make threatening to kill and eat another user's pet pig their entire personality.

There was a day in particular where this user was being particularly relentless, just constantly trying to bait responses from the pig owner until she said something that could be construed as racist, and then the bully account used her minority status as a black trans woman to cry victim to people who weren't aware that she. you know. had been threatening to kill and eat someone's pet for like a week leading up to that.

But by time the people rushing to her defense were aware they had rushed to the aid of an obvious bully, too many were unwilling to back down and so just started contributing to this smear campaign, including a lot of black artists I had been following at the time, and had previously respected. One in particular went all in, wrote a thread about why relentless threats and bullying don't justify racism (over, again, one poorly-phrased response from someone who was being relentlessly threatened and bullied).

I had wanted to say something, point out how ridiculous it was, but with the topic as hot as it was, I knew there were two possibilities to me jumping in, if it got too much attention.

a) I get the potentially permanent label of "racist" stuck next to my name for "defending a racist," making it difficult to participate in online communities of otherwise like-minded individuals.

b) the artist in question was disabled and financially supporting herself with her personal store. If she lost customers, she might actually lose everything. Yes, she was participating in bullying someone who did nothing to deserve it. But was it worth ruining her life over? It wasn't a likely consequence, but it was possible. I'd seen it happen to others.

It also makes it scary to share an opinion that seemingly goes against the grain, even if it's more grounded in reality and evidence-based than what appears to be the consensus. it may NOT be the actual consensus, but when you curate who you follow you might limit how many differing opinions you hear, and when you don't curate it, you have no control over which opinions you hear. It's impossible to know if it's a real consensus or just what you're seeing from the people around you. And that can make it scary to point out, say, most popular True Crime stories make spectacle out of the worst thing to happen to real, living people and the genre seems largely interested in instilling racist fears into suburban white women, or no ethical billionaires includes Taylor Swift, or any number of other things that people go all in on in large numbers and respond poorly to even the most well-intentioned criticism. It's wild to be talking to leftists and feel afraid of being stigmatized for NOT wanting to accept a gateway drug to bioessentialism into our communities, but that's just a real possibility for criticizing Astrology.

Anyway, I kinda think this kind of pressure to watch what we say about difficult topics is maybe a hindrance to real progress and also just not good for us on an individual level.

[faintinggoatx]

** Spoilers for Dead To Me Season 1 & Season 2 **

It’s time for some reflection on these white women

Okay just finished binging both season 1 & season 2 aaaaaaaand I have thoughts.

First, some praise: this show is so so so good. The acting is amaaazing. The twists actually surprise me. The characters are actually 3-dimensional. (I’m a sucker for a story where you can’t really tell if the main character is good or bad and yet you’re still invested in their journey.)

However, it is DRIPPING with white privilege. It honestly makes it hard to enjoy sometimes. I know it’s a fictional show that is meant for entertainment, buuut it’s still annoying to have to watch two white women murder two people and still be written sympathetically. It’s frustrating that Perez decided to let Jen go after she cried and talked about her sad life.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am very much so pro-abolition of prisons, abolition of police. I’m simply acknowledging that this show has a very white relationship with the police and crime. It’s very clear that the show sees a clear divide between #scary criminals# and normal people who just happen to mess up sometimes. It’s acting under the principle that people are inherently good or inherently bad. Judy and Jen are portrayed as inherently good people who just had shitty things happen. Meaning, they don’t belong in prison so Perez let’s Jen go and Judy never so much as gets arrested. And then, they show Judy deciding to leave her mother in prison because she hasn’t changed. Meaning, people who don’t change or show remorse are bad and prison is where they belong as punishment.

But people aren’t bad or good! Why is it that Jen gets to murder someone because he was mean to her and everyone is still able to sympathize with her? People can say some fucked up things but that doesn’t make it right to end their life. I know the show is trying to send some message that she had already paid the price of having to carry that secret… but come on. She fucking murdered a guy and she still saw it as his fault for saying awful things to her. At no point did she stop and think, “hmmm maybe I have anger issues” or “maybe I should see a therapist.” In real life, prisons are filled with people just like Jen except they aren’t white women. Suddenly, context doesn’t matter if you’re not white.

I’m also sooo over the copaganda. Making all of the “good cops” people of color? Making the “bad cop” white? Letting Jen go because “cops have hearts too”? What the fuck! No! Fuck that suburban white woman. Jen is a wreck who desperately needs help. Judy is clearly suffering from symptoms of abuse and Jen is continuing to verbally abuse her. I do not think Judy is completely off the hook, but I will say abuse will cloud your judgement.

All that to say, I do like that the show gives you the dark sides of the characters as well. You can never quite fully trust Judy and Jen. There is always something off about both of them that leaves you questioning if you should like them. That’s a fun balance and a major reason I keep watching.

Anyway, I’m excited for season 3. I hope for more Michelle bc goddamn

[sweetpascal]

“ what’s your favorite scary movie? ”

pairing: dave york x fem!reader

summary: after enjoying a pleasant night alone on halloween, you receive an unknown and questionable phone call that you believe to be a harmless joke done by an annoying prankster. things take a turn for the worst when you realize just how serious this is.

warnings: suburban murder daddy dave, slight dub-con vibes, brief violence, KNIFE PLAY, rough rough rough sex, choking, squirting, multiple orgasms, creampie, UNPROTECTED SEX (wrap it before you tap it), awkward neighbor interactions, dave and reader are married, tenderness of course, slasher roleplay ;)

word count: 8.1k (okay i need to fucking stop writing so damn much omg)

notes: OKAY SO this idea was first birthed from @tuskens-mando (eri’s) halloween headcanon post about the pedro boys here and what she put at the end of dave’s immediately caught my eye, and we both talked A LOT about it and it was so much fun and we both developed so many ideas to make this happen!! some inspirations included this and this and this.

follow @sweetpascal-notifs for future fic updates.

Spending a night alone on Halloween has been something you had been waiting for since the beginning of the spooky season. Scary movies have always been a favorite genre of yours, especially since you were a young child. The blood and gore, fear and suspense, the prickly feeling of being watched after finishing a specific horror movie. All of them, you loved. On the other hand, you hated being alone while doing so. That little feeling of being watched was unnerving when you didn’t have a friend to share it with or joke about to make the situation lighthearted and less creepy. 

You loved the type of movies where the female protagonist fights for her life and obviously wins in the end. But what frustrates you is when they’d run for their lives and fall to the ground after tripping on nothing, and they stay on the ground like idiots while they watch the killer coming at them. Then, they finally get up again to continue running. I mean, what the hell is that? Are women really deemed as clumsy and weak? If you were ever getting chased by a crazed killer, you’d fight tooth and nail to come out alive.

The night continued leisurely. There were little trick-or-treaters knocking at your knock every so often and you were always so excited to hand out handfuls of candy. There was one little boy that stole your heart; he was dressed up as a male version of Carrie, wearing an adorable white tux with fake blood dripping all over him and a large pin on the lapel of his jacket that read They’re All Gonna Laugh At You. 

When the clock struck ten, you officially retired for the night, unplugged the outside decoration lights, and switched off the porch lights. When you were twisting the plastic wand to turn down the shades of your windows, a booming set of knocks on the front door echoed through your quiet house. Your entire body jumped and you let out a frightened gasp before pressing your hand to your chest, your fluttering heartbeat pulsing rapidly against your palm. If it was another group of children, you would give them the last few handfuls of candy and call it a night. If it was a group of teenagers playing a prank, you would just ignore it and continue cleaning up.

You quietly walked over to the door, placing your hand on the doorknob and leaning your eye against the peephole. After watching several horror movies in your life, one important and smart rule is to never open the door without peeking to see who it is first. With a frown of confusion when seeing no one on your porch, you unlocked the door with a noisy click and opened the wooden barrier without sliding the door chain free from its latch. Only idiots would fully unlock their door and leave it wide open while they stepped outside to look for the possible suspect. Eyebrows drawn close with hesitation as you looked out at your front yard and the dark streets. Everyone’s house lights were off, except yours. The streetlights illuminated an eerie orange glow in some spots and left the others pitch dark.

With one last hesitating glance around the street, you finally shut the door and locked it. You hadn’t even walked away from the door yet before a set of booming knocks bash into it again. You yelped from the sudden brash noise. You didn’t even want to look through the peephole this time. Scurrying to the living room, you shut off the main light and switched on the small table lamp. Still staring at your ominous door, your hand blindly pats the sofa for your phone. When you couldn’t feel it in the spot you originally left it, you looked away from the door to frantically pull up the pillows. 

Suddenly, the house phone started ringing with an annoying blare. It came from the kitchen. Your heart leaped into your throat, secretly wishing it was one of your best friends calling. Glancing at the front door as you hurry past it, you yanked the house phone from the box and looked at where a viewing number is supposed to show. No phone number showed. It only reads NO CALLER ID. Pressing the green button with a high pitched beep, you spoke into the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Why didn’t you answer the door?” A voice spoke back to you. The voice was masculine, low, and husky. It was familiar, but you couldn’t pinpoint who it could be. Your mind completely blanked. Whoever was on the other line took note of your confused silence and took that as an opportunity to continue talking. “I know you’re there, sweetheart.” The way he spoke in a sing-song way made you feel uneasy instantly.

“Who the fuck is this?” You spat, your hand trembling slightly as your eyes frantically scanned the windows of your house, but all you saw was darkness from the outside. 

“Such crude language,” he huskily laughs, the deep sound causing a slight shiver to spread along your body and giving you goosebumps along your arms hidden underneath your oversized sweatshirt. “I just want to talk.”

“Yeah? Go to a bar. Go to a park. Hell, go to church for all I care. Don’t terrorize a helpless person on their telephone on Halloween night,” you exasperatedly told him, pacing back and forth in the kitchen while keeping your eyes on the front door and windows, even though the shades were down and the curtains were drawn.

“Why? Are you… scared?” He asks you, his tone so teasing that you wished you could reach into the phone and slap him across the face. This man is a prick and he was wasting your time.

You scoffed and hung up. Not even two seconds later, the phone rang in your hand, the NO CALLER ID lighting up on the small screen. When you answered the phone and put it on speaker, the man started speaking. 

“It’s very rude to hang up on people, sweetheart,” he tuts, the condescending tone lacing his voice makes you roll your eyes. “Has your mother not taught you manners?”

“Has your mother taught you not to stalk people? You sassed him, unable to comprehend what the hell was going on.

Completely disregarding your question, he immediately asks you, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

This question catches you off guard. Your lips part and your eyes briefly widen in surprise. Breaking your stare from the front door, you look down at the ground and lean back onto the countertop. 

“Um, no, I don’t.” There was hesitation as you spoke quietly into the phone. “Why do you ask? You wanna take me out on a date or something, mysterious stalker man?” This time it was your turn to tease him lightheartedly. Although you haven’t seen this man’s face, he sounds dangerously attractive.

“If you don’t have a boyfriend, then whose sweatshirt are you wearing?”

A feeling of dread washed over you like an ice cold tidal wave, leaving you frozen from head to toe. Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. Gasoline was poured onto the blazing spark of fear coursing through your trembling body. You clutched the phone tighter in a death grip; the only thing keeping you grounded and steady from crumbling onto the tiled floor. Moving at a dazed pace, you looked out the kitchen window that overlooks part of your pitch black backyard.

In a quavering voice, one that holds no courage or confidence, you ask, “What… What did you just say?” Your question was weak, furthering showing that you held no power in this terrifying situation. 

“You heard me, sweetheart,” the man told you, a gruff laugh following his words. “If you don’t have a boyfriend, whose sweatshirt is that, huh? Seems to me that it’s too big on you to be a sweatshirt for a young woman. Isn’t that right?” He was mocking you now, using your stupidity for his own sick joke. When you’re frozen in pure fear, he continues. “I really despise liars, honey. They just make me so… angry and… violent. It makes killing them a lot more enjoyable.” His laugh is crazed this time and uncontrollable, and it has you swallowing thickly in nervousness.

When you finally mustered the ability to speak again, in a broken voice, you tried to tell him firmly, “No… No, you’re… you’re lying.” You’re close to breaking down in the middle of the kitchen, completely glued to your spot as you try desperately to mentally yourself that what’s happening at this very moment isn’t real, that it’s a figment of your imagination, that it’s a sick man playing a sick game.

“Am I?” He questions you. “I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I don’t know anyone else in this shithole town that wears a 1998 Washington State University sweatshirt.” 

You peer down at the only piece of clothing adorning your body, the blocky, red letters burning holes into your eyes as a red cougar logo sits against your sternum. The hand holding the phone is trembling badly, further weakening your nerves and ability to hold the phone, and your breathing has spiked. A lonesome tear rolls down your cheek when the feeling of dread becomes too overpowering. 

Taking advantage of your state of shock, the menacing man on the other line adds, “You should’ve locked your door, sweetheart.”

A cold sweat suddenly overtakes your entire body. The heavy pounding of your heart makes it almost impossible to breathe without feeling like you’re about to faint at any second. With shaky legs, you hurry to your front door and, on instinct, go to lock it, only to find out that you had locked it moments ago. A quivering cry escapes before you can swallow it down. His next statement is what makes the phone call out of your limp grip and clatter onto the ground, the back opening and the batteries rolling away in opposite directions.

“I never said which door.”

Your heart plummets to your stomach as a painful knot begins to form. You didn’t even want to look behind you, but you can feel the pin pricks of someone’s gaze burning into your back. Another tear slides down your cheek and rolls under your jaw, leaving a wet, salty trail. Breathing shakily, psyching yourself into the proper frame of mind to look back, you said a mental prayer. When you looked over your shoulder, it seemed as though everything happened in slow motion.

Standing in front of your backdoor, inside your house, is a rather tall man wearing a terrifying Ghostface mask and the black, ripped gown with the hood over his head, along with large black boots. In one of his leather gloved hands is Buck 120 knife, similar to the one Ghostface uses to slaughter his victims. He wiggles it between his thumb and forefinger expertly. Lifting his other leather gloved hand, he waves his fingers at you, tilting his head to one side menacingly. 

“Hello sweetheart,” he says under the mask, husky voice clear as day. But instead of his voice creating butterflies, it creates terror. 

Your mouth drops open to let out an ear piercing scream when he suddenly charges at you at a lightning speed that almost catches you off guard, his heavy boots thudding onto the wood flooring, for sure tracking in mud from the outside. You were able to duck in time when he lifted his knife wielding hand to swing it down at you. The knife stabs into the door right where your head was supposed to be. You bolt down the narrow hallway, pulling the thin table that leaned against the wall to create a sad excuse for a barrier between you and your assailant. The table crashes to the side when the man, quite literally, throws it behind him with immaculate strength that should be considered terrifying. With another gut wrenching scream, you dash down the hallway and turn the corner to run into the other entrance of the kitchen. 

Survival, that’s what was on your mind at this very moment. The alarms of your fight-or-flight response were blaring uncontrollably as the adrenaline that coursed through you from head to toe made you frantic. You halt at the countertop and pull out your biggest knife from the drawer. As soon as you turn around, holding the knife in front of you as an act of self defense, the man stops at the doorway like a predator hunting its prey. In this case scenario, he’s the predator and you’re the prey. Your hand trembles terribly as your fingers tighten around the handle. He slowly saunters around the countertop sat in the middle of the kitchen. You jerked around to the opposite side, moving around the counter as well, still making sure there was great distance between you and the masked assailant. 

“My… My boyfriend will be here a-any second,” you quietly told him, your voice shaking awfully along with the hand holding the knife. “If you… If you leave now, I promise… I won’t call the police.”

The man tilts his head to one side mockingly. You couldn’t see his facial expression, but you knew that he knew you were bullshitting. And he makes sure you know that he knows you’re lying.

“Is that right?” He drawls, his voice syrupy slow and rich. “I thought you didn’t have a boyfriend, sweetheart.” His laugh is booming when your face drops at getting caught in your poorly made lie. “I knew you were gonna be here all alone.” His hand reaches under the gown and to the back pocket of his dark jeans, waving your phone at you with another deep laugh. Your fucking phone. When did he take it? There was one moment early in the night where you had gone upstairs to use the bathroom. Your eyes widen at the realization. “That’s right.” He observed you connecting the dots. “I’ve been here all along, sweetheart.”

“You sick fuck!” You shouted at him, jutting the sharp tip of the knife at him when he rounded the corner of the counter steadily. Your voice still wavered as you tried desperately to create this image that you’re a fighter, that you will kill to survive. “Why? Why me? I didn’t do shit to you!”

The masked man stops for a moment, staring down at you like a child stares down at a measly worm trying to make its way across the dirt before stomping on it. You can feel his heated gaze on your skin, every single inch of your skin from head to toe. You suddenly felt too exposed under his stare. 

“You see, I like my victims to be… easy, if you will. A young couple camping in the middle of the woods with no cellphone service, typical. An elderly man walking home alone at night after a hard day of work, sure. But you?” He takes another step around the counter and you automatically move the opposite way, closely calculating his precise mannerisms. “You… are the easiest prey there is known to man. A woman, all alone at home, the neighbors asleep in their beds with no clue as to what’s happening in this house. And nobody likes a nosy neighbor, right? I bet you that if you screamed as loud as you could, no one would come running.” A cold chill sends a shiver down your spine. “They’d simply peek their little heads out the window and do abso-fucking-lutely nothing.” His gruff growl at the last word makes you swallow uneasily. 

“That’s not true,” you weaky protested, shaking your head in disagreement as you choked on a wet sob in the back of your throat. Tears quickly filled the brim of your burning eyes, and you blinked the slight pain away, forcing the thick tears to roll down your cheeks. “They… They’ll come for me. And your ass will be sent to jail.”

The man stopped moving around the counter. He just stands there, watching. His head tilts to the side before straightening it. You saw the brief glint of the silver blade of his incredibly sharp knife at his hip.

“How much do you wanna bet?”

He suddenly lunges at you, barreling in your direction at full speed, completely catching you off guard. You had no time to lift your own weapon to defend yourself before his elbow is slamming down onto your wrist with such force that it makes you yell out in agonizing pain. The sudden shock of your nerves seizing up caused you to drop your knife as the blade clattered obnoxiously across the tiled flooring. A large, leather gloved hand wraps around your throat, long fingers squeezing on both sides of your neck. You grab onto his arm desperately, beating your fists down to free yourself from his brutal grasp. Your pulse is heavy and rapid under his fingers, and you’re sure he can feel it through the thick leather. He’s suddenly lifting and pushing you through the hallway. You stand helplessly on your tiptoes, digging your fingernails into the sliver of skin between the black gown and his glove. His grunt of pain is muffled underneath the mask, and he quickly throws you down to the ground, watching from above when your body lands hard. 

You gasp and cough and swallow thickly. Your throat is raw and scratchy from his grip. Your knees are on fire when you land on them to save yourself from the fall. Your hands are grabbing at the long carpet in the entryway as you try to crawl away from him. You’re freely crying now, not bothered at the fact that you’re showing him your fear. You sobbed pathetically when you hear his boots thudding loudly behind you. You were still dizzy from being choked, so you couldn’t get up fast enough to get to the backdoor.

“I expected you to put up more of a fight, sweetheart,” the man tuts in mock disappointment, watching in amusement as you weakly crawl like a wounded animal shot in the middle of the woods, trying desperately to get away from its hunter. He taps the sharpened tip of his knife against his thigh. “I guess you were all bark and no bite, huh?” When you lift your upper body to get onto your hands and knees, he presses the bottom of his rough boot into your back and nudges you hard enough to send you falling forward onto your face once again. At the sound of your feeble cry into the carpet, he sighs heavily. “You have such a pretty face, sweetheart. It’s a shame, really - having to ruin your pretty little self. But don’t worry. If I’m feeling nice enough, I’ll make it quick and maybe painless.”

You laid there, frozen in horror, as you listened to his short monologue. Suddenly, a hand wraps around your bare thigh, forcibly flipping you onto your back. The man above you waves his knife in front of your face, back and forth and back and forth, almost like a metronome. You can see your reflection in the silver blade, your eyes following the movements of the blade in a trance-like state. At a speed that amazingly surprises you, the sharp side of the blade is pressed against your throat. You stare up at him, holding your breath and awaiting his next move. He leans into your personal space, the Ghostface mask shaking you to your core as you think this will be the last thing you’ll see before you die.

“Do you know how long it’ll take you to bleed out if I make one, nice, deep cut at your carotid artery and jugular vein?” He asks you, a short, gruff laugh escaping him soon after, and you can feel his hot breath seeping through the mouth of his mask and spreading across your chin. “Five to fifteen seconds. You’ll lay here, choking on your own blood.”

With the way he’s sitting on his knees between your thighs and the way his voice gets all gruff and husky, your nerves are beginning to light itself on fire. Gritting your teeth and mustering enough strength, you begin to punch and slap at his mask-covered face. You managed to get a few good hits as he shouts angrily, grabbing your throat with his free hand when his mask finally comes off. Your eyes widen when you come face to face with your attacker. He looks down at you with a snarl on his face, his pouty lips curled and his thick eyebrows furrowed. You’re too hypnotized to care. You eagerly trace his features with your eyes, taking note of his clean shaven face, messy hair, his sun kissed skin, his strong nose, and those dark eyes of his - eyes that hold a storm of emotions, blazing with fire and rage. His snarl slowly drops from his face when he takes in your labored breathing - not from his hand around your throat - and your dilated pupils. 

“Well, well, well,” he laughs darkly, crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes and sharp canines at the corner of his upturned lips. He taps the flat side of his knife against your warm cheek, laughing again when your mouth falls open and you regretfully exhale a soft moan. “Looks like someone is desperate to get fucked by the big, bad killer.” He smirks and lowers his eyes to your chest, hidden underneath the thick sweatshirt of this so-called ‘boyfriend’ of yours. Your breathing is heavy and has picked up speed. 

“Please,” you whispered breathlessly, eyes falling shut when you felt a gloved hand slide along the outside of your bare thigh, disappearing under the sweater to skim above the waistband of your embarrassingly damp panties. “Don’t kill me…”

He looks back up at you, his own pupils dilated as well. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. Your mouth falls open and your tongue aches to lick up the offending droplet. He observes closely at the pink of your tongue when you swipe it along your bottom lip before tucking the plush flesh between your teeth. He looks into your eyes and invades your personal space again. The sharp side of his blade is barely pressed into the side of your neck. 

“I’ve watched blood drain from bodies. I’ve watched their lives fade from their eyes while fear is still held in them,” he speaks calmly, his voice no louder than a humming whisper. “Tell me, pretty thing. Why shouldn't I slit your throat from ear to ear?” He oh-so lightly drags the tip of his knife under your ear, across your throat, and to your other ear.

A shiver invades your entire body. Your nipples are incredibly hard and pointed up that you’re positive they’re poking through the sweatshirt. He holds your jaw so you don’t move your head away, the knife now resting beside your head in his tight fist. He hums in though, nostrils barely flaring as he inhales your scent. 

“Please,” you whisper brokenly again, your lips brushing against his sharp jaw when he lowers his head to nose at your own jaw. 

He lifts his head and tilts it. “You know, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to do a better job begging for your life.” His eyes are on your lips, watching the perfect shape form into a gasping moan. And then, you frantically shake your head.

“Fuck me… please,” you full on whined. Your hands stay grasping onto his arm, fingers digging into the muscle of his flesh. Your thighs fall open wider, unable to stop yourself from grinding up against the hand resting on your panty-covered mound. He gently pressed the tip of his knife under your jaw, and you automatically tilt your head back to avoid any puncture wounds. “I’ll… I’ll do anything for my life. Just please, please, please fuck me.” At the sound of your eager little voice, he decides to give you what you really want.

He lifts his upper body from your own until he’s looming above you on his knees between your thighs. Without breaking eye contact, he wordlessly removes his leather gloves and tosses them to the side. Then, it’s the long, black gown covering his entire body. When he throws it carelessly behind him, you eagerly trace his solid form with your hazy eyes. He adorns a black t-shirt that hugs his frame perfectly; tight in all the right places. The way his eyes hungrily take in your entire self is equivalent to a vicious, carnivorous wolf ready to devour a helpless, herbivorous bunny.

“Your begging sounds a lot more prettier than what I usually hear,” he grins, slowly licking his lips and taking a bite at his bottom lip when you widen your thighs and press your aching knees to your chest, fully opening yourself up for him to devour you whole. “Look at what we have here.” His eyes zero in on the wet spot of your gray panties. He uses the tip of his knife to slowly, and with a feather-like brush, circle your swollen, covered clit. “Easy, sweetheart,” he hums when you gasp. 

His baritone voice feels like scorching honey dripping all over your pliant body. The drawl he has after every syllable feels like a cold rush pouring over every nerve before the warmth starts up again. This man, whatever his name is, is going to be the death of you - metaphorically, you hope. 

When his knife taps rhythmically onto your clit, you eagerly walied, “Please, please, need it, need you, please, please.” Your hips now have a mind of their own as you grind onto the thigh closer to your dripping core. The rough fabric of his jeans and the thick muscle of his thigh against your clit has your eyes rolling back behind closed lids.

 He’s silent, but his eyes are speaking to you. They take you in, head to toe. The dark brown color of his eyes may seem bland to some people, but to you they’re the most expressive you’ve ever seen. Hunger invades them. But one glint is what shocks you, and that’s awe. They’re clear as day in his eyes when he slides the sweatshirt further up your stomach, revealing lines of skin when it stops below your breasts. His bare fingers leave trails of heat when they circle your belly button and play with the waistband of your cotton panties. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” He mumbles rhetorically, mostly to himself as if he were deep in thought. 

But you still answer him. “Fuck me like you want me.” Your voice is no louder than a whisper in the noiseless room. You slide your hands under your head and point your elbows to the ceiling. 

His lips part and his eyes widen just barely at your words. He looks down at the knife in his hand and delicately dragged the tip onto your skin, leaving faint, white lines from the light pressure. Your eyes instantly shut when the blade slides under the hip of your panties before a sharp tug yanks the blade upwards, a loud rip sounding before the cloth is cleanly cut. Your teeth sink into your trembling bottom lip when the knife drags across your stomach to the other end of your panties. The process is repeated as the cloth on your hip is cut with a sharp tug of the blade. You hold your breath in anticipation. The knife, at a snail-like pace, slides under the front of your panties, briefly pressing onto your mound before flipping the destroyed fabric down. You’re now bare under your attacker, except for your sweatshirt.

He takes his sweet time to take you in. His focus is the beauty that’s between your legs. The soft curls covering your mound, your puffy cunt lips, the faint shine from the dim light on your slick. His throat felt suddenly dry, eager to drink something, to drink from you specifically. He wonders what you taste like, how you’d react to his lips sucking your clit and his tongue deep inside you. Are you a screamer? Are you a hair puller or a back scratcher? Are you a squirter or does your pussy cream?

Your eyes open when you don’t feel his hands on your skin. When you look up at him, you notice the dark look that suddenly overtakes his expression. The hardness, thick and heavy, hidden beneath his dark jeans has you feeling butterflies within seconds. Your heart beats erratically in your ribcage. You can feel the steady throb between your legs get more intense the more you look at his bulge. You swallow thickly and lick your dry lips. Your hips shift beneath him, pussy clenching around nothing, forcing a drooling pearl of your slick to slide out of your hole and down the crack of your ass. The man’s eyes closely follow the trail.

All hell breaks loose when you decide to take the next step; spreading your thighs wider, knees pressed to your chest, a faint wet noise that both of you can hear of your slick pussy lips sliding against one another before spreading open. 

You both don’t break eye contact when the knife clatters to the ground behind him. His large hands with veins spreading up his arms move down to his black belt. The metal clinking of it coming undone has you squirming helplessly, your arms coming down to shove your hands under your knees, almost to refrain yourself from reaching out and touching this man. As his belt is undone, he doesn’t bother removing it as he finally unbuttons and pulls the zipper down. He pushes his pants down to his strong thighs to finally reveal his thickened cock. And my God, was it beautiful; perfect length and thickness, veins on the base and leading to the tip which is flushed a deep red and circumcised, a patch of curls lightly dusting his own pelvis. 

“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” his tone a teasing drawl. “You’re gonna get it good.”

He shuffles closer, one hand grasping his base while the other slides under your sweatshirt, bunching the garment around his wrist as his hand clasps around your throat. Your tits spill out from beneath the fabric, your nipples erect and sensitive from the cold air and his hardened gaze. His leaking tip slaps onto your clit repeatedly, the filthy wet noise has you blushing like a virgin. His pre-cum wets the curls at your mound. With one hand under your knee to keep you spread open and the other clutching at his arm, you have no other choice but to take what he gives.

“Look at you,” he growls, the huskiness of his voice makes you shiver. “You’re ready to get fucked by a killer, huh? What would your pathetic little boyfriend say if he walked in on you getting fucked mercilessly with a knife to your throat while you scream and squirt all over my big dick?” 

He grinds his hips up and down, forcing his cock between your pussy lips to coat himself in your drooling slick. Your bitten lips part to let out a wanton moan as your clit gets rubbed and stimulated. With furrowed brows and a snarl on his face, the man notches his leaking tip at your weeping hole, staring down at you with a feral hunger that has you feeling warm everywhere. His entire being clouds your senses; his warmth, his smell, his touch, his voice, him. It was all too overwhelming. With one last agonizingly slow swipe along your clit, his cock enters you in one quick shove. You had no time to moan as it caught you off guard before he started pistoning his hips, fucking you nice and hard at a pace that had you seeing stars, black dots, fuzzy spots, and everything in between.

The burning stretch feels so damn good, and that’s when you start moaning needily. Your mind was foggy as well as your vision. You couldn’t form any coherent sentences or utter a single word. The only sounds you can make are little ‘hhnnnh’ noises that were punched out of you repeatedly. 

“Fuck, honey,” he grunts ferociously like a wild animal, the pet name slipping out once he feels your slippery wet walls tighten around his dick, sucking him in deeper and deeper inside your cunt. He has a firm grip on your throat, his thick fingers pressing under your jaw to hold your head steady when his thrusts get more violent. 

That’s when you felt it. That unbearable pressure forming and building up in the pit of your stomach, right around where your g-spot is. You grabbed his arm frantically and dug your nails into his golden skin, not even hearing his hiss of pain or noticing the scratch marks you’re leaving etched in his skin. You couldn’t speak, let alone warn him of what’s about to happen. You had no choice but to lie there and get fucked mercilessly without having an opportunity to even breathe. He hasn’t been fucking you for even a minute. He looks down, completely hypnotized at the way you’re swallowing him whole and the way his dick glistens from your wetness. But what draws him in is the way your walls are fluttering rapidly, your pussy getting tighter and tighter that it feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

You peered up at him through heavy lidded eyes with a fucked out expression. He groans low and gravelly when a tear rolls down your temple and your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back. Suddenly, a guttural scream escapes your body, a sound he has never ever heard before and a sound you’ve never ever made - until now. Your hand is suddenly shoving at his stomach, frantically tapping at him. His eyes look between your bodies when your pussy forcefully pushes his dick out before your wetness shoots out and splashes his lower stomach and thighs. Your moans are loud and piercing as you continue squirting your orgasm out of you, your body writhing underneath his, your hands grabbing at anything you can reach, which is him. One hand desperately clutched onto his arm while the other grabbed at the back of his thigh. Your feet push his pants further down to get better access.

“Fuuuuck,” you squealed, high pitched and needy, when his cock is shoved back into you, resuming his rough, brutal pace that makes your body move up and down. If it weren’t for his hand around your throat to firmly hold you down, you’d be rubbing up the carpet from his movements.

“There we go,” he crooned, his grin mocking and arrogant. “All you needed was a good… hard… fucking?” His thrusts are so deep that it has you gasping for air. He lets go of your throat, shrugging your hand off his arm, placing his hands under knees and shoving them to your chest. He watches as your eyes roll completely back into your head, your hands scrabbling across the carpet to ground yourself. He widens his knees to get better access to your dripping cunt. “You fucking squirted all over my dick and you’re… fuck… mmhm... you’re still ready for more.”

He suddenly leans in close, throwing your legs over his arms until the back of your knees are over his elbows and his hands are on the ground on either side of you. From this position, he’s able to angle his hips in a way that allows him to reach your g-spot head-on. Your shoulders and head lift up and off the ground from the stimulation. Your toes are curled and your gasping breaths are music to his fucking ears. Hands are hastily grabbing at his shirt to yank him closer to your body. When your body lies back down, he lowers his upper body, arms tensing and aching from the weight, but he doesn’t complain, not with the way you’re reacting so beautifully.

“Imagine if… if… if I had killed you, sweetheart,” he was struggling to talk now, his words stuttered and breathless in your ear. “Fuuuck… I’d be missing out on fucking this little cunt, hm?”

Your hands grasped his neck, lifting his head up to face his beautiful face directly. He never once stopped his thrusts, only slowing down and giving you deep strokes when he looks into your tear filled, blissful eyes. Without uttering another peep, a pathetic whimper is let out before you’re yanking him down and giving him a desperate kiss - your first kiss of the night. The kiss perfectly describes him; rough, coordinated, and mind blowing. It was a messy kiss, one with twirling tongues and clashing teeth. He’s the first to break away from the breathtaking kiss, his lips swollen and pink and shining from your mixed saliva. He moves your legs from around his arms and rests his upper body on his forearms on either side of your head. His head is buried deep in your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning at your delicate smell.

“Need it,” you squeaked, your feet pushing his pants further down his ass to dig the heels of your feet into the tense muscle, eagerly pulling him in when his thrusts get sloppy and unrhythmic for a second. 

“What do you need, sweetheart?” He’s panting heavily in your neck, the heat of his breath making you feel warm and tingly all over. One of his large hands lifts up to your face, his thumb swiping at the strands of hair on your sweaty brow. 

Your hands are grabbing at his neck again. “Kiss… Kiss me, please.” You don’t care how needy you’re feeling at this moment. You need to feel his lips and tongue on yours again. “Dave… please, please, baby.” 

He immediately perks his head up, slowing his hips to a deep grind while your hips twitch and your thighs tremble around his own. His hooked nose gently brushes against yours, feeling like a butterfly's wings fluttering lightly on your skin. You look up at your husband with an expression of awe and desire, desperate to taste him again. When his lips are on yours, you feel like crying and flying. The weight of his body, the warmth of his skin, the thickness of his cock buried deep inside your weeping cunt; it’s enough to make you actually cry. Letting out a choked sob, your fingers are buried in the sweaty strands of his hair.

“Come on, honey,” he hums, eyes never straying from your own. “Do it for me one more time.” His thrusts are getting faster now, his thighs slapping against yours, his balls damp from your wetness and the dark curls at his pelvis grinding into your clit deliciously. “One… more… fuck-ing… time.”

When he lifts his sweatshirt adorning your body further up your chest and wraps his pouty lips around one of your erect nipples, sucking and lightly plucking them with his teeth, you arch your back beautifully and tighten your thighs completely around him, forcing his cock to stay inside you. Your mouth falls open in a wordless scream as you plant one foot on the ground and keep your other pressed into his ass. You hump against him, getting your clit rubbed over and over again on his pelvis. You can feel his cock twitching against your swelling walls, the tingling sensation only increasing when Dave grinds so deep inside you that your eyes roll back and you let out a final scream, one that’s hoarse and almost demonic. But he fucking loves it, each and every sound you make no matter how quiet or how loud. 

“Out, out, out!” You practically yell at him, kicking your legs against his thighs and frantically shoving at him to lift up. He does as you asked, quickly pulling out and staring in awe as wetness spurts out of you and onto his lower stomach and thighs again, little droplets sliding down his faint happy trail and dampening his dark curls around his cock.

His hand is quick to wrap around his base, stroking up and down at a quick pace, using your wetness as the perfect lubrication for the smooth movements. You keep your thighs spread open, allowing him to see your pussy in all its glory; your gaping hole with your clear cum dribbling down, your labia and pussy lips allowing your swollen clit to be shown, and the hair on your mound dark and damp. The throbbing up his base and around his tip increase when his eyes wander up your body and at your exposed tits. Your nipples darkened from his nibbling sucks, little love bites marking your soft and supple flesh. His eyes trail higher and higher until he looks right at your face. The teasing grin you wear on your lips, the blissful expression you have, along with the noticeable light in your shiny eyes has his tip leaking profusely.

“Where… mmph… do you want me, sweetheart?” His breathing becomes labored and his stomach and thighs tense when he reaches the brink of his orgasm. His kiss swollen lips part to repeat the question, but the words die down in his throat when you reach down to spread your pussy lips open and clench around nothing. That was enough to send Dave over the edge as he quickly shuffles closer and shoves his cock right back inside your delicious cunt.

His head is thrown back, showcasing his bobbing Adam’s apple as his choked moans are struggling to get released from the power his orgasm holds. You feel the warm, thick spurts of his cum shooting inside you, coating your walls in the sticky, creamy liquid. You watch him closely. You’re sure that if you saw yourself from someone else’s eyes, you’d see hearts floating above your head. You watch his chest move up and down at a quick pace as he breathes in deeply through his nose to regulate his breathing. When the twitching of his cock comes to an end, Dave gapes at his cum oozing out of you slowly, even though he was still snug inside of your pussy. Did he really cum that much? 

“Fuck,” is all he can say.

When you let out a soft laugh under the palm of your hand, he looks at you with a crooked grin, the little dimple on his cheek deepening when his grin turns into a beaming smile. He carefully pulls out of you, a sopping wet, squelching sound soon follows. You close your thighs in embarrassment and swat at Dave when he lets out a gruff chuckle. With his pants still down at his knees and his sweatshirt still pushed up your chest, he takes his time to admire you. You flush under his gaze. 

“What?” You ask him, your voice quiet and shy. 

He moves closer to you on his knees, bending down low to brush his lips against yours teasingly. Your eyes fall shut and your palms cup his clean shaven face. “You just blow me away,” he tells you quietly, almost embarrassed at his little confession to you, his wife. 

You breathlessly giggle and bite down on your lip to refrain from bursting into happy laughter. You open your eyes and look up at your husband who stares at you with pure love and a hint of hunger in his eyes. “Ditto,” you whisper tenderly to him, using one hand to push up his flattened, sweaty hair. 

The second you both lean in to kiss, rapid knocking comes from your front door. You jolt from the sudden pounding and loudness, your heart jumping from the brief fright. Dave looks down at you with confusion and you stare up at him equally as confused. Your name is shouted from the other side of the door, and you recognize it as one of your neighbors next door, an elderly woman named Patricia, or Patty. She shouts your name again, this time jiggling the door knob frantically while pounding her fist into your door. You and Dave are hurriedly getting up from the ground, worried that something had happened to Patty or her husband Jerry. You can hear Jerry also shouting your name behind the door as he moves up and down your porch, knocking on the windows loudly. You limp over to the door, hissing and wincing at the strong ache settling between and around your thighs. When you rush to unlock the door, you can feel Dave’s presence behind you. You hear him grunt quietly, assuming that he’s tucking himself back into his boxers.

When your name is shouted once more, you yank the door open and look back and forth from Patty to Jerry. The fear and worry is quickly replaced with relief when they see you standing there, alive.

“We thought you were dead!” Patty nearly shrieked, quickly pulling you down so she can wrap her arms around you and caress your messy hair. “We heard screams coming from here and banging and we thought something happened to you!” She pulls back and holds you at arms length, her eyes scanning you for any injuries. 

“Uh,” you stuttered and gaped at Dave, wordlessly begging him to say something, to come up with some stupid excuse. But Jerry beat him to it. 

“Darlin’,” Jerry clears his throat and pats his wife’s shoulder gently with a wrinkled hand while he pinches the bridge of his nose with the other, not looking at either you or your husband. “Seems they were a little… um… busy.”

Patty looks up at him in confusion, slowly removing her hands from arms before her eyes scan you once again. She finally understands what her husband was talking about. Your bare thighs and disheveled hair. Dave’s undone belt and pants that are sliding down his hips a little, along with his own disheveled hair and scratch marks on his neck from your desperate grasp. Patty looks behind you both and into your home. Her eyes spot your destroyed, cut up panties and the crooked carpet in the hallway. 

“Oh!” She gasps and covers her face in embarrassment, laughing to herself and shaking her head. “Well… glad to say you’re doing well, honey.” She lowers her hands and pats your own gently, still laughing when she notices Jerry looking at the neighborhood street with his hands on his hips and his back facing the three of you. “You both have a good night, yeah?” 

“Our apologies, Patty,” you told her, the feeling of guilt so overwhelming from causing an elderly couple such fear. “We’ll be sure to… keep it down. Right, Dave?” You elbowed his side. 

“Yes, of course. Again, we’re terribly sorry for scaring you folks,” he tells Patty, lowering down to her small height to give her wrinkly cheek a small kiss and a rub on her arm. “You alright, Jerry?” 

You watch in amusement when Jerry nods his head wordlessly, never turning around as he gives you both a thumbs up over his shoulder. Patty jokingly rolls her eyes, gives Dave an affectionate pat on the hand, and turns back around to hold her husband by the elbow to carefully step down the stairs. You both watch them make their way to their house next door and finally go back inside once the elderly couple shut their door. You lean against your own and huff out a sigh.

“Oh, come on, honey. It wasn’t that bad,” he tells you, his grin never falling from his stupidly handsome face.

“Dave,” you exasperatedly say, motioning around with your hands animatedly. “My sex noises nearly gave our 90-year-old neighbors a goddamn heart attack!” 

You’re caught off guard when he suddenly crowds your space, placing one hand beside your head as his arm wraps tight around your waist to lift you with a familiar type of strength that is always surprising. You let out a shocked gasp and quickly wrap your thighs around his hips and your arms around his broad shoulders. Your head knocks back into the door with a thud. The sweatshirt bunches around your hips as you feel his hardness against your still wet pussy. Biting at your bottom lip, you keep your eyes closed when you feel his cock slide against your cunt, coating himself in your mixed cum before shoving himself inside for a third time that night. 

“Lets see if I can have you make those noises again,” he grunts against your throat. And with that, he begins to fuck you again. 

[lastsonlost]

BECAUSE THE CORONAVIRUS IS JUST HURTING FEMINIST AND ONLY FEMINISTS AND ABSOLUTELY NO ONE ELSE...

..........

Enough already. When people try to be cheerful about social distancing and working from home, noting that William Shakespeare and Isaac Newton did some of their best work while England was ravaged by the plague, there is an obvious response: Neither of them had child-care responsibilities.

Shakespeare spent most of his career in London, where the theaters were, while his family lived in Stratford-upon-Avon. During the plague of 1606, the playwright was lucky to be spared from the epidemic—his landlady died at the height of the outbreak—and his wife and two adult daughters stayed safely in the Warwickshire countryside. Newton, meanwhile, never married or had children. He saw out the Great Plague of 1665–6 on his family’s estate in the east of England, and spent most of his adult life as a fellow at Cambridge University, where his meals and housekeeping were provided by the college.

For those with caring responsibilities, an infectious-disease outbreak is unlikely to give them time to write King Lear or develop a theory of optics. A pandemic magnifies all existing inequalities (even as politicians insist this is not the time to talk about anything other than the immediate crisis). Working from home in a white-collar job is easier; employees with salaries and benefits will be better protected; self-isolation is less taxing in a spacious house than a cramped apartment. But one of the most striking effects of the coronavirus will be to send many couples back to the 1950s.

Across the world, women’s independence will be a silent victim of the pandemic.

Purely as a physical illness, the coronavirus appears to affect women less severely. But in the past few days, the conversation about the pandemic has broadened: We are not just living through a public-health crisis, but an economic one. As much of normal life is suspended for three months or more, job losses are inevitable. At the same time, school closures and household isolation are moving the work of caring for children from the paid economy—nurseries, schools, babysitters—to the unpaid one. The coronavirus smashes up the bargain that so many dual-earner couples have made in the developed world: We can both work, because someone else is looking after our children. Instead, couples will have to decide which one of them takes the hit.

Many stories of arrogance are related to this pandemic. Among the most exasperating is the West’s failure to learn from history: the Ebola crisis in three African countries in 2014; Zika in 2015–6; and recent outbreaks of SARS, swine flu, and bird flu. Academics who studied these episodes found that they had deep, long-lasting effects on gender equality. “Everybody’s income was affected by the Ebola outbreak in West Africa,” Julia Smith, a health-policy researcher at Simon Fraser University, told The New York Times this month, but “men’s income returned to what they had made pre-outbreak faster than women’s income.” The distorting effects of an epidemic can last for years, Clare Wenham, an assistant professor of global-health policy at the London School of Economics, told me. “We also saw declining rates of childhood vaccination [during Ebola].” Later, when these children contracted preventable diseases, their mothers had to take time off work.

At an individual level, the choices of many couples over the next few months will make perfect economic sense. What do pandemic patients need? Looking after. What do self-isolating older people need? Looking after. What do children kept home from school need? Looking after. All this looking after—this unpaid caring labor—will fall more heavily on women, because of the existing structure of the workforce. “It’s not just about social norms of women performing care roles; it’s also about practicalities,” Wenham added. “Who is paid less? Who has the flexibility?”

According to the British government’s figures, 40 percent of employed women work part-time, compared with only 13 percent of men. In heterosexual relationships, women are more likely to be the lower earners, meaning their jobs are considered a lower priority when disruptions come along. And this particular disruption could last months, rather than weeks. Some women’s lifetime earnings will never recover. With the schools closed, many fathers will undoubtedly step up, but that won’t be universal.

Despite the mass entry of women into the workforce during the 20th century, the phenomenon of the “second shift” still exists. Across the world, women—including those with jobs—do more housework and have less leisure time than their male partners. Even memes about panic-buying acknowledge that household tasks such as food shopping are primarily shouldered by women. “I’m not afraid of COVID-19 but what is scary, is the lack of common sense people have,” reads one of the most popular tweets about the coronavirus crisis. “I’m scared for people who actually need to go to the store & feed their fams but Susan and Karen stocked up for 30 years.” The joke only works because “Susan” and “Karen”—stand-in names for suburban moms—are understood to be responsible for household management, rather than, say, Mike and Steve.

Look around and you can see couples already making tough decisions on how to divide up this extra unpaid labor. When I called Wenham, she was self-isolating with two small children; she and her husband were alternating between two-hour shifts of child care and paid work. That is one solution; for others, the division will run along older lines. Dual-income couples might suddenly find themselves living like their grandparents, one homemaker and one breadwinner. “My spouse is a physician in the emergency dept, and is actively treating #coronavirus patients. We just made the difficult decision for him to isolate & move into our garage apartment for the foreseeable future as he continues to treat patients,” wrote the Emory University epidemiologist Rachel Patzer, who has a three-week-old baby and two young children. “As I attempt to home school my kids (alone) with a new baby who screams if she isn’t held, I am worried about the health of my spouse and my family.”

Single parents face even harder decisions: While schools are closed, how do they juggle earning and caring? No one should be nostalgic for the “1950s ideal” of Dad returning to a freshly baked dinner and freshly washed children, when so many families were excluded from it, even then. And in Britain today, a quarter of families are headed by a single parent, more than 90 percent of whom are women. Closed schools make their life even harder.

Other lessons from the Ebola epidemic were just as stark—and similar, if perhaps smaller, effects will be seen during this crisis in the developed world. School closures affected girls’ life chances, because many dropped out of education. (A rise in teenage-pregnancy rates exacerbated this trend.) Domestic and sexual violence rose. And more women died in childbirth because resources were diverted elsewhere. “There’s a distortion of health systems, everything goes towards the outbreak,” said Wenham, who traveled to west Africa as a researcher during the Ebola crisis. “Things that aren’t priorities get canceled. That can have an effect on maternal mortality, or access to contraception.” The United States already has appalling statistics in this area compared with other rich countries, and black women there are twice as likely to die in childbirth as white women.

For Wenham, the most striking statistic from Sierra Leone, one of the countries worst affected by Ebola, was that from 2013 to 2016, during the outbreak, more women died of obstetric complications than the infectious disease itself. But these deaths, like the unnoticed caring labor on which the modern economy runs, attract less attention than the immediate problems generated by an epidemic. These deaths are taken for granted. In her book Invisible Women, Caroline Criado Perez notes that 29 million papers were published in more than 15,000 peer-reviewed titles around the time of the Zika and Ebola epidemics, but less than 1 percent explored the gendered impact of the outbreaks. Wenham has found no gender analysis of the coronavirus outbreak so far; she and two co-authors have stepped into the gap to research the issue.

The evidence we do have from the Ebola and Zika outbreaks should inform the current response. In both rich and poor countries, campaigners expect domestic-violence rates to rise during lockdown periods. Stress, alcohol consumption, and financial difficulties are all considered triggers for violence in the home, and the quarantine measures being imposed around the world will increase all three. The British charity Women’s Aid said in a statement that it was “concerned that social distancing and self-isolation will be used as a tool of coercive and controlling behaviour by perpetrators, and will shut down routes to safety and support.”

Researchers, including those I spoke with, are frustrated that findings like this have not made it through to policy makers, who still adopt a gender-neutral approach to pandemics. They also worry that opportunities to collect high-quality data which will be useful for the future are being missed. For example, we have little information on how viruses similar to the coronavirus affect pregnant women—hence the conflicting advice during the current crisis—or, according to Susannah Hares, a senior policy fellow at the Center for Global Development, sufficient data to build a model for when schools should reopen.

We shouldn’t make that mistake again. Grim as it is to imagine now, further epidemics are inevitable, and the temptation to argue that gender is a side issue, a distraction from the real crisis, must be resisted. What we do now will affect the lives of millions of women and girls in future outbreaks.

The coronavirus crisis will be global and long-lasting, economic as well as medical. However, it also offers an opportunity. This could be the first outbreak where gender and sex differences are recorded, and taken into account by researchers and policy makers. For too long, politicians have assumed that child care and elderly care can be “soaked up” by private citizens—mostly women—effectively providing a huge subsidy to the paid economy. This pandemic should remind us of the true scale of that distortion.

Wenham supports emergency child-care provision, economic security for small-business owners, and a financial stimulus paid directly to families. But she isn’t hopeful, because her experience suggests that governments are too short-termist and reactive. “Everything that's happened has been predicted, right?” she told me. “As a collective academic group, we knew there would be an outbreak that came out of China, that shows you how globalization spreads disease, that’s going to paralyze financial systems, and there was no pot of money ready to go, no governance plan … We knew all this, and they didn't listen. So why would they listen to something about women?”

Remember this article the next time a politician brings up the draft again...

because I remember the last reaction.

[soyforramen]

Old Times

Gladys hadn’t been back in town for a month before Alice showed up on her front porch at four in the morning, tears streaking down her cheeks (makeup looking just as good as when she’d applied it that morning; gotta love a woman who can afford Avon).  A wide-eyed teenager, the spiting image of a younger, more precocious Alice, tagged along behind her.  Without hesitation Gladys ground her cigarette out on the arm of the rocker (saved from Mr. O’Neil’s Tuesday trash pile) and pulled them both inside.

Without a word spoken, Gladys went to change the sheets in her bedroom.  Alice and the girl spoke softly in the kitchen, and try as she might, Gladys couldn’t make out a single word.  Whatever it was, it had been bad enough to bring Alice here and not one of her fancy, high-society friends’ houses (probably put out jello molds and finger sandwiches and food that tasted like creamed dirt).  Something big enough to ruin the entire Cooper household.

The pillowcase hung from the bottom of the pillow, wrapped around its middle in a suffocating grip, as she realized Hal hadn’t been with them.  In fact, she hadn’t seen Hal and Alice in the same place since she’d moved back to town (long-since overstayed, parents basement too crowded with two bickering teens and three shifts at the grocery store, g.e.d. just out of reach).  She’d exchanged enough nods with Hal in the frozen dinner aisle, both pretending the space between them wasn’t mired in ancient history and still raw rivalry.  Her path with Alice was limited to the high school drop-off lane, the one public gesture of maternal affection Jughead still allowed

Now, though.  She sighed.  It wasn’t uncommon for the women around here to lean on one another for comfort and safety.  Sad, really, how often that came on the heels of the men not living up to even the lowest standards.  

After a second thought, she fluffed up pillows and headed back towards the kitchen.  Coming towards her in the claustrophobic hallway came Alice and her child (Betty, she realized with a flash of deja vu, a reminder of when she and Jughead were the ones on the other end of this), and Gladys flattened herself against the wall.

“Thanks, Ms. Jones,” Betty murmured, her eyes downcast.

Gladys hadn’t the heart to tell her she hadn’t been a Jones for almost fifteen years.  

“Not a problem at all, darlin’.  What do you think about strawberry pancakes in the morning?”

Betty gave her a watery smile and Alice shooed her into the bedroom.  The door closed behind them, and Gladys let out a heavy breath.  There was always something going wrong around here.  You expected it, but it still hurt to see it happen.

Filled with a nervous energy (live wired and on fire, as her daddy used to say before the tar and the coal got to him; put a cork in that and you could power the whole nothern half of the states), Gladys flitted around the house, straightening and tucking and dusting, nothing seeming to be enough anymore.  She had another two hours before she had to be at her first shift at the factory down the road.  Then again, maybe she’d return that long ago favor and call in sick.  After all, she was entitled to a few days here and there (nothing like the dump in toledo where they squeezed every drop of your soul, pennies on the dollar, and still demanded more).

Just as she was running a cloth over the television set (only three channels, black and white; older than either of her children who preferred leeching ole’ henry’s wifi instead of -), the bedroom door shut quietly.  Gladys straightened and waited for Alice to appear.  When their eyes met, Alice’s stoic, no-nonsense rock solid mask crumbled into a mess of tears and grief.

“He’s -“

Poor gal couldn’t even speak properly anymore.  Whatever Hal’d done, it was enough to knock the sense out of Alice, and that was a scary enough prospect on its own.  She hadn’t been that thrown for a loop since they’d raided (stole) Mantle’s stash of E (curled up like kittens, high in the dusty sunlight on the trailer floor, alice laying out her future with hal and not her…).

Gladys quieted her and lead Alice to the love seat (third-hand from earl and katie, bless their hearts even though it did smell like that damn cat).  Alice tried to apologize for the interruption, but Gladys refused to let her.  Jughead she didn’t have to worry about - boy slept like a brick in a tornado - and J.B. was at a sleepover with some of her friends (best friends on the first day of school, always did get her daddy’s better traits, while jug soured down into his old records and writing, lost in his own world, too much like his mama to make anything of it).

Once Alice was settled, Gladys poured out a shot of rum and set it on the coffee table along with a box of tissues.  A few steps back, and Gladys was in the kitchen to give Alice a modicum of peace in the tiny trailer.  She poured a glass of water and set it next to the empty shot glass.

“Another one?  I have whiskey, too.”

Alice shook her head, a crumbled tissue in her hand halfway shredded to hell and back already.  On the table lay three more (three bucks a pop here, can you believe) and Gladys couldn’t help but want that to be the remnants of Hal’s body.  

“Hal, he -“ Alice’s words were cut off with a gut wrenching sob, and Gladys rushed to her.

Like she did when the kids woke up from their nightmares, she murmured platitudes and soft words, her arms wrapped around Alice in a cocoon of safety.  After a good long cry (glad she still wore waterproof, cheap, drugstore mascara would have ruined the fabric, though the concealer would do hell on the blouse), Alice steadied herself.

Despite her hair falling out of its unnatural wave, despite the botchy cheeks, red eyes, and snotty nose, Gladys was still struck by how well Alice carried herself.  Likely an armor built up having to suppress anger and frustration in this ticky-tacky town (hoa’s, pta’s, cya’s).  A rose of anger bloomed on her cheeks sent Gladys rocking back on her heels, a thrum of excitement rushing through her.

“I suppose you’ve heard about our town’s little problem,” Alice said, still speaking in polite euphemisms and innuendos.  She reached for the glass of water and primly cleared her throat (cats and spots, zebras and strips, snakes and scales; once, always).

“Depends on which one you mean,” Gladys said.  

She was being sarcastic, she knew, but it was the truth.  Riverdale hadn’t changed much from when they were growing up, damn whatever bullshit Hiram and his developers were trying to sell.  It still had the same pristine front, picture perfect suburban life style, full of well respected men trying to save the village green from its own preservation society, but now the fetid foundation it had been built upon was bubbling out from the seams.  The drugs, gangs, and murders were more visible now, no longer brushed under the railroad tracks into the Southside of town.

Hell, the only new thing about it seemed to be the mafia trying to gain a foothold.  And Gladys had her own plans on how to deal with that.

Mostly, though, she’d missed being able to push Alice’s buttons (eyes narrowed, tongue beneath her teeth, a flash of heat in a pan), to get a rise from her so she was the center of her focus.  If nothing else, it drew Alice’s attention away from her grief at hand.  

“But, if you’re talking about that black hood idiot,” Gladys drawled, wincing at the pins and needles attacking her as she stood, “then I’ve heard a bit.”

“Yes, well.”  Alice cleared her throat and looked away.  “It turns out you were right.  About Hal.”

“Oh?”

Gladys let it hang in the air.  It wasn’t often that Alice Cooper, nee Smith, admitted to being wrong about anything, especially when it came to her life choices.  And yet the juxtaposition of the two - the Black Hood and Hal - had caught her attention like a hook in a trout’s belly.

“About -?”

“About Hal,” Alice snapped.

She stood to pace the thin carpet of the trailer, her hands wrapped tight around her arms, the pastel green cardigan wrinkling under her fingers.  

“He’s been going around these past few months like a god damned fool, playing at being an avenging angel, murdering people who he thought deserved it.  I can’t believe I bought his lie about going bowling. The man can’t even lift a lawnmower, let alone a bowling ball.”

Gladys sat down on the love seat, one leg thrown onto the coffee table and watched Alice stew in front of her.  It was a mirror image of fifteen years ago, almost to the day.  She gently touched the corner of her eye, still bearing a white scar, and cursed the day she’d ever met that man.

“And then the bastard has the audacity to say that our children need to be purified.  That I need to be purified.  It was bad enough that he sent that letter to Polly, what he did to Betty -“

Alice stopped and tugged at her hair (bottle blonde to cover up the slow, steady march of time; at least a week’s worth of gladys’ pay for vanity every month).  Gladys stood and guided Alice back to the love seat.

“How about you start from the beginning?”

Another stream of tears, this time borne of frustration and anger, slipped down Alice’s cheeks as she dove head first into the long tale.  Hal always had thought himself above the rest of the town (secret son, hidden away from the world) even though his own sins bore bitter fruit of their own (alice angry and self-destructive in senior year; drunk on the floor; od’ed in the bathroom; blood running down wrists).   Somehow he’d managed to fuel that into something more productive - a picture perfect nuclear family and modest but plentiful business - until he finally didn’t.  

The first murder attempt, then the second, third, and fourth followed, no longer attempts.  Quit murders in the surrounding counties that went with only a few murmurs of disapproval.  Even his own family hadn’t been immune; daughters, tortured and deceived by the man meant to protect them from such things (kids of all things; for crissakes was nothing sacred?.

And Alice…

When she was done with her macabre tale, ending in Hal’s entrapment of his family and their violent escape, Gladys let out a low whistle.

“Well.  Shit.”

Alice let out a wet, wry laugh.  She curled her legs up under her and hugged a throw pillow tight (bought on a whim at a yard sale - two’fer deal she’d haggled; matched the lace curtains jb couldn’t help but make fun of).  Gladys stood and walked towards where her father’s urn sat on the mantle, a place of honor in a family who had little to do with ghosts of the past.

“What do you want to do about it?” Gladys asked.  

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached in an pulled out a rusted Altoids tin and a lighter.  When Alice caught sight of it she let out a real laugh this time, one that drew memories of simpler, happier times when it had just been the two of them against the world.  Wonder Woman and Sarah Conner, united together.  Until they grew up and out of middle school dreams and into the real world where bills piled up and mouths had to be fed.  

“You know we’re not in high school, right?”

Gladys grinned and fell onto the love seat next to her.  She popped open the tin and held it out to Alice.

“Do you want to do the honors?  You always were better at it than I ever was.”

Alice chewed her lip, the implications and scandal of what Gladys was proposing flashed across her eyes.  It was easy enough to guess the arguments against it, the same old ones she’d heard before (what if your mom/daughter/sister finds out you keep that in there? she’ll be more pissed that she didn’t find it sooner), but her hand was steady when she took the tin. Gladys watched her fingers work, long thin fingers still trapped by a band of gold.  The ring of a promise that fell flat and brought with it a hell of a right-hook in the end.

As she watched, Gladys let her mind wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t allowed themselves to be torn apart in high school.  If she’d only beaten the truth out of Hal in junior year when Alice vanished.  If only, if only, if only.

“What I want,” Alice said with a finality, the lid snapping shut a punctuation to her decision, “is to rip his guts out and feed them to him while that harpy mother of his watches.”

Gladys flicked the lighter, the flame dancing around the end of the joint.  Her eyes didn’t move from Alice’s lips as she took a hit.  Lines ebbed and faded, reminders of their time spent apart, waves of years and youth wasted.  In the poor ventilation of the trailer, the smoke wrapped them in a thin cocoon of safety, a gauzy curtain to shield them against the reality of their choices.

“Might have to lay a tarp down, but I know a few guys.”

The phrase sent Alice into a fit of giggles (ask freddie and fp, they know some guys) and Gladys shushed her with a crooked smile, reminding her that Betty lay sleeping not forty feet away.  Alice took another took and blew the smoke into Gladys’ face, a ribbon that caressed and teased her skin

“Or we could take care of it ourselves.”

“Just like old times?”

“Just like old times.”

(A few months later found Jughead and Betty at Pop’s working on a school project under Gladys’ critical eye.  Jughead, used to his mother’s hovering nature, enjoyed the free fries she dropped off between customers; Betty, it seemed, was far more perturbed by the woman’s sudden closeness with her mother.  It wasn’t until they were writing about Lady McBeth  (‘out damn spot’ seemed to Jughead less of a guilt ridden complex after this Black Hood business and more of an attempt at an evidentiary coverup) that he spoke on a subject that had been bothering him for a few weeks.

“Doesn’t it seem odd?”

Betty hummed and continued to write.  “What seems odd?”

“My father disappears three months before my mother leaves town, never to be seen again.  We come back, and three months later your dad disappears.  And each time, our mothers renewed their friendship just weeks before.”

Any goodwill Betty might have held towards Jughead froze quickly at the implications in his words.  Her fingers gripped the mechanical pencil hard enough her knuckles went white and the plastic cracked.  

“My father was a serial killer,” she snapped.  Blooms of anger rose on her checks and Jughead shifted under her glare.  “It’s not surprising that he’d run away after trying to kill his wife and his daughter in their own home.”

Cowed, Jughead picked at the lukewarm fries.  Her words didn’t change his mind, didn’t move his suspicions a single degree, but it did quiet his need to pry further into her opinion.

The matter was dropped as Macbeth and his realm descended further into madness.)

[lesbianspn]

1x01 “Pilot”: SPN With Lesbians

Changed from men to women:

- Dana Winchester - Samantha Winchester aka “Sammie”/“Sam” - Jean Winchester - Azazel(’s vessel) - Josie Welch - Others: Tammy Squire, Deputy Jaffe, Luisa, Motel Clerk, Deputy Hein

Stayed as women:

- Mary Winchester - Jessica Moore - Constance Welch - Amy Hein

Original transcript

PROLOGUE

EXT. HOUSE – NIGHT

 Lawrence, Kansas

22 years ago

 Crickets chirp. A large deciduous tree with no leaves stands outside one of several suburban homes.

 INT. NURSERY – NIGHT

 A WOMAN, MARY WINCHESTER, wearing a white nightgown, carries a SMALL CHILD, her daughter DANA, into a dark room.

 MARY

Come on, let's say good night to your sister.

MARY turns on the lights: it's the nursery of a BABY, SAMANTHA, who is lying in her crib and looking over at MARY and DANA. MARY sets DANA down. DANA leans over the side of the crib and kisses SAMANTHA on the forehead.

 DANA

'Night, Sam.

 MARY leans over SAMANTHA as well.

 MARY

Good night, love.

 MARY brushes SAMANTHA's hair back and kisses her forehead.

 WOMAN

Hey, Dana.

 DANA turns. The WOMAN in the doorway wearing a USMC T-shirt is JEAN. DANA rushes over to her.

 DANA

Mommy!

 JEAN

Hey, darlin’.

 JEAN scoops DANA up.

 JEAN

So what do you think? You think Sammie's ready to toss around a football yet?

 DANA shakes her head, laughing.

 DANA

No, Mommy.

 JEAN laughs.

 JEAN

No.

 MARY passes JEAN and DANA on the way out of the room.

 MARY

You got her?

 JEAN

I got her.

 JEAN hugs DANA closer.

 JEAN

Sweet dreams, Sammie.

 JEAN carries DANA out of the room, flipping off the lights. SAMANTHA watches them go, gurgling, then tries to reach her toes.

 The baseball-themed mobile above SAMANTHA's crib begins to spin on its own while SAMANTHA watches. The transportation-themed clock on the wall ticks, ticks, stops. The moon-shaped nightlight flickers.

 INT. MASTER BEDROOM – NIGHT

 Lights flicker on a baby monitor sitting on a nightstand next to a photo of MARY and JEAN. Strange noises come through the monitor. MARY, asleep in bed, stirs. She turns on the light on the nightstand.

 MARY

Jean?

 MARY turns: she's alone. She gets up.

 INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT

 MARY walks down the hall to SAMANTHA's nursery. JEAN, seen only in silhouette, stands over SAMANTHA's crib.

 MARY

Jean? Is she hungry?

 JEAN turns her head.

 WOMAN

Shhh.

 MARY

All right.

 MARY heads back down the hallway. The light by the stairs is flickering. MARY frowns and goes to tap at it till the light steadies.

 MARY

Hm.

 More flickering light is coming from downstairs: MARY investigates. A war movie is on TV and JEAN has fallen asleep watching it. If JEAN is here, MARY realizes, then the WOMAN upstairs cannot be JEAN and must be a danger. She runs back upstairs.

 MARY

Sammie! Sammie!

 MARY enters SAMANTHA's nursery and stops short.

 INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

 Upstairs, MARY screams. JEAN wakes up.

 JEAN

Mary?

 JEAN scrambles out of the chair.

 JEAN

Mary!

 JEAN runs upstairs.

 INT. NURSERY – NIGHT

 JEAN bursts through the closed door of the nursery.

 JEAN

Mary.

 The room is quiet and appears empty except for SAMANTHA awake in her crib and JEAN. JEAN glances around and pushes down the side of SAMANTHA's crib.

 JEAN

Hey, Sammie. You okay?

 Something dark drips next to SAMANTHA. JEAN touches it. Two more drops land on the back of JEAN's hand. It looks like blood. JEAN looks up. MARY is sprawled across the ceiling, the stomach of her nightgown red with blood, staring at JEAN and struggling to breathe. JEAN collapses onto the floor, staring at MARY.

 JEAN

No! Mary!

 MARY bursts into flame. The fire spreads over the ceiling. JEAN stares, frozen. SAMANTHA wails. JEAN, reminded she's not alone, gets up and scoops SAMANTHA out of her crib and rushes out of the room.

 INT. HALLWAY – NIGHT

 DANA is awake and coming to investigate.

 DANA

Mommy!

 JEAN shoves SAMANTHA at DANA.

 JEAN

Take your sister outside as fast as you can and don't look back! Now, Dana, go!

 DANA turns and runs. JEAN turns back to the nursery.

 JEAN

Mary!

 The entire room is on fire. MARY herself can barely be seen.

 JEAN

No!

 EXT. HOUSE – NIGHT

 DANA runs outside, holding SAMANTHA.

 DANA

It's okay, Sammie.

 DANA turns to look up at SAMANTHA's window, which is lit with gold.

 JEAN runs outside, scoops up DANA and SAMANTHA, and carries them both away.

 JEAN

I gotcha.

 Fire explodes out of SAMANTHA's nursery window.

 EXT. HOUSE – NIGHT, LATER

 The Lawrence fire department has arrived. A FIREFIGHTER gets out of a fire truck and takes over at the gauges for another firefighter.

 FIREFIGHTER

I got it. You go hold the line up.

 The second firefighter goes to the back of the truck and takes a hose from a third firefighter. That firefighter takes the hose towards the house where a fourth firefighter is spraying through SAMANTHA's nursery window. A paramedic opens the back of an ambulance. A POLICE OFFICER waves some neighbors back.

 OFFICER

Stay back. You have to stay back.

 Across the street from the house, JEAN and DANA sit on the hood of JEAN's Impala, JEAN holding SAMANTHA. JEAN looks up at the remnants of the fire.

 ACT ONE

Stanford University

Present Day

 It is 31 Oct 2005.

 "Gasoline" by Ginger begins to play.

 APARTMENT

INT. BEDROOM – DAY

 YOUNG WOMAN

Sam!

 The YOUNG WOMAN, JESS, comes around a corner; she is wearing a sexy-nurse costume and adjusting her hat. The photo of MARY and JEAN from earlier is on the dresser.

 JESS

Get a move on, would you?

 MUSIC

I've been shot from a cannon

 JESS

We were supposed to be there like fifteen minutes ago.

 JESS walks off.

 JESS

Sam!

 MUSIC

I'm a human cannonball

 JESS

You coming or what?

 A YOUNG WOMAN pokes her head around the corner; this is SAMANTHA. She's wearing jeans and three shirts, not a costume.

 SAMANTHA

Do I have to?

 JESS

Yes!

 MUSIC

I'm gonna fly high

 JESS

It'll be fun.

 SAMANTHA comes into the room.

 JESS

And where's your costume?

 MUSIC

I'm gonna fall fall fall

 SAMANTHA laughs and ducks her head.

 SAMANTHA

You know how I feel about Halloween.

 PARTY

INT. BAR – NIGHT

 Classic's "What Cha Gonna Do" begins to play.

 MUSIC

Show me whatcha gonna do

Yeah whatcha gonna do

Are you trying to get in

Yeah whatcha gonna do

 The bar is decorated for Halloween (including a gargoyle with cobwebs and a baseball hat that says "GET NAKED"). Someone pours someone else a shot. Everyone is in costume.

 MUSIC

Are you gonna ride

 JESS raises a glass as a YOUNG WOMAN in a ghoul costume, LUISA, comes up to the table where SAMANTHA and JESS are. SAMANTHA is still not in costume.

 JESS

So here's to Sam—

 MUSIC

Baby

 JESS

—and her awesome LSAT victory.

 SAMANTHA

All right, all right, it's not that big a deal.

 JESS, SAMANTHA, and LUISA clink glasses.

 JESS

Yeah, she acts all humble.

 JESS

But she scored a one seventy-four.

 LUISA drinks her shot and so does SAMANTHA.

 LUISA

Is that good?

 JESS

Scary good.

 JESS drinks.

 LUISA

So there you go. You are a first-round draft pick. You can go to any law school you want!

 LUISA sits next to SAMANTHA.

 R.D. CALL

 SAMANTHA

Actually, I got an interview here. Monday. If it goes okay I think I got a shot at a full ride next year.

 JESS

Hey. It's gonna go great.

 SAMANTHA

It better.

 LUISA

How does it feel to be the golden boy of your family?

 SAMANTHA

Ah, they don't know.

 LUISA

Oh, no, I would be gloating! Why not?

 SAMANTHA

Because we're not exactly the Bradys.

 LUISA

And I'm not exactly the Huxtables. More shots?

 JESS and SAMANTHA speak in chorus.

 JESS and SAMANTHA

No. No.

 SAMANTHA

No.

 LUISA goes up to the bar anyway.

 JESS

No, seriously. I'm proud of you. And you're gonna knock 'em dead on Monday—

 JESS

—and you're gonna get that full ride. I know it.

 SAMANTHA

What would I do without you?

 JESS

Crash and burn.

 JESS smiles and pulls SAMANTHA in for a kiss.

 MUSIC

Are you trying to get in

Yeah whatcha gonna do

 APARTMENT

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

 MUSIC

Are you gonna ride baby

 SAMANTHA and JESS lie in bed, asleep back to back. JESS shifts position.

 A sound outside the room, like a window opening. SAMANTHA opens her eyes.

 INT. APARTMENT – NIGHT

 SAMANTHA leaves the bedroom and looks around the apartment.

 Executive Producer

DAVID NUTTER

 A window is open; earlier it must have been closed. Footsteps. A WOMAN walks past the strings of beads at the far end of the hall. SAMANTHA moves to another part of the apartment and waits. The WOMAN enters the room. SAMANTHA lunges forward and grabs the WOMAN at the shoulder. The WOMAN knocks SAMANTHA's arm away and aims a strike at SAMANTHA, who ducks. The WOMAN grabs SAMANTHA's arm, swings her around, and shoves her back. SAMANTHA kicks and is blocked, then pushed back into another room. If the WOMAN hadn't seen SAMANTHA's face before, she sees it now; SAMANTHA gets her first glimpse of the WOMAN. The WOMAN elbows SAMANTHA in the face; SAMANTHA kicks at her head. The WOMAN ducks and swings and SAMANTHA blocks. The WOMAN knocks SAMANTHA down and pins her to the floor, one hand at SAMANTHA's neck and the other holding SAMANTHA's wrist.

 WOMAN

Whoa, easy, tiger.

 SAMANTHA breathes hard.

 SAMANTHA

Dana?

 DANA laughs.

 SAMANTHA

You scared the crap out of me!

 DANA

That's 'cause you're out of practice.

 SAMANTHA grabs DANA's hand and yanks, slamming her heel into DANA's back and DANA to the floor.

 DANA

Or not.

 SAMANTHA taps DANA twice where SAMANTHA is holding her.

 DANA

Get off of me.

 SAMANTHA rolls to her feet and pulls DANA up.

 SAMANTHA

What the hell are you doing here?

 DANA

Well, I was looking for a beer.

 DANA puts her hands on SAMANTHA's shoulders, shakes once, and lets go.

 SAMANTHA

What the hell are you doing here?

 DANA

Okay. All right. We gotta talk.

 SAMANTHA

Uh, the phone?

 DANA

If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?

 JESS turns the light on. She is wearing very short shorts and a cropped Smurfs shirt.

 JESS

Sam?

 SAMANTHA and DANA turn their heads in unison.

 SAMANTHA

Jess. Hey. Dana, this is my girlfriend, Jessica.

 DANA looks at her appreciatively.

 JESS

Wait, your sister Dana?

 JESS smiles. SAMANTHA nods. DANA grins at her and moves closer.

 DANA

Oh, I love the Smurfs. You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my sister's league.

 JESS

Just let me put something on.

 JESS turns to go. DANA's voice stops her.

 DANA

No, no, no, I wouldn't dream of it. Seriously.

 DANA goes back over to SAMANTHA without taking her eyes off JESS. SAMANTHA watches her, her expression stony.

 DANA

Anyway, I gotta borrow your girlfriend here, talk about some private family business.

 DANA

But, uh, nice meeting you.

 SAMANTHA

No.

 SAMANTHA goes over to JESS and puts an arm around her.

 SAMANTHA

No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of her.

 DANA

Okay.

 DANA turns to look at them both straight on.

 DANA

Um. Mom hasn't been home in a few days.

 SAMANTHA

So she's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. She'll stumble back in sooner or later.

 DANA ducks her head and looks back up.

 DANA

Mother's on a hunting trip. And she hasn't been home in a few days.

 SAMANTHA's expression doesn't change while she takes this in. JESS glances up at her.

 SAMANTHA

Jess, excuse us. We have to go outside.

 OUTSIDE APARTMENT

INT. STAIRWELL – NIGHT

 SAMANTHA and DANA head downstairs. SAMANTHA has put on jeans and a hoodie.

 SAMANTHA

I mean, come on. You can't just break in, middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.

 DANA

You're not hearing me, Sammie. Mother's missing. I need you to help me find her.

 SAMANTHA

You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton? She was missing then, too. She's always missing, and she's always fine.

 DANA stops and turns around. SAMANTHA stops too.

 DANA

Not for this long. Now are you gonna come with me or not?

 SAMANTHA

I'm not.

 DANA

Why not?

 SAMANTHA

I swore I was done hunting. For good.

 DANA

Come on. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad.

 DANA starts downstairs again. SAMANTHA follows.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah? When I told Jean I was scared of the thing in my closet, she gave me a .45.

 DANA stops at the door to the outside.

 DANA

Well, what was she supposed to do?

 SAMANTHA

I was nine years old! She was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark.

 DANA

Don't be afraid of the dark? Are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You know what's out there.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Jean's obsession to find the thing that killed her.

 DANA glances outside.

 SAMANTHA

But we still haven't found the damn thing. So we kill everything we can find.

 DANA

We save a lot of people doing it, too.

 A pause.

 SAMANTHA

You think Mom would have wanted this for us?

 DANA rolls her eyes and slams the door open.

 EXT. PARKING LOT – NIGHT

 There's a short flight of stairs from the door to the parking lot. DANA and SAMANTHA climb it.

 SAMANTHA

The weapon training, and melting the silver into bullets? Man, Dana, we were raised like warriors.

 They cross the parking lot to the Impala from the prologue.

 DANA

So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?

 SAMANTHA

No. Not normal. Safe.

 DANA

And that's why you ran away.

 DANA looks away.

 SAMANTHA

I was just going to college. It was Jean who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.

 DANA

Yeah, well, Mother's in real trouble right now. If she's not dead already. I can feel it.

 SAMANTHA is silent.

 DANA

I can't do this alone.

 SAMANTHA

Yes you can.

 DANA looks down.

 DANA

Yeah, well, I don't want to.

 SAMANTHA sighs and looks down, thinking, then up.

 SAMANTHA

What was she hunting?

 DANA opens the trunk of the Impala, then the spare-tire compartment. It's an arsenal. She props the compartment open with a shotgun and digs through the clutter.

 DANA

All right, let's see, where the hell did I put that thing?

 SAMANTHA

So when Jean left, why didn't you go with her?

 DANA

I was working my own gig. This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans.

 SAMANTHA

Jean let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?

 DANA looks over at SAMANTHA.

 DANA

I'm twenty-six, dude.

 DANA pulls some papers out of a folder.

 DANA

All right, here we go. So Mother was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this chick.

 DANA hands one of the papers to SAMANTHA.

 DANA

They found her car, but she vanished. Completely MIA.

 The paper is a printout of an article from the Jericho Herald, headlined "Centennial Highway Disappearance" and dated Sept. 19th 2005; it has a woman's picture, captioned "Andrea Carey MISSING". SAMANTHA reads it and glances up.

 SAMANTHA

So maybe she was kidnapped.

 DANA

Yeah. Well, here's another one in April.

 DANA tosses down another Jericho Herald article for each date she mentions.

 DANA

Another one in December 'oh-four, 'oh-three, 'ninety-eight, 'ninety-two, ten of them over the past twenty years.

 DANA takes the article back from SAMANTHA and picks up the rest of the stack, putting them back in the folder.

 DANA

All women, all the same five-mile stretch of road.

 DANA pulls a bag out of another part of the arsenal.

 DANA

It started happening more and more, so Mother went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from her since, which is bad enough.

 DANA grabs a handheld tape recorder.

 DANA

Then I get this voicemail yesterday.

 She presses play. The recording is staticky and the signal was clearly breaking up.

 JEAN

Dana...something big is starting to happen...I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may... Be very careful, Dana. We're all in danger.

 DANA presses stop.

 SAMANTHA

You know there's EVP on that?

 DANA

Not bad, Sammie. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?

 SAMANTHA shakes her head.

 DANA

All right. I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.

 She presses play again.

 WOMAN

I can never go home...

 DANA presses stop.

 SAMANTHA

Never go home.

 DANA drops the recorder, puts down the shotgun, stands straight, and shuts the trunk, then leans on it.

 DANA

You know, in almost two years I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.

 SAMANTHA looks away and sighs, then looks back.

 SAMANTHA

All right. I'll go. I'll help you find her.

 DANA nods.

 SAMANTHA

But I have to get back first thing Monday. Just wait here.

 SAMANTHA turns to go back to the apartment. She turns back when DANA speaks.

 DANA

What's first thing Monday?

 SAMANTHA

I have this...I have an interview.

 DANA

What, a job interview? Skip it.

 SAMANTHA

It's a law school interview, and it's my whole future on a plate.

 DANA

Law school?

 DANA smirks.

 SAMANTHA

So we got a deal or not?

 DANA says nothing.

 APARTMENT

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

 SAMANTHA is packing a duffel bag. She pulls out a large hook-shaped knife and slides it inside. JESS comes into the room.

 JESS

Wait, you're taking off?

 SAMANTHA looks up.

 JESS

Is this about your mother? Is she all right?

 SAMANTHA

Yeah. You know, just a little family drama.

 SAMANTHA goes over to the dresser and turns on the lamp atop it.

 JESS

Your sister said she was on some kind of hunting trip.

 JESS sits on the bed. SAMANTHA rummages in one of the drawers and comes out with a couple shirts, which go in the duffel.

 SAMANTHA

Oh, yeah, she's just deer hunting up at the cabin, she's probably got Jamie, Jane, and Josefa along with her. I'm just going to go bring her back.

 JESS

What about the interview?

 SAMANTHA

I'll make the interview. This is only for a couple days.

 SAMANTHA goes around the bed. JESS gets up and follows.

 JESS

Sam, I mean, please.

 SAMANTHA stops and turns.

 JESS

Just stop for a second. You sure you're okay?

 SAMANTHA laughs a little.

 SAMANTHA

I'm fine.

 JESS

It's just...you won't even talk about your family. And now you're taking off in the middle of the night to spend a weekend with them? And with Monday coming up, which is kind of a huge deal.

 SAMANTHA

Hey. Everything's going to be okay. I will be back in time, I promise.

 She kisses her on the cheek and leaves.

 JESS

At least tell me where you're going.

 CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY

EXT. CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY – NIGHT

 Jericho, California

 The Eagles of Death Metal's "Speaking in Tongues" plays. A YOUNG WOMAN, TAMMY, is driving down the highway, talking on her cell phone.

 TAMMY

Amy, I can't come over tonight. Because I've got work in the morning, that's why. ...Yeah, okay, I miss it and my mom's gonna have my ass.

 A high-pitched whine. TAMMY looks over and sees a WOMAN in a white dress on the side of the road. She's moving as though dancing; she flickers, and for a moment she's gone.

 TAMMY

Hey, ah, Amy, let me call you back?

 MUSIC

I got this feeling and it's deep in my bah-tay

It gives me wiggles and it makes my rump shake

I said ho!

 TAMMY tries several times to turn off the radio, which is flickering. Nothing happens.

 MUSIC

If I should touch you

Might be electrocuted

I said ho!

Deep in your body

 TAMMY pulls up next to the WOMAN, whose dress is torn in several places, and stops, leaning across the shotgun seat.

 TAMMY

Car trouble or something?

 A long pause.

 WOMAN

Take me home?

 The voice is the same one from the altered voicemail. TAMMY opens the passenger door.

 TAMMY

Sure, get in.

 The WOMAN, who is barefoot, climbs in and closes the door.

 TAMMY

So, where do you live?

 WOMAN

At the end of Breckenridge Road.

 TAMMY nods.

 TAMMY

You coming from a Halloween party or something?

 The WOMAN's dress is very low-cut. TAMMY notices, stares, and looks away, laughing nervously.

 TAMMY

You know, a girl like you really shouldn't be alone out here.

 She looks at Tammy mournfully, seductively, and pulls her skirt up over her thigh.

 WOMAN

I'm with you.

 TAMMY looks away. The WOMAN takes TAMMY's chin and turns her face towards her.

 WOMAN

Do you think I'm pretty?

 TAMMY nods, eyes stuck on her cleavage.

 TAMMY

Uh...huh.

 WOMAN

Will you come home with me?

 TAMMY

Um. Hell yeah.

 She drives off.

 EXT. ABANDONED HOUSE – NIGHT

 They pull up to an old abandoned house at the end of a road. The WOMAN stares at it sadly.

 TAMMY

Come on. You don't live here.

 WOMAN

I can never go home.

 TAMMY

What are you talking about? Nobody even lives here. Where do you live?

 She turns, and the WOMAN has gone. She checks the back seat, also empty, and gets out of the car, nervous.

 TAMMY

That's good. Joke's over, okay? You want me to leave?

 TAMMY looks around: no signs of life except crickets. She walks towards the house.

 TAMMY

Hello? Hello?

 There's a picture of the WOMAN and two CHILDREN inside the house; the picture is covered in dust.

 TAMMY peers through the hole in the screen door. A bird flies at her face, scaring her into falling over. She yells, leaps to her feet, and runs back to the car. She gets in and drives off.

 EXT. CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY – NIGHT

 TAMMY looks behind her—no one's there—then in the rearview mirror. The WOMAN is in the back seat. TAMMY yells again and drives straight through a "Bridge Closed" sign, stopping about halfway across the bridge. She screams. Blood spatters the windows.

 ACT TWO

GAS STATION

EXT. GAS STATION – DAY

 It is 1 Nov 2005.

 The Impala is parked in front of a pump. "Ramblin' Man" by the Allman Brothers plays.

 MUSIC

Lord, I was born a ramblin' woman

 DANA comes out of the convenience mart carrying junk food.

 MUSIC

Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can

 SAMANTHA is sitting in the shotgun seat with the door open, rifling through a box of tapes.

 DANA

Hey!

 SAMANTHA leans out and looks at her.

 DANA

You want breakfast?

 SAMANTHA

No, thanks.

 MUSIC

And when it's time for leavin'

 SAMANTHA

So how'd you pay for that stuff?

 MUSIC

I hope you'll understand

 SAMANTHA

You and Jean still running credit card scams?

 MUSIC

That I was born a ramblin' woman

 DANA

Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career.

 DANA puts the nozzle back on the pump.

 DANA

Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?

 SAMANTHA swings her legs back inside the car and closes the door.

 DANA

Uh, Betty Aframian.

 DANA gets into the driver seat and puts her soda and chips down.

 DANA

And her daughter Harriet. Scored two cards out of the deal.

 DANA closes the door.

 SAMANTHA

That sounds about right. I swear, woman, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.

 There are at least a dozen cassettes in the box on SAMANTHA's lap; some have album art, others are hand-labeled.

 DANA

Why?

 SAMANTHA

Well, for one, they're cassette tapes. And two.

 SAMANTHA holds up a tape for every band she names.

 SAMANTHA

Black Sabbath? Motorhead? Metallica?

 DANA takes the box labeled Metallica from SAMANTHA.

 SAMANTHA

It's the greatest hits of mullet rock.

 DANA

Well, house rules, Sammie.

 DANA pops the tape in the player.

 DANA

Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts her cakehole.

 DANA drops the Metallica box back in the box of tapes and starts the engine.

 SAMANTHA

You know, Sammie is a chubby twelve-year-old.

 AC/DC's "Back in Black" begins to play.

 SAMANTHA

It's Sam, okay?

 DANA

Sorry, I can't hear you, the music's too loud.

 DANA drives off.

 CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY

EXT. CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY – DAY

 MUSIC

Back in black

I hit the sack

I've been too long

I'm glad to be back

Yes I'm let loose

 They drive past a sign that says "JERICHO 7".

 MUSIC

From the noose

That's kept me hanging about

 Sam is talking on her cell phone.

 SAMANTHA

Thank you.

 SAMANTHA closes her phone.

 MUSIC

Lookin' at the sky

'Cause it's gettin' me high

 SAMANTHA

All right. So, there's no one matching Jean at the hospital or morgue.

 MUSIC

Forget the hearse 'cause I'll never die

 SAMANTHA

So that's something, I guess.

 DANA glances over at SAMANTHA, then back at the road. At a bridge ahead of them, there are two police cars and several officers.

 MUSIC

I got nine lives

Cat's eyes

Abusin' every one of them and running wild

 DANA

Check it out.

 SAMANTHA leans forward for a closer look.

 MUSIC

'Cause I'm back

Yes I'm back

 DANA pulls over. They take a long look before DANA turns off the engine. Kid Gloves Music's "My Cheatin' Ways" begins to play. DANA opens the glove compartment and pulls out a box full of ID cards with her and JEAN's faces: visible ones include FBI and DEA. She picks one out and grins at SAMANTHA, who stares.

 DANA

Let's go.

 DANA gets out of the car.

 On the bridge, the lead DEPUTY, DEPUTY JAFFE, leans over the railing to yell down to two WOMEN in wetsuits who were poking around the river.

 JAFFE

You ladies find anything?

 WOMAN

No! Nothing!

 JAFFE turns back to the car in the middle of the bridge. It's familiar: it's TAMMY's, the blood gone. Another DEPUTY, DEPUTY HEIN, is at the driver's side looking around inside the car.

 HEIN

No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints. Spotless. It's almost too clean.

 DANA and SAMANTHA walk into the crime scene like they belong there.

 JAFFE

So, this kid Tammy. She's dating your daughter, isn't she?

 HEIN

Yeah.

 JAFFE

How's Amy doing?

 HEIN

She's putting up missing posters downtown.

 DANA

You gals had another one like this just last month, didn't you?

 JAFFE looks up when DANA starts talking and straightens up to talk to her.

 JAFFE

And who are you?

 DANA flashes her badge.

 DANA

Federal marshals.

 JAFFE

You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?

 DANA laughs.

 DANA

Thanks, that's awfully kind of you.

 DANA goes over to the car.

 DANA

You did have another one just like this, correct?

 JAFFE

Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.

 SAMANTHA

So, this victim, you knew her?

 JAFFE nods.

 JAFFE

Town like this, everybody knows everybody.

 DANA circles the car, looking around.

 DANA

Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all women?

 JAFFE

No. Not so far as we can tell.

 SAMANTHA

So what's the theory?

 SAMANTHA goes over to DANA.

 JAFFE

Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?

 DANA

Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys.

 SAMANTHA stomps on DANA's foot.

 SAMANTHA

Thank you for your time.

 SAMANTHA starts to walk away. DANA follows.

 SAMANTHA

Ladies.

 JAFFE watches them go. DANA smacks SAMANTHA on the head.

 SAMANTHA

Ow! What was that for?

 DANA

Why'd you have to step on my foot?

 SAMANTHA

Why do you have to talk to the police like that?

 DANA looks at SAMANTHA and moves in front of her, forcing SAMANTHA to stop walking.

 DANA

Come on. They don't really know what's going on. We're all alone on this. I mean, if we're going to find Mother we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves.

 SAMANTHA clears her throat and looks over DANA's shoulder. DANA turns. It's SHERIFF PIERCE and two FBI AGENTS.

 SHERIFF

Can I help you gals?

 DANA

No, ma’am, we were just leaving.

 As the FBI AGENTS walk past DANA, she nods at each of them.

 DANA

Agent Mulder. Agent Scully.

 DANA and SAMANTHA head past the SHERIFF, who turns to watch them go.

 JERICHO

EXT. STREET – DAY

 The marquee on the Highland Movie Theater reads:

 EMERGENCY TOWN HALL MEETING

SUNDAY 8 PM

BE SAFE OUT THERE

 A YOUNG WOMAN is tacking up posters with TAMMY's face and the caption "MISSING TAMMY SQUIRE". DANA and SAMANTHA approach.

 DANA

I'll bet you that's her.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah.

 DANA and SAMANTHA walk up to the YOUNG WOMAN.

 DANA

You must be Amy.

 AMY

Yeah.

 DANA

Yeah, Tammy told us about you. We're her aunts. I'm Dana, this is Samantha.

 AMY

She never mentioned you to me.

 AMY walks away. DANA and SAMANTHA walk with her.

 DANA

Well, that's Tammy, I guess. We're not around much, we're up in Modesto.

 SAMANTHA

So, we're looking for her too, and we're kinda asking around.

 Another YOUNG WOMAN, RACHEL, comes up to AMY and puts a hand on her arm.

 RACHEL

Hey, are you okay?

 AMY

Yeah.

 SAMANTHA

You mind if we ask you a couple questions?

 Another poster that says MISSING TAMMY SQUIRE flaps in the breeze.

 INT. DINER – DAY

 The four of them are sitting in a booth, DANA and SAMANTHA opposite AMY and RACHEL.

 AMY

I was on the phone with Tammy. She was driving home. She said she would call me right back, and...she never did.

 SAMANTHA

She didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?

 AMY shakes her head.

 AMY

No. Nothing I can remember.

 SAMANTHA

I like your necklace.

 AMY holds the pendant she's wearing, a pentagram in a circle, and looks down at it.

 AMY

Tammy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents—

 AMY laughs.

 AMY

—with all that devil stuff.

 SAMANTHA laughs a little and looks down, then up. DANA looks over.

 SAMANTHA

Actually, it means just the opposite. A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful. I mean, if you believe in that kind of thing.

 DANA

Okay. Thank you, Unsolved Mysteries.

 DANA takes her arm off the back of SAMANTHA's seat and leans forward.

 DANA

Here's the deal, ladies. The way Tammy disappeared, something's not right. So if you've heard anything...

 AMY and RACHEL look at each other.

 DANA

What is it?

 RACHEL

Well, it's just... I mean, with all these girls going missing, people talk.

 DANA and SAMANTHA speak in chorus.

 DANA and SAMANTHA

What do they talk about?

 RACHEL

It's kind of this local legend. This one girl? She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago.

 DANA looks at SAMANTHA, who watches RACHEL attentively, nodding.

 RACHEL

Well, supposedly she's still out there.

 SAMANTHA nods.

 RACHEL

She hitchhikes, and whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.

 SAMANTHA and DANA look at each other.

 LIBRARY

INT. LIBRARY – DAY

 A web browser is open to the archive search page for the Jericho Herald. The words "Female Murder Hitchhiking" are typed into the search box. DANA clicks GO; the screen tells her there are "(0) Result". DANA replaces "Hitchhiking" with "Centennial Highway" with the same response. SAMANTHA is sitting next to her, watching.

 SAMANTHA

Let me try.

 DANA smacks SAMANTHA's hand.

 DANA

I got it.

 SAMANTHA shoves DANA's chair out of the way and takes over.

 DANA

Dude!

 DANA hits SAMANTHA in the shoulder.

 DANA

You're such a control freak.

 SAMANTHA

So angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?

 DANA

Yeah.

 SAMANTHA

Well, maybe it's not murder.

 SAMANTHA replaces "Murder" with "Suicide" and finds an article entitled "Suicide on Centennial". DANA glances at SAMANTHA. SAMANTHA opens the article, dated April 25, 1981.

 A local woman's drowning death was ruled a suicide, the county Sheriff's Department said earlier today. Constance Welch, 24, of 4636 Breckenridge Road, leapt off Sylvania Bridge, at mile 33 of Centennial Highway, and subsequently drowned last night.

Deputy J. Pierce told reporters that, hours before her death, Ms. Welch logged a call with 911 emergency services. In a panicked tone, Ms. Welch described how she found her two young children, 5 and 6, in the bathtub, after leaving them alone for several [minutes]. She reported that their complex-[...]

What happened to my children was a terrible accident. And it must have been too much for Constance. Our babies were gone, and she just couldn't bear it," said wife Josie Welch. "Now I ask that you all please respect my privacy during this trying time."

At the time of the children's death and Ms. Welch's subsequent suicide, Josie Welch was at the Frontier auto salvage yard, where she works the graveyard shift as associate manager.

"Connie might have been quiet, but she was the sweetest, most caring girl I ever knew," said Dean Kripke, a neighbor. "She just doted on those children."

SAMANTHA

This was 1981. Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river.

 There's a picture of CONSTANCE; it's the WOMAN who killed TAMMY.

 DANA

Does it say why she did it?

 SAMANTHA

Yeah.

 DANA

What?

 SAMANTHA

An hour before they found her, she calls 911. Apparently her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die.

 DANA raises her eyebrows.

 DANA

Hm.

 The article has a picture of Josie next to a picture of Sylvania Bridge; it's the place TAMMY died.

 SAMANTHA

"'Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said wife Josie Welch."

 DANA

The bridge look familiar to you?

 SYLVANIA BRIDGE

EXT. SYLVANIA BRIDGE – NIGHT

 DANA and SAMANTHA walk along the bridge, then stop to lean on the railing and look down at the river.

 DANA

So this is where Constance took the swan dive.

 SAMANTHA

So you think Jean would have been here?

 SAMANTHA looks over at DANA.

 DANA

Well, she's chasing the same story and we're chasing her.

 DANA continues walking. SAMANTHA follows.

 SAMANTHA

Okay, so now what?

 DANA

Now we keep digging until we find her. Might take a while.

 SAMANTHA stops.

 SAMANTHA

Dana, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—

 DANA turns around.

 DANA

Monday. Right. The interview.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah.

 DANA

Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Marry your girl?

 SAMANTHA

Maybe. Why not?

 DANA

Does Jessica know the truth about you? I mean, does she know about the things you've done?

 SAMANTHA steps closer.

 SAMANTHA

No, and she's not ever going to know.

 DANA

Well, that's healthy. You can pretend all you want, Sammie. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.

 DANA turns around and keeps walking. SAMANTHA follows.

 SAMANTHA

And who's that?

 DANA

You're one of us.

 SAMANTHA hurries to get in front of DANA.

 SAMANTHA

No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.

 DANA

You have a responsibility to—

 SAMANTHA

To Jean? And her crusade? If it weren't for pictures I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone. And she isn't coming back.

 DANA grabs SAMANTHA by the collar and shoves her up against the railing of the bridge. A long pause.

 DANA

Don't talk about her like that.

 DANA releases SAMANTHA and walks away. She sees CONSTANCE standing at the edge of the bridge.

 DANA

Sam.

 SAMANTHA comes to stand next to DANA. CONSTANCE looks over at them, then steps forward off the edge. SAMANTHA and DANA run to the railing and look over.

 DANA

Where'd she go?

 SAMANTHA

I don't know.

 Behind them, the Impala's engine starts and its headlights come on. DANA and SAMANTHA turn to look.

 DANA

What the—

 SAMANTHA

Who's driving your car?

 DANA pulls the keys out of her pocket and jingles them. SAMANTHA glances at them. The car jerks into motion, heading straight for them. They turn and run.

 SAMANTHA

Dana? Go! Go!

 The car is moving faster than they are; when it gets too close, SAMANTHA and DANA dive over the railing. The car comes to a halt.

 ACT THREE

SYLVANIA BRIDGE

EXT. SYLVANIA BRIDGE – NIGHT

 Establishing shot of the bridge.

 SAMANTHA has caught herself on the edge of the bridge and is hanging on. She pulls herself up onto the bridge and looks around.

 SAMANTHA

Dana? Dana!

 Below, a filthy and annoyed DANA crawls out of the water and onto the mud, panting.

 DANA

What?

 SAMANTHA

Hey! Are you all right?

 DANA holds up one hand in an A-OK sign.

 DANA

I'm super.

 SAMANTHA laughs, relieved, and scoots away from the edge.

 EXT. SYLVANIA BRIDGE – NIGHT, LATER

 DANA shuts the hood of her car and leans on it.

 SAMANTHA

Your car all right?

 DANA

Yeah, whatever she did to it, seems all right now. That Constance chick, what a bitch!

 SAMANTHA

Well, she doesn't want us digging around, that's for sure. So where's the job go from here, genius?

 SAMANTHA settles on the hood next to DANA. DANA throws up her arms in frustration, then flicks mud off her hands. SAMANTHA sniffs, then looks at DANA.

 SAMANTHA

You smell like a toilet.

 DANA looks down.

 MOTEL

INT. MOTEL LOBBY – DAY

 It is 2 Nov 2005.

 A VersaBank MasterCard in the name of Harriet Aframian lands on a handwritten guest ledger.

 DANA

One room, please.

 DANA is standing at the motel check-in desk, still filthy, with SAMANTHA right behind her. The CLERK picks up the card and looks at it.

 CLERK

You girls having a reunion or something?

 SAMANTHA

What do you mean?

 CLERK

I had another woman, Betty Aframian. She came and bought out a room for the whole month.

 DANA looks back at SAMANTHA.

 JEAN'S ROOM

INT. MOTEL ROOM – DAY

 The motel door swings open. SAMANTHA is on the other side, having just picked the lock. SAMANTHA hides the picks and stands up. DANA is just outside, playing lookout, until SAMANTHA reaches out of the room to grab her shoulder and yank her inside. SAMANTHA closes the door behind them. They look around—every vertical surface has papers pinned to it: maps, newspaper clippings, pictures, notes. There are books on the desk and assorted junk on the floor and bed, including something with a hazardous-materials symbol.

 SAMANTHA

Whoa.

 DANA turns on a light by the bed and picks up a half-eaten hamburger sitting there. SAMANTHA steps over a line of salt on the floor. DANA sniffs the burger and recoils.

 DANA

I don't think she's been here for a couple days at least.

 SAMANTHA fingers the salt on the floor and looks up.

 SAMANTHA

Salt, cats-eye shells...she was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.

 DANA looks at the papers covering one wall.

 SAMANTHA

What have you got here?

 DANA

Centennial Highway victims.

 SAMANTHA nods. The victims seen on the wall include Martha somebody, Billie Durrell, Scarlet Nifong who disappeared in 1987 at age 25, and somebody Parks. Martha, Durrell, and Nifong are all white males, judging by the photos.

 DANA

I don't get it. I mean, different women, different jobs—

 SAMANTHA crosses the room.

 DANA

—ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these chicks have in common?

 While DANA talks, SAMANTHA looks at the papers taped to the other walls. There's something about the Bell Witch, two people being burned alive, a skeletal person blowing a horn at several scared people with the note "MORTIS DANSE", a column about "Devils + Demons", another about "Sirens, Witches, the possessed", a wooden pentacle, and a note that says "Woman in White" above a printout of the Jericho Herald article on CONSTANCE's suicide.

 SAMANTHA turns on another lamp.

 SAMANTHA

Jean figured it out.

 DANA turns to look.

 DANA

What do you mean?

 SAMANTHA

She found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's a woman in white.

 DANA looks at the photos of CONSTANCE's victims.

 DANA

You sly dogs.

 DANA turns back to SAMANTHA.

 DANA

All right, so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Mother would have found the corpse and destroyed it.

 SAMANTHA

She might have another weakness.

 DANA

Well, Mother would want to make sure.

 DANA crosses to SAMANTHA.

 DANA

She'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?

 SAMANTHA

No, not that I can tell. If I were Jean, though, I'd go ask her wife.

 SAMANTHA taps the picture of JOSIE WELCH. The caption says she's thirty; the article dates to 1981, so she must be sixty-four.

 SAMANTHA

If she's still alive.

 SAMANTHA goes to look at something else. DANA looks at the picture below the Herald article, of a woman in a white dress.

 DANA

All right. Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address, I'm gonna get cleaned up.

 DANA starts to walk away. SAMANTHA turns.

 SAMANTHA

Hey, Dana?

 DANA stops and turns back.

 SAMANTHA

What I said earlier, about Mom and Jean, I'm sorry.

 DANA holds up a hand.

 DANA

No chick-flick moments.

 SAMANTHA laughs and nods.

 SAMANTHA

All right. Jerk.

 DANA

Asshole.

 SAMANTHA laughs again. DANA disappears, presumably into the bathroom. SAMANTHA notices something, her smile disappearing, and crosses over for a closer look. A rosary hangs in front of a large mirror, and stuck into the mirror frame is a photo of JEAN sitting on the hood of the Impala, next to a GIRL in a baseball cap who is presumably DANA and with a YOUNGER GIRL, presumably SAMANTHA, on JEAN's lap. SAMANTHA takes the photo off the mirror and holds it, smiling sadly.

 MOTEL

INT. MOTEL ROOM – DAY, LATER

 SAMANTHA paces, holding her phone, and sits down on the bed. A voicemail message is playing.

 JESS

Hey, it's me, it's about ten-twenty Saturday night—

 DANA, clean again, comes out of the bathroom and grabs her jacket. She shrugs it on one shoulder as she crosses the room.

 DANA

Hey, woman. I'm starving, I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You want anything?

 SAMANTHA

No.

 DANA

Aframian's buying.

 SAMANTHA shakes her head.

 SAMANTHA

Mm-mm.

 EXT. PARKING LOT – DAY

 DANA leaves the motel room. She gets the jacket the rest of the way on as she crosses the lot. She looks over and sees a police car, where the MOTEL CLERK is talking to DEPUTY JAFFE and DEPUTY HEIN. The CLERK points at DANA, who turns away and pulls out her cell phone.

 INT. MOTEL ROOM – DAY and EXT. PARKING LOT – DAY, alternating

 SAMANTHA is sitting on the bed, still listening to the message.

 JESS

So come home soon, okay? I love you.

 The phone beeps. SAMANTHA looks at it and presses a button, then puts it back to her ear.

 SAMANTHA

What?

 Outside, the DEPUTIES are approaching DANA.

 DANA

Dude, five-oh, take off.

 SAMANTHA stands up.

 SAMANTHA

What about you?

 DANA

Uh, they kinda spotted me. Go find Mother.

 DANA hangs up the phone as the DEPUTIES approach. She turns and grins at them.

 DANA

Problem, officers?

 JAFFE

Where's your partner?

 DANA

Partner? What, what partner?

 JAFFE glances over her shoulder and jerks her thumb towards the motel room. HEIN heads over there. DANA fidgets.

 SAMANTHA sees HEIN approaching and darts away from the window.

 JAFFE

So. Fake US Marshal. Fake credit cards. You got anything that's real?

 DANA

My tits.

 DANA grins.

 HEIN slams Dana over the hood of the cop car.

 JAFFE

You have the right to remain silent—

 ACT FOUR

SHERIFF'S OFFICE

INT. SHERIFF'S OFFICE – DAY

 SHERIFF PIERCE enters the room, carrying a box. She sets the box on the table at which DANA sits and goes around the table to face DANA across it.

 SHERIFF

So you want to give us your real name?

 DANA

I told you, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent.

 SHERIFF

I'm not sure you realize just how much trouble you're in here.

 DANA

We talkin', like, misdemeanor kind of trouble or, uh, squeal like a pig trouble?

 SHERIFF

You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall.

 DANA looks away.

 SHERIFF

Along with a whole lot of Satanic mumbo-jumbo. Lady, you are officially a suspect.

 DANA

That makes sense. Because when the first one went missing in '82 I was three.

 SHERIFF

I know you've got partners. One of 'em's an older lady. Maybe she started the whole thing. So tell me. Dana.

 The SHERIFF tosses a brown leather-covered journal on the table.

 SHERIFF

This her?

 DANA stares at it. The SHERIFF sits on the edge of the table. She flips through the journal: it's filled with newspaper clippings, notes, and pictures, just like what's on the walls of JEAN's motel room.

 SHERIFF

I thought that might be your name. See, I leafed through this. What little I could make out—I mean, it's nine kinds of crazy.

 DANA leans forward for a closer look.

 SHERIFF

But I found this, too.

 She opens the journal to a page that reads "DANA 35-111", circled, with nothing else on that page.

 SHERIFF

Now. You're stayin' right here till you tell me exactly what the hell that means.

 DANA stares down at the page, then looks up.

 WELCH HOUSE

INT. HOUSE – DAY

 SAMANTHA, seen through the chain-link covering a grimy glass window, knocks on the door the window is in. An OLD WOMAN opens it: it's recognizably JOSIE WELCH.

 SAMANTHA

Hi. Are you Josie Welch?

 JOSIE

Yeah.

 EXT. DRIVEWAY – DAY

 SAMANTHA and JOSIE are walking down the junk-filled driveway, JOSIE holding the photo SAMANTHA found on JEAN's motel room mirror.

 JOSIE

Yeah, she was older, but that's her.

 JOSIE hands the photo back to SAMANTHA.

 JOSIE

She came by three or four days ago. Said she was a reporter.

 SAMANTHA

That's right. We're working on a story together.

 JOSIE

Well, I don't know what the hell kinda story you're working on. The questions she asked me?

 SAMANTHA

About your wife Constance?

 JOSIE

She asked me where Connie was buried.

 SAMANTHA

And where is that again?

 JOSIE

What, I gotta go through this twice?

 SAMANTHA

It's fact-checking. If you don't mind.

 JOSIE

In a plot. Behind my old place over on Breckenridge.

 SAMANTHA

And why did you move?

 JOSIE

I'm not gonna live in the house where my children died.

 SAMANTHA stops walking. JOSIE stops too.

 SAMANTHA

Ms. Welch, did you ever marry again?

 JOSIE

No way. Constance, she was the love of my life. Prettiest woman I ever known.

 SAMANTHA

So you had a happy marriage?

 JOSIE hesitates.

 JOSIE

Definitely.

 SAMANTHA

Well, that should do it. Thanks for your time.

 SAMANTHA turns toward the Impala. JOSIE walks away. SAMANTHA waits a moment, then looks back up at JOSIE.

 SAMANTHA

Ms. Welch, did you ever hear of a woman in white?

 JOSIE turns around.

 JOSIE

A what?

 SAMANTHA

A woman in white. Or sometimes weeping woman?

 JOSIE just looks.

 SAMANTHA

It's a ghost story. Well, it's more of a phenomenon, really.

 SAMANTHA starts back toward JOSIE.

 SAMANTHA

Um, they're spirits. They've been sighted for hundreds of years, dozens of places, in Hawaii, Mexico, lately in Arizona, Indiana. All these are different women.

 SAMANTHA stops in front of JOSIE.

 SAMANTHA

You understand. But all share the same story.

 JOSIE

Young lady, I don't care much for nonsense.

 JOSIE walks away. SAMANTHA follows.

 SAMANTHA

See, when they were alive, their wives were unfaithful to them.

 JOSIE stops.

 SAMANTHA

And these women, basically suffering from temporary insanity, murdered their children.

 JOSIE turns around.

 SAMANTHA

Then once they realized what they had done, they took their own lives. So now their spirits are cursed, walking back roads, waterways. And if they find an unfaithful woman, they kill her. And that woman is never seen again.

 JOSIE

You think...you think that has something to do with...Constance? You smartass!

 SAMANTHA

You tell me.

 JOSIE

I mean, maybe...maybe I made some mistakes. But no matter what I did, Constance, she never would have killed her own children. Now, you get the hell out of here! And you don't come back!

 JOSIE's face shakes, whether from anger or grief it's impossible to tell. After a long moment, she turns away. SAMANTHA sighs.

 SHERIFF'S OFFICE

INT. SHERIFF'S OFFICE – NIGHT

 DANA

I don't know how many times I gotta tell you. It's my high school locker combo.

 SHERIFF PIERCE is still interrogating DANA over the "DANA 35-111" page.

 SHERIFF

We gonna do this all night long?

 A DEPUTY leans into the room.

 DEPUTY

We just got a 911, shots fired over at Whiteford Road.

 SHERIFF

You have to go to the bathroom?

 DANA

No.

 SHERIFF

Good.

 The SHERIFF handcuffs Dana to the table and leaves. DANA sees a paper clip poking out of the journal, pulls it out, and looks at it. Moments later, as the SHERIFF and DEPUTY are gearing up to leave, she is out of the cuffs. DANA watches through the window in the door, ducks out of sight as the DEPUTY approaches the door, and waits.

 EXT. SHERIFF'S OFFICE – NIGHT

 DANA climbs down the fire escape, carrying JEAN's journal.

 HIGHWAY

EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT and EXT. STREET – NIGHT, alternating

 SAMANTHA is driving the IMPALA when her phone rings. She pulls it out and answers it. DANA is in a phone booth; apparently her phone was confiscated and she didn't take the time to steal it back.

 DANA

Fake 911 phone call? Sammie, I don't know, that's pretty illegal.

 SAMANTHA

You're welcome.

 SAMANTHA grins.

 DANA

Listen, we gotta talk.

 SAMANTHA

Tell me about it. So the wife was unfaithful. We are dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Jean's next stop.

 DANA

Sammie, would you shut up for a second?

 SAMANTHA

I just can't figure out why Jean hasn't destroyed the corpse yet.

 DANA

Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. She's gone. Mother left Jericho.

 SAMANTHA

What? How do you know?

 DANA

I've got her journal.

 SAMANTHA

She doesn't go anywhere without that thing.

 DANA

Yeah, well, she did this time.

 SAMANTHA

What's it say?

 DANA

Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when she wants to let us know where she's going.

 SAMANTHA

Coordinates. Where to?

 DANA

I'm not sure yet.

 SAMANTHA

I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Jean would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dana, what the hell is going on?

 SAMANTHA looks up and slams the brake, dropping the phone: CONSTANCE appeared on the road in front of her. The car goes right through her as SAMANTHA brings it to a halt.

 DANA

Sam? Sam!

 Inside the car, SAMANTHA breathes hard. CONSTANCE is sitting in the back seat.

 CONSTANCE

Take me home.

 ACT FIVE

HIGHWAY

EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT

 CONSTANCE

Take me home!

 SAMANTHA

No.

 CONSTANCE glares and the doors lock themselves. SAMANTHA struggles to reopen them. The gas pedal presses down and the car begins to drive itself. SAMANTHA tries to steer, but CONSTANCE is doing that too. SAMANTHA continues to try to get the door open. In the back seat, CONSTANCE flickers.

 BRECKENRIDGE ROAD

EXT. ABANDONED HOUSE – NIGHT

 The car pulls up in front of CONSTANCE's house and stops. The engine shuts off and so do the lights.

 SAMANTHA

Don't do this.

 CONSTANCE flickers. Her voice is sad.

 CONSTANCE

I can never go home.

 SAMANTHA

You're scared to go home.

 SAMANTHA looks back and CONSTANCE isn't there. She glances around and back and sees CONSTANCE in the shotgun seat. CONSTANCE climbs into her lap, shoving her back against the seat hard enough to recline the seat. SAMANTHA struggles.

 CONSTANCE

Hold me. I'm so cold.

 SAMANTHA

You can't kill me. I'm not unfaithful. I've never been!

 CONSTANCE

You will be. Just hold me.

 CONSTANCE kisses SAMANTHA as she continues to struggle, reaching for the keys. CONSTANCE pulls back and disappears, a flash of something horrible behind her face as she vanishes. SAMANTHA looks around for a moment, then yells in pain and yanks her hoodie open. There are five new holes burned through the fabric, matching to CONSTANCE's fingers: CONSTANCE flickers in front of her, her hand reaching into SAMANTHA’S chest. A gunshot goes off, shattering the window and startling CONSTANCE. DANA approaches, still firing at CONSTANCE. CONSTANCE glares at her and vanishes, then reappears, and DANA keeps firing until CONSTANCE disappears again. SAMANTHA manages to sit up and start the car.

 SAMANTHA

I'm taking you home.

 SAMANTHA drives forward. DANA stares after the car. SAMANTHA smashes through the side of the house. DANA hurries through the wreckage to the passenger side of the car.

 DANA

Sam! Sam! You okay?

 SAMANTHA

I think...

 DANA

Can you move?

 SAMANTHA

Yeah. Help me?

 DANA leans through the window to give SAMANTHA a hand.

 CONSTANCE picks up a large framed photograph seen when she brought TAMMY here: the WOMAN is CONSTANCE and the children are presumably hers.

 DANA helps SAMANTHA out of the car.

 DANA

There you go.

 DANA closes the car door. They look around and see CONSTANCE; she looks up. She glares at them and throws the picture down. A bureau scoots towards SAMANTHA and DANA, pinning them against the car. The lights flicker; CONSTANCE looks around, scared. Water begins to pour down the staircase. She goes over. At the top are the CHILDREN from the photograph. They hold hands and speak in chorus.

 CHILDREN

You've come home to us, Mommy.

 CONSTANCE looks at them, distraught. Suddenly they are behind her; they embrace her tightly and she screams, her image flickering. In a surge of energy, still screaming, CONSTANCE and the two CHILDREN melt into a puddle in the floor. SAMANTHA and DANA shove the bureau over and go look at the spot where CONSTANCE and her CHILDREN vanished.

 DANA

So this is where she drowned her daughters.

 SAMANTHA nods.

 SAMANTHA

That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.

 DANA

You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammie.

 DANA slaps SAMANTHA on the chest where she's been injured and walks away. SAMANTHA laughs through the pain.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah, I wish I could say the same for you. What were you thinking shooting Casper in the face, you freak?

 DANA

Hey. Saved your ass.

 "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC begins to play.

 DANA leans over to look at the car.

 DANA

I'll tell you another thing. If you screwed up my car?

 DANA twists around to look at SAMANTHA.

 DANA

I'll kill you.

 SAMANTHA laughs.

 HIGHWAY

EXT. HIGHWAY – NIGHT

 The Impala tears down the road; the right headlight is out.

 MUSIC

Living easy, loving free

Season ticket on a one-way ride

 SAMANTHA has the journal open to "DANA 35-111" and a map open on her lap and is finding coordinates with a ruler, a flashlight tucked between chin and shoulder.

 MUSIC

Asking nothing

 SAMANTHA

Okay, here's where Jean went.

 MUSIC

Leave me be

 SAMANTHA

It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.

 MUSIC

Taking everythin' in my stride

 DANA nods.

 DANA

Sounds charming. How far?

 MUSIC

Don't need reason

 SAMANTHA

About six hundred miles.

 MUSIC

Don't need rhyme

 DANA

Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning.

 MUSIC

Ain't nothing I would rather do

 SAMANTHA looks at her, hesitating.

 SAMANTHA

Dana, I, um...

 MUSIC

Going down

 DANA glances at the road and back.

 MUSIC

Party time

 DANA

You're not going.

 MUSIC

My friends are gonna be there too

 SAMANTHA

The interview's in like, ten hours. I gotta be there.

 Dana nods, disappointed, and returns her attention to the road.

 DANA

Yeah. Yeah, whatever.

 DANA glances at SAMANTHA.

 DANA

I'll take you home.

 SAMANTHA turns the flashlight off. They drive on.

 MUSIC

Highway to hell

 APARTMENT

EXT. SAMANTHA'S APARTMENT BUILDING – NIGHT

 MUSIC

I'm on the highway to hell

 They pull up in front of the apartment, DANA still frowning. SAMANTHA gets out and leans over to look through the window.

 SAMANTHA

Call me if you find her?

 DANA nods.

 SAMANTHA

And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?

 DANA

Yeah, all right.

 SAMANTHA pats the car door twice and turns away. DANA leans toward the passenger door, one arm going over the back of the seat.

 DANA

Sam?

 SAMANTHA turns back.

 DANA

You know, we made a hell of a team back there.

 SAMANTHA

Yeah.

 DANA drives off. SAMANTHA watches her go and sighs.

 INT. SAMANTHA'S APARTMENT – NIGHT

 SAMANTHA lets herself in. Everything is dark and quiet.

 SAMANTHA

Jess?

 SAMANTHA closes the door.

 SAMANTHA

You home?

 SAMANTHA notices a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table, with a note that reads "Missed you! Love you!", next to a National Geographic. SAMANTHA picks one up and eats it as she sneaks into the bedroom, smiling. The shower is audibly running. SAMANTHA sits on the bed, shuts her eyes, and flops onto her back.

 Blood drips onto SAMANTHA's forehead, one drop, then another; she flinches and opens her eyes. She gasps in horror: JESS is pinned to the ceiling, staring down at her and bleeding from the belly.

 SAMANTHA

No!

 JESS bursts into flame; the fire spreads across the ceiling.

 DANA kicks the front door open.

 DANA

Sam!

 SAMANTHA raises one arm to shield her face.

 SAMANTHA

Jess!

 DANA comes running into the bedroom.

 DANA

Sam! Sam!

 DANA looks up and sees JESS.

 SAMANTHA

No! No!

 DANA grabs SAMANTHA off the bed and bodily shoves her out the door, SAMANTHA struggling all the way.

 SAMANTHA

Jess! Jess! No!

 Flames engulf the apartment.

 AFTER THE FIRE

EXT. SAMANTHA'S APARTMENT – NIGHT

 In a scene much like the end of the flashback, a fire truck is parked outside the building, firefighters and police keeping back gawkers. DANA looks on, then turns and walks back to her car. SAMANTHA is standing behind the open trunk, loading a shotgun. DANA looks at the trunk, then at SAMANTHA, whose face is set in a mask of desperate anger. SAMANTHA looks up, then sighs, nods, and tosses the shotgun into the trunk.

 SAMANTHA

We got work to do.

 SAMANTHA shuts the trunk.

[terramythos]

TerraMythos' 2020 Reading Challenge - Book 22 of 26

Title: House of Leaves (2000) 

Author: Mark Z. Danielewski

Genre/Tags: Horror, Fiction, Metafiction, Weird, First-Person, Third-Person, Unreliable Narrator 

Rating: 6/10

Date Began: 7/28/2020

Date Finished: 8/09/2020

House of Leaves follows two narrative threads. One is the story of Johnny Truant, a burnout in his mid-twenties who finds a giant manuscript written by a deceased, blind hermit named Zampanò. The second is said manuscript -- The Navidson Record -- a pseudo-academic analysis of a found-footage horror film that doesn’t seem to exist. In it, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Will Navidson moves into a suburban home in Virginia with his partner Karen and their two children. Navidson soon makes the uncomfortable discovery that his new house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Over time he discovers more oddities -- a closet that wasn’t there before, and eventually a door that leads into an impossibly vast, dark series of rooms and hallways. 

While Johnny grows more obsessed with the work, his life begins to take a turn for the worse, as told in the footnotes of The Navidson Record. At the same time, the mysteries of the impossible, sinister house on Ash Tree Lane continue to deepen. 

To get a better idea try this: focus on these words, and whatever you do don’t let your eyes wander past the perimeter of this page. Now imagine just beyond your peripheral vision, maybe behind you, maybe to the side of you, maybe even in front of you, but right where you can’t see it, something is quietly closing in on you, so quiet in fact you can only hear it as silence. Find those pockets without sound. That’s where it is. Right at this moment. But don’t look. Keep your eyes here. Now take a deep breath. Go ahead and take an even deeper one. Only this time as you start to exhale try to imagine how fast it will happen, how hard it’s gonna hit you, how many times it will stab your jugular with its teeth or are they nails? don’t worry, that particular detail doesn’t matter, because before you have time to even process that you should be moving, you should be running, you should at the very least be flinging up your arms--you sure as hell should be getting rid of this book-- you won’t have time to even scream. 

Don’t look. 

I didn’t. 

Of course I looked. 

Some story spoilers under the cut. 

Whoo boy do I feel torn on this one. House of Leaves contains some really intriguing ideas, and when it’s done right, it’s some of the best stuff out there. Unfortunately, there are also several questionable choices and narrative decisions that, for me, tarnish the overall experience. It’s certainly an interesting read, even if the whole is ultimately less than the sum of its parts. 

First of all, I can see why people don’t like this book, or give up on it early (for me this was attempt number three). Despite an interesting concept and framing device, the first third or so of the book is pretty boring. Johnny is just not an interesting character. He does a lot of drugs and has a lot of (pretty unpleasant) sex and... that’s pretty much it, at least at the beginning. There’s occasional horror sections that are more interesting, where Johnny’s convinced he’s being hunted by something, but they’re few and far between. Meanwhile, the story in The Navidson Record seems content to focus on the relationship issues between two affluent suburbanites rather than the much more interesting, physically impossible house they live in. The early “exploration” sections are a little bit better, but overall I feel the opening act neglects the interesting premise. 

However, unlike many, I love the gimmick. The academic presentation of the Navidson story is replete with extensive (fake) footnotes,and there’s tons of self-indulgent rambling in both stories. I personally find it hilarious; it’s an intentionally dense parody of modern academic writing. Readers will note early that the typographical format is nonstandard, with the multiple concurrent stories denoted by different typefaces, certain words in color, footnotes within footnotes, etc. House of Leaves eventually goes off the chain with this concept, gracing us with pages that look like (minor spoilers) this or this. This leads into the best part of this book, namely... 

Its visual presentation! House of Leaves excels in conveying story and feeling through formatting decisions. The first picture I linked is one of many like it in a chapter about labyrinths. And reading it feels like navigating a labyrinth! It features a key “story”, but also daunting, multi-page lists of irrelevant names, buildings, architectural terms, etc. There are footnotes that don’t exist, then footnote citations that don’t seem to exist until one finds them later in the chapter. All this while physically turning the book or even grabbing a mirror to read certain passages. In short, it feels like navigating the twists, turns, and dead ends of a labyrinth. And that’s just one example -- other chapters utilize placement of the text to show where a character is in relation to others, what kind of things are happening around them, and so on. One chapter near the end features a square of text that gets progressively smaller as one turns the pages, which mirrors the claustrophobic feel of the narrative events. This is the coolest shit to me; I adore when a work utilizes its format to convey certain story elements. I usually see this in poetry and video games, but this is the first time I’ve seen it done so well in long-form fiction. City of Saints and Madmen and Shriek: An Afterword by Jeff VanderMeer, both of which I reviewed earlier this year, do something similar, and are clearly inspired by House of Leaves in more ways than one. 

And yes, the story does get a little better, though it never wows me. The central horror story is not overtly scary, but eeriness suffices, and I have a soft spot for architectural horror. Even Johnny and the Navidsons become more interesting characters over time. For example, I find Karen pretty annoying and generic for most of the book, but her development in later chapters makes her much more interesting. While I question the practical need for Johnny’s frame story, it does become more engaging as he descends into paranoia and madness.

So why the relatively low rating? Well... as I alluded to earlier, there’s some questionable stuff in House of Leaves that leaves (...hah?) a bad taste in my mouth. The first is a heavy focus on sexual violence against women. I did some extensive thinking on this throughout my read, but I just cannot find a valid reason for it. The subject feels thrown in for pure shock value, and especially from a male author, it seems tacky and voyeuristic. If it came up once or twice I’d probably be able to stomach this more easily, but it’s persistent throughout the story, and doesn’t contribute anything to the plot or horror (not that that would really make it better). I’m not saying books can’t have that content, but it’s just not explored in any meaningful way, and it feels cheap and shitty to throw it in something that traumatizing just to shock the audience. It’s like a bad jump scare but worse on every level. There’s even a part near the end written in code, which I took the time to decode, only to discover it’s yet another example of this. Like, really, dude? 

Second, this book’s portrayal of mental illness is not great. (major spoilers for Johnny’s arc.) One of the main things about Johnny’s story is he’s an unreliable narrator. From the outset, Johnny has occasional passages that can either be interpreted as genuine horror, or delusional breaks from reality. Reality vs unreality is a core theme throughout both stories. Is The Navidson Record real despite all evidence to the contrary? Is it real as in “is the film an actual thing” or “the events of the film are an actual thing”? and so on and so forth. Johnny’s sections mirror this; he’ll describe certain events, then later state they didn’t happen, contradict himself, or even describe a traumatic event through a made-up story. Eventually, the reader figures out parts of Johnny’s actual backstory, namely that when he was a small child, his mother was institutionalized for violent schizophrenia. Perhaps you can see where this is going... 

Schizophrenia-as-horror is ridiculously overdone. But it also demonizes mental illness, and schizophrenia in particular, in a way that is actively harmful. Don’t misunderstand me, horror can be a great way to explore mental illness, but when it’s done wrong? Woof. Unfortunately House of Leaves doesn’t do it justice. While it avoids some cliches, it equates the horror elements of Johnny’s story to the emergence of his latent schizophrenia. This isn’t outwardly stated, and there are multiple interpretations of most of the story, but in lieu of solid and provable horror, it’s the most reasonable and consistent explanation. There’s also an emphasis on violent outbursts related to schizophrenia, which just isn’t an accurate portrayal of the condition. 

To Danielewski’s credit, it’s not entirely black and white. We do see how Johnny’s descent into paranoia negatively affects his life and interpersonal relationships. There’s a bonus section where we see all the letters Johnny’s mother wrote him while in the mental hospital, and we can see her love and compassion for him in parallel to the mental illness. But the experimental typographical style returns here to depict just how “scary” schizophrenia is, and that comes off as tacky to me. I think this is probably an example of a piece of media not aging well (after all, this book just turned 20), and there’s been a definite move away from this kind of thing in horror, but that doesn’t change the impression it leaves. For a book as supposedly original/groundbreaking as this, defaulting to standard bad horror tropes is disappointing. And using “it was schizophrenia all along” to explain the horror elements in Johnny’s story feels like a cop-out. I wish there was more mystery here, or alternate interpretations that actually make sense. 

Overall The Navidson Record part of the story feels more satisfying. I actually like that there isn’t a direct explanation for everything that happens. It feels like a more genuine horror story, regardless of whether you interpret it as a work of fiction within the story or not. There’s evidence for both. Part of me wishes the book had ended when this story ends (it doesn’t), or that the framing device with Johnny was absent, or something along those lines. Oh well-- this is the story we got, for better or worse. 

I don’t regret reading House of Leaves, and it’s certainly impressive for a debut novel. If you’re looking for a horror-flavored work of metafiction, it’s a valid place to start. I think the experimental style is a genuine treat to read, and perhaps the negative aspects won’t hit you as hard as they did to me. But I can definitely see why this book is controversial. 

[soulvomit]

I need to talk a little about where 70s-90s Yuppie Anti-Neediness Culture came from, too. Many yuppies were people who exited hippie culture. (My own parents.)

The "toxicity" that Boomers are referring to, often refers to social experiences that they had in their late teens to early 20s, as people fleeing abusive, authoritarian Silent Generation-led households formed ad-hoc social support networks with their fellow lost souls. Many of whom were on drugs, many of whom had severe abuse/authoritarianism/patriarchal trauma, many of whom just didn't know How To People. (This supposed "hippie" culture hid lots of neurodivervence in plain sight, too.)

This is what my parents went through. Hippie culture - as in, what squares called hippie culture - seemed to always have that person having a tantrum in the corner, at any party. There was always a woman whose spouse/partner had dumped them who was now taking up residence in your home. There was always someone in need of rescue. They knew so many people who'd grown up middle class who were now figuring out how to live in motels, crash pads, trailers because your choices were often, before the 70s, be square or be basically homeless. And the whole culture produced a lot of single mothers.

Lots of so called "hippies" were just lost kids turned loose into adulthood without a roadmap.

My parents were themselves lost souls. Other people described them as free spirits - because lots of white middle class Greatest and Silent Generation squares had a narrative around "beatniks" and "hippies" and "flower children" that basically centered suburban squaredom as the Thing that Everyone Wanted. If you didn't fit with that then it must be because you DIDN'T want those things.

My parents are the archetype of "hippie to yuppie pipeline" and here's how it looked from the outside: two anti-authoritarian fun loving, drug taking, free loving young people living in crash pads full of young people, and going to open air concerts.

The reality is that they were fucked up and they both came from abusive households. (And they started poor. There was more actual social mobility for some people, in the 1970s.) And the support network they found, was other people who were fucked up.

They met on the Venice Canals in 1969. They had me in 1973, still living deep within this social network of fellow lost souls and fellow fuckups (I say this as a fuckup.)

Their first few years raising me (they met in 69, I was born in 73; up to about 1977) were in a series of crash pads, motels, a van in the woods, and in their crowd, everybody was sleeping with everybody.

By the way - it was terrible for women because someone was always being abandoned to fend for herself (often with children) by a drug using or philandering male partner: that's the root of lots of 70s feminist thought and also an early feminist root of 80s anti-codependency/recovery culture. Women who had been left adrift and crushed on the rocks by the 60s and early 70s zeitgeist. If you read "Women Who Love Too Much," it's full of ex-hippie stories. A lot of the 70s and 80s Career Woman existed in rejection of the 60s and 70s Earth Mother.

My parents were trying to raise a kid around all of these free spirits and lost souls, but it was just too unstable. One of their roommates was doing a lot of drugs and became increasingly paranoid and scary. Theu ended up living in a van for a while, and it wasn't a romantic hippie aspiration so much as... they'd gotten evicted because of shit their roommates did.

There were lots of adrift women in their social world who could barely support themselves, who were desperately trying to poach other women's husbands, and straight men in that environment were like kids in a candy store. It was hard to get a place if you looked like a hippie (and "looking like a hippie" often just meant you were an educated-sounding white person who looked poor) or even if you were known to have hippie friends. In the 1970s, most of the gatekeepers of the world were square Silents.

My parents became intent on leaving their "free spirit" world behind, ultimately, because their roommates and friends weren't safe people to have around while trying to raise a kid. And succeeding in a square world meant adapting to it.

My parents were fortunate enough to be educated-sounding white-passing people who cleaned up well. They became Mormons briefly (it lasted only a year and a half but it helped assimilate them into square culture) and joined Amway. They were reading success books. My dad started doing corporate work.

They had to cast off their lost soul/free spirit friends because these people were actively harmful to the life they were trying to build.

Their new friends were my dad's middle class work friends and those men's wives. They lost every single one of their pre-1980 friends. Every. One.

And *this* is what a lot of the 80s idea of "toxicity" comes from.

[feminist-propaganda]

Single Mothers Will Probably Cry During Every Episode Of  Queen’s Gambit - Episode 2

Episode 1, which I wrote about yesterday, was called Openings. It walks the viewer through Beth’s childhood trauma. The violent car crash she survives, and her entrance at an Orphanage where she discovers tranquilizers and the Chess Board.

In the first episode, Beth connects with her mother through fashion, which manifests in embroidery, that her young mind associates with the chessboard.

Yes, in the first episode, we see young Beth using tranquilizers to cope with the pain her mother’s passing has caused her. But Beth didn’t learn substance abuse from her mother. In fact, we never see her mother using mind altering substances through out the series. That is something Beth learns from mainstream society, symbolized by the orphanage, and later the Wheatley household.

Lesson 2 : Dissociate. Sometimes.

At the beginning of Episode 2, we watch as Beth gets adopted by the Wheatleys. The viewer is uneasy during the first couple of minutes. We observe nervously as Mr Wheatley stares at her in the mirror of the car. Afraid that he might try to sexually assault her once she is in his home. We relax as we watch the car park in front of a nice house in the suburbs of Lexington. For a glorious minute, we think that Beth is saved. She has a beautiful roof over her head, a mother and a father, a new high school.

The Wheatleys have the perfect house in the suburbs, a richly decorated interior, a piano. But quickly Beth comes to observe that Mr Wheatley detests being around his wife, that he disapears ever so frequently to other cities. And that most of all, he exercises a power over Alma that seems stronger than the laws of Nature.

We see that whenever Alma begins to discuss a topic he is not interested in, he clears his throat and she immediately turns to more unsignificant, meaningless chit chat. As he disapears into the black hole of his “business trips”, we understand that adopting Beth was merely an exit strategy for Mr Wheatley. He wants to give his wife a companion before checking out. He wants to leave her and can’t stand the marriage, but he doesn’t want to feel guilty about it. 

We discover that Alma has an addiction to alcohol and cigarettes. That her doctor prescribes the same tranquilizers that Beth used in the orphanage. And that she washes away her brain with these substances day in and day out. it is difficult to watch Alma stare at the television as she works through a six pack, or lay in bed all day with a terrible hangover, only to blame it on a “virus”.

In this episode, which might as well have been called the “Feminine Mystique” we explore the topic of women’s existential crisis in the 50s and the advent of second wave feminism. Alma discovers that adopting Beth does not solve all of her problems, that she still feels miserable. That “the problem with no name” as Betty Friedan called it, is still very much present in her life. So what is it? Why does she need to drink? What is she trying to numb?

It is no secret that during the Second War World, women were called upon by the Western governments to join the workforce. 

They worked in factories, offices, telephone centers and kept the economy going as their husbands, sons and brothers were sent to fight Hitler’s Germany. During this period; women proved that they could get the job done. And when their husbands came back from the front, a massive intellectual movement was launched. The purpose of this new mouvement was to send women back home. Betty Friedan, (who is clearly Beth’s namesake) theorized this in her 1963 best seller : the Feminine Mystique. 

She explains how College Professors, Journalists and General Practicians all flocked together to create a new narrative. In the 15 years between 1945 and 1960 the mouvement was so strong that American women were getting married at younger ages than in the third world. They were getting pregnant before high school graduation. And the few that went to college dropped out as soon as they could get a ring on their finger.

A smear campaign was launched to discredit the “feminists” that had “gone too far”. They were trying to “be men” and they had only managed to become bitter, ugly, spinsters. This message was repeated over and over again, in the magazines and TV shows. Women were caged in their homes, bored to death and miserable. They went to therapy where they were diagnosed with “penis envy” and sent home with tranquilizers. 

To paraphrase the great Nigerian feminist novelist Chimamanda Bgozi Adichie, women were being raised to aspire to marriage which is all fine and dandy until they realized that men were not being raised to aspire to marriage. Not at all. They were raised to pursue exciting adventures, to challenge their great minds, to adopt a hobby and become the best at it. They came home to depressed wives, that had little to contribute to the partnership. The men, like Mr Wheatley,  were uncomfortable, it was unbearable for them to be married to such souless creatures. 

So the business trip was invented! 

What is remarquable about Betty’s account of what it is to be an intellectual woman in the U.S.A. during this period; is that she explains that the previous generation was the exact opposite of this. The mothers of the Bettys were the Alices. Mathematicians. College educated women. They had fought in what is now dubbed the first wave of feminism. Obtained the right to go to school, to have a bank account, to vote. They were the sufragettes. They wore white and relayed each other on the picket fence. They had fought very hard to obtain the right to exit the home, to stop belonging to men, to own property. And now their own daughters were being brain washed to abandon all of these rights and cage themselves. It was devastating to witness such a thing. I believe Alice’s character is named after Alice Paul who obtained the right to vote in 1920.

The first time Beth sees Mr and Mrs Wheatley argue, she sees the way he humiliates his wife. They are seen arguing in the driveway. He is leaving, he holds his briefcase and is about to enter the vehicle. In a couple of sentences, he tells her she’s a terrible driver, that she needs exercise, and belittles her new companion. In his own words: “She doesn’t seem like she has a whole lot to say”. Once Mr Wheatley leaves, Mrs Wheatley takes to the piano and plays a melancholic song beautifully. Beth comes down the stairs and watches. Mrs Wheatley pretends like she isn’t sad her husband left, like she doesn’t sense that he is in fact leaving her. That she doesn’t know that the business trip is a lie. She tells Beth “Please stop gawking you’re making me nervous”. In this scene, when Mrs Wheatley sees Beth coming down from the stairs she says in a fake, sweet voice: “You’re up early, must be all of the excitement due to your first day of school”. 

When she does this, Mrs Whealtey  is actually engaging in something called “The prevention of real talk”. Marco Rogers, who goes by the handle @polotek on Twitter theorized this in a tweet in January 26th. 

He continues

Twitter user @SerenissimaLAz1 chimed in and confirmed that white women were tasked with the Prevention of Real Talk. We see Alma do this several times during the episode. Every time she senses that a conflict might occur, she changes the topic of the conversation; adopts a fake sweet voice and steers the energy away from the issue at stake.

Instead of being honest with Beth about the state of her marriage, her doubts, she makes up a little story in her head. Nothing is wrong. Beth is excited for school. Beth then asks her head on : Where is Mr Wheatley? And Mrs Wheatley tells her that he must travel once more. She makes a sentence that seems to say that she believes him. And adds a snark comment at the end “As he likes to remind me, he puts the roof over our head”.

Thus, Mrs Wheatley summarizes the second wave of feminism. Women in the 50s could not win a single argument with their partners and had to resign every fight because in the end they weren’t the breadwinners. The were “just” the homemakers. 

Beth then tells this new mother of hers that she plays the piano beautifully and Mrs Wheatley tells us that she always dreamed of joining the orchestra, but that she had stage fright. Then she got pregnant.

Beth looks out of the window at the end of the episode. She’s started menstruating. She is atracted to some of her opponents in the chess tournament. She has learned that women that live inside of suburban houses are miserable. As she looks out in the window, and into the quiet driveway, she sees Alice’s face. Alice tells her “Close your eyes”.

These were Alice’s last words before she crashed into the truck, as we have explained. But here, they take on a new meaning. What Alice is telling Beth, is that in life, she will sometimes have to learn to dissociate from the situations she finds herself in.

According to the Better Health Channel:

Dissociation is a mental process of disconnecting from one’s thoughts, feelings, memories or sense of identity.

The dissociative disorders that need professional treatment include dissociative amnesia, dissociative fugue, depersonalisation disorder and dissociative identity disorder.

Most mental health professionals believe that the underlying cause of dissociative disorders is chronic trauma in childhood.

The episode presents the dissociative process that single mothers follow to cope with the realities of patriarchy. And how, when they do this, they make their chldren, espeacially their daughters, feel anxious. It is scary to think that the female adults are telling you to “close your eyes”. What is it that they don’t want you to see? And how long can they hide it from you? Mrs Wheatley tries to conceal her pain, use a sweet voice and stuff herself with tranquilizers. Alice is brutally honest, tragically self aware. Alice decides to live in a trailer, removed from society. She does not lie to her daughter. She lives in her own truth. But still, she says : Close your eyes. 

To win the tournament, her very first tournament, Beth uses the tranquilizers she stole from Mrs Wheatley. She can’t stand her own emotions, they are too painful. She is too afraid. She remembers the life lessons from Mrs Wheatley (Drink your pain away; be numb, pretend everything is fine, use a sweet voice) and Alice’s lessons (Close your eyes). One could even argue she uses the lessons she learned at the Orphanage, because we see Beth use a snarky comment when she beats Beltik about how he should’ve been on time. 

To beat Beltik, Beth blocked “it” out. In the terms of a psychiatrist : she dissociated. Pretended that she wasn’t under pressure, that no one was watching her, that she wasn’t losing. She ate the pill and mushed over her brain. Then she looked up at the ceiling and saw the pawns, and did what she learned to do at the orphanage. Visualize the board, move the pawns, envision every scenario, find the best move.

Beth rushed to the bathroom and takes the pill. She looks up at the ceiling and there is the chessboard. Finally she can focus on the board, and work her way out of the pickle she’s in. Win the tournament.

She comes back from the bathroom with a weird, relaxed look in her eyes. And she wins. 

Steady cold. And with the money from the tournament she buys more dresses.

[hellyeahomeland]

[This is our last Director’s Chair post and the final post of “regular” coverage for the finale. Compiling this all now, almost a month later, has brought back a surge of conflicting emotions for me: pride, catharsis, relief, anxiety, sadness, emptiness. We love to put these posts together and we’re so grateful you all have enjoyed reading them. Thank you. --Sara]

“Prisoners of War” | Directed by Lesli Linka Glatter, Cinematography by David Klein

Sara: It was not scripted that Brody’s infamous tape would open the episode as Carrie drives back from the meeting where Yevgeny told her to kill Saul. And yet it works. All season they’ve charted Carrie on a similar path to Brody. Finally, the subtext becomes text. 

In more ways than one, we end at the beginning. Not only did Brody’s tape open the finale of the show’s first season, but this opening scene of the episode was the last shot of the series. 

Ashley: I wasn’t aware that it wasn’t scripted, but I wasn’t surprised to see it. We knew for a long time prior to season eight that Carrie was following a path echoing Brody’s; it was interesting for me that it was never explicitly referenced or referred to. Until right now.

Gail: Brody filmed this video before he put on the suicide vest but with all of the intentions of putting it on and going through with the ultimate betrayal of his country. The audience doesn’t know it at the time, but Carrie has already put a plan in place for the betrayal of her country and Saul with all of the intentions of going through with it. As we hear Brody speak, we get a sense (and foreshadowing) of Carrie’s mindset. She knows people will say she was broken, she was brainwashed, people will say that she was turned and taught to hate her country. But like Brody, she loves her country and swore an oath to defend the United States of America against enemies both foreign and domestic. For Carrie in this moment, she is looking straight ahead because there is no turning back for her now.

Sara: I love this slow push on Carrie as she arrives at Saul’s empty house. There is an air of defiance to her expression--the refusal both to do what Yevgeny’s asked of her and also to believe she’s in this position to begin with. It adds context to her admission later that she blames Yevgeny. Though he was pushing her along, every decision that Carrie made was hers and hers alone. 

Gail: I agree, and I also sense her relief. The weight of her plans is bearing down on her. Saul trusts her so implicitly that he has invited her to stay in his home and receive his full protection. Here she is, letting herself into his house with a key he surely gave her. I’m not sure betrayal is a strong enough word for what Carrie is about to do to him.

Ashley: I remember laughing over Max’s very Max statement that the black box was actually orange. I don’t think I ever considered how important that information was; he risked his life, over and over again for it, and it’s all entirely distinctive.

Gail: When I first watched this scene, I had hopes that somehow Anna could steal the flight recorder or download the information from it. Even on rewatch, I’m struck by how many different ways the outcome could’ve been different. This whole season has been shaped by a series of misconceptions. It’s a scary proposition that truth isn’t truth anymore.

Sara: Chekhov’s flight recorder returns! I have to eat my words on this one. About midway through the season I was rather dejected thinking about how the last half of the show’s final season would be about … what? This stupid flight recorder? But they did it. Who knew the quest for an inanimate object could be so compelling? I mean, I guess JRR Tolkien and plenty of other people but still.

Gail: It is no coincidence that Anna is wearing similar colors to Carrie, and my guess is that their likeness that Sara pointed out in the last Director’s Chair isn’t either. These are the two most important women in Saul’s career (life?) and both have sacrificed so much for what they believe in.

Sara: I love Tatyana Mukha as Anna. What a weighty, pivotal role in the last two episodes and she totally nailed the feigned devotion. Outside, she’s robotic and emotionless; inside, a warrior. 

Ashley: How interesting for her to be a translator — her job literally was to take information from one person and convey it to another. That’s what she did always. Her role as Saul’s asset was just an extension of it.

Sara: Gail, here’s your red/white/blue shot. I’ll note too that Charlotte, in addition to the royal blue suit, is wearing the white pearls and red lipstick and also that the colors of Russia’s flag are… red, white, and blue. 

Gail: Thanks Sara! I spoke about this on part one of our finale podcast, but the red, white and blue imagery here while Carrie’s plan is set in motion to betray Saul and her country are striking.

Ashley: God, what a smarmy little shit.

Gail: Hugh Dancy’s weirdo evil beard deserves an Emmy of its own.

Sara: This twisted little smile from Hugh Dancy emanates filth. What a despicable character John Zabel is. There must be twenty of him walking around the real-life West Wing today.

Sara: That said, his repeated trolling of Saul was wonderful to watch. This petulant shrug here is a mood. 

Ashley: This shot is great. Zabel and Saul are literally arms-length apart from one another in this cavernous office. 

Gail: It says so much about what kind of President that Hayes has become that his chair sits empty during this very important meeting (in the Oval Office FFS!) with his National Security Advisor and an escalating nuclear war looming.

Sara: I loved that Carrie and Saul’s sisters both showed up in this episode. While neither really understand their sibling, they both ultimately respect their wishes. Their appearance feels especially significant in an episode where Carrie and Saul--each other’s found family--are “cleaved apart” (Gansa’s words).

Gail: I think Maggie respects Saul, but I also think it must have taken a lot for Maggie to go to Saul’s house in search of Carrie. Maggie has made no secret of her feelings toward the situations that she feels Saul has put Carrie in. Maggie doesn’t call Saul, she goes to his house to see for herself. Carrie isn’t the only Mathison sister with agency. Maggie has quite a bit of it herself. As the two people who know Carrie best, it’s fitting that Maggie’s appearance at Saul’s house confirms what Saul must already suspect about Carrie’s involvement in the price for the flight recorder. It’s also a reminder of what Carrie stands to lose. Carrie isn’t just betraying Saul and her country, she is betraying Maggie and Franny, turning her back on all of them.

Ashley: It felt important to me that Maggie met Saul. These people are Carrie’s ONLY family, and she is never going to talk to them again.

Sara: Love the stock footage of Maggie’s home from earlier seasons! And the American flag flying in the breeze. 

Gail: The Brody family home had a flag flying too... the irony of a typical American home with a tyranny of secrets inside is quite the metaphor.

Ashley: I love that Carrie has a go bag stashed with thousands of dollars (at minimum) and she’s still probably got that wicked credit card debt. 

Gail: Pills, passports, and a plethora of unmarked bills in a variety of currencies put Saul’s go bag of diamonds to shame.

Sara: Oh my GOD I looked at this picture the wrong way for a second and thought the fuzzy pink pillow was Carrie’s WRINKLY HAND and I had a momentary freakout. Anyway, my point about this is that I love all the go bags we’ve seen from Carrie over the years.

Ashley: At what point do you think they’ll take that photo of Carrie off Franny’s dresser? She is never going to see her mother. Why remind her of that?

Gail: It’s heartbreaking that the only picture of Carrie in a frame in Franny’s room is of Carrie alone. Franny probably doesn’t have many memories of Carrie being with her on a daily basis, which is even more heartwrenching to think about. Is Homeland trying to tell us they are better off apart by showing us a happy Franny and a happy Carrie separately? The “Franny of it all” absolutely breaks my heart.

Sara: The way they incorporated Franny into this episode is very clever. We never see her but her presence--or, really, lack thereof--in Carrie’s life punctures every moment. 

Sara: Carrie slowly making her way up Saul’s house, lit from inside, is such an outstanding shot. It’s like she’s walking into the lion’s den. This show doesn’t use non-scored music all that often, so the Mozart that plays over this part is especially distinctive. It’s so very Saul, and I love how it contrasts to Carrie’s jazz at the end of the episode. Saul remains old school, traditional, classic. 

Gail: Saul’s house looks so warm and inviting. His street looks like every other suburban street after dinner--minus the Russian kill team waiting for Carrie’s signal.

Ashley: Saul left the porch light on for her. :(

Sara: I love how Saul stays seated while Carrie hovers over him. It gives the impression of Carrie having the power or “high ground” in the situation when it’s the complete opposite.

Ashley: This is such Carrie posture, her face is tense, she knows this will be the end. Look how wide her fingers are spread — she is desperately hoping he’ll throw her a rope and let her off the hook and mixed metaphors, mixed metaphors, poor Carrie. 

Gail: Saul’s ability to stay calm and play his cards close to the vest has always been impressive, but never more so than during this scene with Carrie. He may be sitting casually, shirt unbuttoned and having a drink, but there is nothing casual about his demeanor. In their typical relationship fashion, Saul knows more than he says and Carrie isn’t playing by the rules. The only difference is that for the first time in the series, they are no longer on the same team.

Sara: Saul finally rises to look Carrie square on. This scene is the culmination of eight seasons of their relationship. Lesli Linka Glatter has said many times that the quintessential Homeland scene is one where two characters are having an argument and expressing completely different viewpoints and they’re both right. This scene between Carrie and Saul, as they argue not just about the likelihood of war but the morality of it, is simply perfect. They’re both right and wrong at the same time. After so many years of it being Carrie and Saul versus the world, it was only fitting that the show concludes with it being Carrie versus Saul. 

Ashley: Is Saul standing in front of his shelf of red books? Physically and figuratively protecting his asset? I literally can’t tell. 

Gail: Saul isn’t standing in front of his red books, Carrie is. The only thing standing between him and protecting his asset is Carrie. Literally.

Ashley: The books Carrie is standing in front of don’t look red????

Gail: There is another shelf behind her at a different angle we can’t see here.

Sara: The shelf of red books is parallel to the bar setup. So actually neither of them are standing in front of them.

Sara: It’s really interesting that the focus in this frame stays on Carrie, eyes wide, nearly in disbelief at what she’s just done. 

Gail: Neither can believe what she’s just done.

Sara: Again, Carrie stays above Saul. But this shot and the way it uses point of view really reminds me of the bathtub scene in “Trylon and Perisphere.” Both scenes center Carrie in the frame in the midst of a potentially life-altering, life-ruining decision. I’ve quoted this analysis from Libby Hill countless times over the years, and it is strangely fitting even now:

“Actions that seem only selfish can often look selfless from the other side, no matter how warped that viewpoint is. Consider this: Homeland rarely utilizes point-of-view filmmaking, meant to place us literally inside a character’s head. But it does here. Carrie looks down at her baby. What would it be to be the mother of this child? And, then, as her daughter slips beneath the water, we switch to the infant’s point of view. What would it be to be the child of this mother? Homeland is all but daring us to identify with Carrie’s decision, to push our empathy so far it nearly snaps. And then it reminds us of the horrors present in her choice, lets us see how she might consider she is doing to be somehow merciful.”

Gail: I still can’t believe she called the hunky Russian kill team. Before this episode aired, if you would’ve seen this screenshot, you would’ve thought Saul had a stroke or something and Carrie had just found him. And you would have thought that because, like Saul, we trust Carrie implicitly, to a fault. (P.S. Where can I get that floor lamp?)

Sara: Carrie is literally on hands and knees pleading with Saul, begging him to tell her his asset’s name. We can feel all her urgency, her desperation, her exasperation. And Saul, in stunning contrast, is still as ever. 

Sara: Again, Carrie hovers over him. I love that Saul is forced to look at her. 

Gail: In season four when Carrie goes to get Saul in the prisoner exchange, she gives him back his glasses to put on, which in essence gives his power back to him. Without his glasses throughout the series, Saul has found himself powerless, just like he is here. A prisoner in his own home in his most private space.

Gail: Carrie’s last card to play with Saul isn’t an empty threat, it is a plea. With the only power he has left, she needs him to speak the name of his asset. But the bridge has already been burned and his last words to her solidify it.

Sara: The last thing Saul ever says to Carrie on Homeland is “go fuck yourself,” and that hits deep. Mandy Patinkin is exquisite here. He’s unable to move his face or body; all his emotion and feeling are funneled through his eyes. The look in his eyes here is haunting. It is pure betrayal.  

Ashley: The “go fuck yourself” hits doubly hard, because he hasn’t said a word to her since the serum kicked in. Carrie made it a point to ask whether he’d be able to speak after she dosed him — this is all he said.

Sara: While Saul stares her down, she can’t even look at him. I thought Claire played this so perfectly. She has to cycle through a half dozen emotions--disappointment, shame, denial, to name a few--in a matter of seconds. She makes it look easy. God, it’s been such a gift to see these two act on our screens weekly for the last eight years. 

Gail: Carrie isn’t just turning away from Saul here, she’s turning away from life as she knew it. And like Sara said, the range of emotions that we see Carrie cycle through in a matter of seconds is a master class in acting by Claire Danes.

Sara: And now Carrie goes to see Saul’s sister, a mirror of the scene with Maggie earlier in the episode. It was so unexpected to bring back Dorit for the final episode, and it totally works. Really inspired writing. 

Ashley: I’m kind of disappointed that Saul and Dorit were together in the flash-forward. I would have liked for Dorit’s only interaction to be with Carrie, as Maggie’s was with Saul.

Gail: I’m not disappointed that Saul was reunited with Dorit. I find it fitting. Life has moved on. Saul was given an opportunity to repair his fractured relationship with his sister and he took it. Carrie made choices that will forever keep her from repairing her relationship with Maggie. It’s another reminder of the price Carrie paid and will continue to pay for as long as she lives.

Ashley: Okay, good point.

Sara: I’m fucked up about this all over again. 

Sara: The brilliant irony of the entire second act of the episode is that while Carrie does have to literally pretend Saul is dead, in a very real and true way he has died for her. Again, the best lies are 95% true. Her relationship with Saul at that point, having crossed the line she did the previous night, is potentially destroyed forever. She grieves for him here in a very real way. 

Sara: I only included this because the woman young Saul Berenson is holding is Mandy Patinkin’s actual wife, Kathryn Grody. If you haven’t checked out their quarantine content, get on that. 

Sara: I love how an envelope with Carrie’s name on it has played such a pivotal role in three of this show’s eight season finales. 

Gail: We need a side-by-side of this envelope and Quinn’s letter. The similarities aren’t only between the way her name is written and the handwriting itself. They also contain intensely personal messages for Carrie, who Saul and Quinn both trusted with their lives and cared for dearly. There is probably also a parallel to the ways in which they both saw her and in the ways she betrayed them both (real or imagined).

Sara: Someone’s gonna request that gifset in 3, 2, 1... 

Gail: Dorit is the last person Carrie sees from her “old” life. I think Carrie is grieving that as much as she is grieving Saul here.

Sara: In this moment, Dorit is Carrie’s last link to Saul. There is hesitation here when she hugs her, and then she just gives in and lets the grief of losing Saul wash over her. 

Sara: IJLTP.

Ashley: I like the shot of her creeping in, face only half-visible… it feels like a 24 (drink!) type shot, not a Homeland shot, and the contrast of her coming in to this beautiful bright room from a drab hallway is great.

Gail: Carrie holds all of the power and this time, she doesn’t put the gun down or drop her guard. No needles to the neck this time, Yevgeny!

Sara: I love the complete contrast to the way Carrie approaches Yevgeny in this act versus what we saw from her in the middle third of the season.

Gail: Saul didn’t speak Anna’s name and neither did Carrie. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to do it. But standing in front of Dorit’s door reiterates just how much choice and power Carrie had. She wasn’t backed into a corner. She didn’t have to give up the asset. She chose to. 

Sara: This is such an excellent shot. Yevgeny’s stance! The gun pointed straight at him. The piece of paper with Anna’s name crumpled on the floor between them. 

Ashley: The paper crumpled on the floor between them is interesting, because this is so important to him — Carrie blew up her entire world to get this name — and it’s just tossed on the floor like a piece of trash.

Sara: Similar to the video call with Yevgeny last week, the camera pushes closer on Saul as the video progresses. And it finally goes to a close-up when he reveals that Anna has been “risking everything for us, everyday.” His words, dripping with irony, are like daggers. 

Gail: The close-ups have been used as a way to see what the character is genuinely thinking or feeling at any moment. This close-up of Saul (with glasses!) shows us just how much he trusted Carrie, and based on the timeline, it was relatively early in their relationship.

Sara: And, again, Carrie can hardly look him in the eye. He’s not physically present, but she still can’t face him. There are a lot of profile shots of Carrie in the second act. I’m not sure if there is symbolic significance to that, maybe that she’s literally been split in two by this ground-shifting decision she’s made. She’s pulled between her patriotism and sense of duty for her country and her loyalty to Saul.

Gail: Carrie feels like there is a gun to her head and puts a metaphorical gun to Saul’s head, and yet Anna is the only one with an actual gun to her head. Everyone feels like they don’t have a choice. The two most important people in Saul’s career seem to have many things in common, including taking matters into their own hands.

Ashley: And look at that dated hardware! She’s surrounded by things that have outlived their usefulness.

Sara: The entire sequence where Anna and Scott Ryan temporarily escape the GRU team is excruciating to watch. Anna is shot here from behind the fence in the basement room. It’s overt and literal imagery illustrating how trapped she is. And yet, despite that, she finds a way to be free, to end the mission on her own terms. We can understand here why Saul wants to protect her so badly. 

Gail: Saul is still without his glasses and without the power to protect Anna.

Sara: Sometimes I forget that in these phone call scenes, someone off-camera is literally just reading the other character’s lines. Mandy and Claire are both tremendous phone call (and green screen) actors. Saul jumping and wincing in pain when he hears the gunshot is heartbreaking. 

Sara: And here, this silent cry. In the span of less than 24 hours he’s lost the two people most important in his life. It gets a little lost in the shuffle of the (admittedly exhilarating) last act of the episode, but there is so much loss peppered throughout this episode. 

Ashley: This moment reminds me of the instant Haqqani shoots Aayan and Carrie jumps. You’re never prepared for that moment, whether you know it’s coming or not.

Gail: The red books are blurry in the background and just out of reach.

Sara: Another profile shot of Carrie. Here, as she watches the fruits of her labor all season long. It’s bittersweet of course. She did “stop a war,” as she earlier claimed she was trying to do. But, in the process, she lost her last remaining “ballasts,” as Claire would say: Saul, and her country. She can never go home again.

Sara: Lots of people turning off TVs this week. Earlier in the episode Carrie turns off the TV in Saul’s kitchen. We don’t need to explain the ~symbolism~ of that. 

Gail: Full disclosure: I did a deep dive on the painting on the mantle. I narrowed it down to something from the medieval times and was feeling discouraged when I took another look at this still from the finale. The menorah, just off to the right of the painting, looks fully lit. The menorah symbolizes light over darkness, something that feels fitting to the end of Carrie’s journey and complements the stained glass religious symbolism of Saul’s house.

Sara: The show has been pulling a Carrie/Brody parallel thread with Carrie and Yevgeny all season long and this scene here really reminds me of Carrie and Brody’s fight in the safe house in “The Star.” Of course, Carrie is now in Brody’s shoes. Just as Carrie couldn’t understand that you can’t redeem one murder by committing another, Yevgeny doesn’t grasp the monumental loss that Carrie is facing now that her relationship with Saul is destroyed. Carrie’s words echo here: 

Carrie: You were asked to do a mission on behalf of your country and you did it? Brody: Is that what you tell yourself? Carrie: That’s what I believe!

Gail: Carrie has done the once-unthinkable: she gave up her daughter so children like this could grow up in a world that isn’t ravaged by nuclear war. Watching them play as if nothing has happened also illustrates that the world still goes round, whether Carrie stops a war or not.

Sara: Carrie watching the young boys play soccer in the street is reminiscent of Carrie watching the two young girls in Kabul in “Designated Driver.” The effect is the same: she’s done it for them, so that they may not grow up in a world decimated by war. But what loss she faces in the process. 

Ashley: Also a reference to Issa playing soccer with Brody; Carrie has given herself mostly over to the… I guess “enemy” is the right word, but I don’t like it. 

Sara: Another profile shot. The single tear dripping from Carrie’s lip reminds me of this quote from James Poniewozik on Claire in “Q&A” (y’all I’m just pulling out ALL the quotes this time):

“As for Danes, she has the less showy part here, but it’s impressively complicated. She demonstrates Carrie in control (her shutting off the cameras shows both sympathy and power), leading Brody through his cover story, taking it apart and then bringing down the hammer—Dana—before walking him to a place where it’s OK for him to confess, telling him that she knows he’s a good man. At the same time, she shows Carrie’s delicate state in the moment, drawing on the feelings for Brody that she has, or at least once had. If she’s fooling Brody with her sympathy now, she’s fooling me too. There’s an almost sexual intimacy to the way these one-time lovers work through the confession: one tear rolling down Brody’s face, a drip of moisture from Carrie’s nose—her nose!—as Brody lies down like he wants to sleep forever.”

Sara: Another TV being turned off!

Sara: Hugh Dancy was so deliciously evil as Zabel, who was a real weasel. His expression here is one of true disappointment that he wasn’t able to wage more war in the Middle East. We don’t see Zabel in the “two years later” coda, but I’m sure he’s a lead contributor at Fox News. 

Gail: Oh for sure, and currently writing his second tell-all book. Maybe he’ll finally bump into Carrie on their book tours.

Sara: I would like to see it.

Sara: I will never this slow pan across Carrie in “two years later” land to reveal her applying mascara. Just… *chef’s kiss*

Sara: First, Yevgeny is leaning, just as always. Second, this apartment! Holy shit! It’s what she deserves dot gif. 

Gail: Hell yes! It’s also what we deserve!

Sara: There is an obvious parallel here to Lynne Reed in season one. Lynne also received a necklace from her ~beau. The irony, of course, is that Lynne was a true victim, and Carrie refuses to be. 

Gail: The first indicator for me that there was something else going on here was this look from Carrie as Yevgeny put the necklace on her. My tin foil hat was DANCING with all of the Lynne Reed parallels!

Ashley: Let’s not consider that parallel, given that Lynne’s necklace was also given to her in good faith by her paramour, and somebody else killed her for it. FOR TERRORISM.

Sara: I really can’t get over how unexpected it is for Carrie to be happy in this moment. The ultimate fakeout. Claire wished for relief for Carrie for years and she finally fucking got it. We all did.

Ashley: I know, and the look on Carrie’s face is so genuine and she might as well have heart eyes.

Gail: I still can’t believe it and it’s almost been a month since the finale aired.

Gail: What a view. So many windows reiterating just how out in the open her life with Yevgeny really is. You know what they say about people in glass houses...

Sara: Look at all the edible food on the countertops! I spy some vinegars, apples, oranges, salt and pepper. Yevgeny probably cooks for Carrie every night. Also, of course, the apartment is stunning. Gotta love that GRU money. I wonder how much Carrie’s book advance was. 

Ashley: Sara, just write the fic already.

Sara: I love the Franny photo showing up again. We know Alex Gansa loves symmetry and this is one of the better moments of symmetry in the series. It is heartbreaking, though. This was Carrie’s daily reminder as she was writing in her office of why she was doing it. 

We also need to note the books on Carrie’s desk, which are all actually Alex Gansa’s and were used throughout the series’ run for research.

Gail: I love that Carrie’s curtains are open and you can see the outside from her office. The skyline looks busy and beautiful. Her work is no longer hidden in closets or illegally in her living room. She is letting the world in on her secrets, but not quite into her office. All of the seats but hers are filled with her work. If this office is a sneak peek at her mindset, she is thriving (she has PLANTS--PLURAL!), she is organized, and she is most certainly keeping herself busy. Front and center on her desk is Franny, who I’m sure is always at the forefront of her mind.

Sara: The production design in this office is incredible. First, it looks like an office Carrie would have. All the papers and books scattered about, and yet somehow organized (everything is in mostly neat piles). 

I love the Russian doll at the far right of Carrie’s desk. It is a perfect metaphor for Carrie. A person inside a person inside a person inside a person. 

Ashley: It would have been criminal not to see one more Carrie wall. I would have sued.

Gail: This is the CIA wall where Carrie was finally able to get Brody the recognition she felt he deserved. Quinn too. Carrie has spent the last four seasons trying to answer for all of the blood on her hands, and in writing her book, maybe she can finally atone for some of it.

Sara: This is a searing, unforgettable image. The black ghost on the poster that reads “LEGACY OF TORTURE” stands out among the ocean of white paper. And what a legacy Carrie confronts here. The wall itself is filled with ghosts of all kinds: Warner, Brody, Dante, Quinn, Keane. And then there’s her real-life counterpart Ed Snowden, rendered in the ironically patriotic colors of America’s flag (or, again, is it Russia’s?) staring right back at her. 

Sara: So many details. Thanks to Lesli Linka Glatter, we know that the post-its on the window are the chapter titles of Carrie’s book and actual episode titles throughout the series. All the attention to detail here is mesmerizing. 

Gail: Sara gets her pretty, happy Carrie and I get my Spy Carrie. The post-it notes and easter eggs are the cherry on top of an already amazing series finale. Carrie taking a moment to look around the room at her old life while her new one is literally right outside her door waiting is so poignant.

Sara: We had it on the bingo card and it finally happened! The closing score from “The Star” plays over this scene, and if there’s one piece of music in Homeland that can easily conjure the emotions of loss, it’s this. At the end of “The Star,” Carrie is forced to pay tribute to Brody in her own private way. Now, she’s about to tell her own story to the entire world. 

Gail: By the end of “The Star” Brody had lost everything, including his life, and by the end of “Prisoners of War,” so has Carrie, albeit only metaphorically. When she drew Brody’s star on the wall at the CIA it was an act of defiance, of doing what she felt was right in her heart. Here she is again, defying the CIA and doing what she feels is right. The symmetry of it is breathtaking, especially with that gorgeous score from Sean Callery playing throughout.

Sara: One final Saul over-the-shoulder shot of the season (I mean series... sob)!

Sara: I love the little moments in the last act that give meaning and color to their life together. Her raised-eyebrow look at him as he’s grooving to the jazz is perfect. Carrie finally found a man who loves jazz as much as she does and that’s beautiful. 

Gail: Sharing her love of jazz music with Yevgeny seems symbolic of how much she’s let him into her life and into who she really is.

Sara: Never in 400,000 years would I think Homeland would feature a live musical performance on its show. Kamasi Washington was incredible. It’s such a perfect callback and tribute to the bones and DNA of the show. 

Gail: Russian hearts are breaking all over Moscow tonight.

Sara: Legendaric. 

Sara: The way the light hits Carrie here is gorgeous. There is symbolism to the fact that Yevgeny is completely in the dark. She looks at him, searching. 

Ashley: This shot is just really really really really really really (really to the power of infinity) beautiful.

Gail: “Somewhere down there, there’s a tiny sliver of green just taking its time. This is how everything works. You wait. You lay low. And then you come to life.”

Sara: GAIL.

Sara: This was probably unintentional, but I was struck by the symmetry of Carrie ascending and descending the staircase in the theater just as she did in the first act of the episode, repeatedly, in Saul’s house. It feels very fitting to me. In the beginning, she’s destroying her relationship with Saul. Now, she’s attempting to rebuild it. 

Gail: Carrie beginning to rebuild her relationship with Saul in a place like this, surrounded by religious symbolism, feels right. She leaves the shadows of her place in the audience and steps into the light.

Gail: The last time we saw Carrie look into a mirror she didn’t have time to shower or put any effort into her appearance. Now Carrie seems to have all the time in the world because girlfriend looks AMAZING.

Sara: More Lynne Reed parallels, this time with the purse swap, which bears a striking resemblance to the compact swap in “Grace.” I love that both Carrie and Saul have consistent means of communication with their assets. Saul’s is so perfectly him and Carrie’s is so perfectly her. 

Sara: This image of Carrie is haunting and arresting. The camerawork is brilliant here; Saul angles the book slightly upward, and we’re looking over Saul’s shoulder. The effect is that Carrie is staring straight back at Saul and straight back at the audience, piercing us. This is me, this is my story, her face seems to say.

Gail: I’m sure they were going for a similar look to Snowden’s book, but I love the black and white image of Carrie that they used, stripped of all color and (seemingly) of all allegiance.

Sara: The title, of course, is perfection. That they came up with the idea of this book in a day is quite miraculous as it seems so fitting and right for it to have been this. The subtitle “Why I Had to Betray My Country” is biting and direct and exactly Carrie. You can totally picture this in a bookstore (in the bestseller section, natch).

Sara: This dedication to Franny is simple but gutting. Above all else, it tells us that Carrie’s book and the story told within are real. She extends a hand to Saul with the note in the spine. And she extends a hand to her daughter with this short sentiment. I’m struck by how much of this show has been about Carrie’s struggle to be understood, to be believed. It’s heartbreaking that at the end she has to fight for this from her own child. This is one of the real tragedies of her story, but it makes her “finishing” feel all the more cathartic. This is Carrie’s truth.

Sara: The book is both the mechanism by which Carrie delivers her first piece of intelligence to Saul and a vehicle for her to tell her story, which includes betraying him. The irony and contradiction in that is Homelandian as hell, and completely fitting. So many things in this episode just make sense. They feel exactly as they should. What a rare gift they gave us. 

Gail: When Carrie and Saul get gifts, so do we!

Gail: I love that while everything was packed and emptied, his secret spy gear was still hidden inside his desk drawer.

Sara: Saul’s hand shaking as he reads the message is a specific detail that I really love.

Sara: Carrie’s final words to Saul, and to the audience, are “Stay tuned.” It’s masterful. 

Gail: “Hopeful-ish.”

Sara: Magic.

Gail: Pure magic.

Gail: Finally, a smile on Homeland where everything doesn’t immediately go to shit after!

Sara: In this moment the notes of jazz are repeating over and over, in higher and higher pitches. There is a sense of being trapped or repeating old patterns. Then the saxophone stutters. It wails, finally free. Carrie can’t help but smile. A secret only she knows. 

Sara: Saul grins, exhilarated. Somehow, improbably, Carrie has found a way to surprise him one final time. Earlier in this episode, Carrie’s burned it all down. Now, the light comes in. The white light streaming in from the windows, illuminating Saul from behind, gives this moment a feeling of near-religious importance. How extraordinary to believe again. 

Sara: Carrie’s contented sigh here reminds me of other moments she’s had that, like Saul’s, seem almost religious in nature. Bathed in the soft blue light and ensconced in the warmth of her music, we feel her sense of true belonging. We feel her catharsis, her relief. This is exactly where she should be.

Gail: I spoke about this in the finale podcast, but there is something to be said about watching a television series every week over eight seasons. There is an intimacy to television that builds week-to-week as the show is watched in people’s homes. We’ve gotten to know these characters, and for better or worse, we have taken a piece of ownership over them. In order for a television show to really work, that transference needs to happen and it needs to be authentic. The trick is for that balance to stay intact. Very few shows have achieved that balance long-term and even fewer have maintained it through their conclusions. Homeland didn’t kill off characters for the sake of doing so but instead gave us an ending that stayed true to the show and the characters we have come to love--an ending that was filled with loss but somehow still gave us hope. It was pure magic. It’s something I’ll never forget and something I will forever use to compare all other shows to. 

This last image of Carrie, bathed in the light of a new beginning, is a new beginning for us as viewers too. In ending the show, they didn’t take Carrie away from us, they gave her to us. Beautiful and as whole as she’s ever been. And like Sara said... what a thing it is to believe again... Thank you, Homeland. Ashley: This was a good television show.

Sara: The most shocking thing this show ever did was not killing off a half dozen beloved characters but centering its protagonist and heroine in its final moments in a moment of, dare we say, happiness and hope. Despite the utter unexpectedness of that decision, it never feels anything but honest and true. Carrie fought, she struggled, she stumbled, she lost. She lost so, so much. 

She smiles here, on the other side of it, able to finally see it all. The saxophones and keys and drums and voices drown out everything, they whir into an unmistakable commotion. And we feel this, her final, confounding truth... 

In the chaos, her peace. 

[whatnotmemes]

-------------------------BEETLEJUICE THE MUSICAL SENTENCE STARTERS PT. 1 change as needed. mentions of death and suicide.

Prologue: Invisible “We have only each other.” “Scripture tells us, ‘Sorrow not, for we do not walk alone.’“ “You're invisible when you’re sad.” “Nobody understands and everyone goes away.” “Grownups wanna fix things, when they can’t it only fills them with shame.” “Is it being greedy to need somebody to see me and say my name?” “Such a bold departure from the original source material.”

The Whole “Being Dead” Thing “‘Scuse me! Sorry to barge in.” “You're doomed! Enjoy the singing.” “If I hear your cell phone ringing, I'll kill you myself.” “We should have carpe'd way more diems. Now we're never gonna see ‘em.” “Welcome to a show about death!” “You're gonna be fine on the other side.” “The women's bathroom has no line here.” “I know you're woke, but you can take a joke.” “We're all on a hit list. Might not live ‘till Christmas.” “Death is taboo, but it's hardly something new.” “If you die while listening to this album, it's still gonna keep playing.” “That's the thing with life: no one makes it out alive.” “Death just needs a little conversation.” “I have mastered the art of tearing convention apart.”

Ready, Set, Not Yet “I know to the untrained eye it's boring.” “Apart from frustration, pain, and financial drain, it's fun!” “Why do you polish a crib when you don't have a kid?” “Your sense of perfection is just a reflection that you are not mentally prepared to make room for a kid.” “Are you willing to take the next step?” “Look at these jugs!” “The world will never wreck you.” “Here we stand at the end of a 10-year plan.” “A baby should be next.” “Together let's leap off the cliff.” “Soon enough, our hopes and our dreams will be crushed.” “Do we want a bilingual household or not?.” “What's the point of having children if we're drowning in debt?”

The Whole “Being Dead” Thing Pt. 2 “I’ll be your guide to the other side.” “Don’t go to the Netherworld.” “I’m the B-to-the-double-E-J-F-Q and Jesus, I can’t spell.” “Let’s all get naked!” “Hey, worth a try.” “I understand that it's a lot to process.” “That means the two of you should stick around.” “Lucky for you I dropped by.” “I’ve been scaring for millennia.” “Flush out all the breathers, you can breathe easier.” “I’m like a ghost-zombie Jesus.” “I do it for the love of it.” “Money? Ah, who gives a shit?” “Come on, let’s make out a bit.” “It’s the perfect day to die.”

Dead Mom “I need a little help here.” “Are you really in the ground? ‘Cause I feel you all around me.” “I'm a bunch of broken pieces. It was you who made me whole.” “_____’s in denial. _____ doesn't wanna feel.” “He wants me to smile and clap like a performing seal.” “You won't believe the mess that we've become.” “You're my home, my destination.” “You held my hand and life came easy.” “I want something to believe in or I’m done.” “Take me where my soul can run.” “I'm running out of hope and time.” “No more playing _____'s game.” “I'll go insane if things don't change.”

Fright of Their Lives “Right now, you couldn't frighten a fly.” “You ever stop to ask yourselves ‘why?’“ “You are super polite, middle class, suburban, and white. Well, all of that is finished tonight. Except for the white part, obviously.” “Look at me, I'm so scary.” “Don't be so vanilla.” “Would a little anger kill ya?” “C'mon, drop your panties. I'm trying to fill ya with wisdom and skill.” “We do not want to kill anyone!” “Now that is cool! I wanna do that!” “Give those guys the fright of their lives.” “Take a deep breath and give me your best primal scream.” “Try it again. Maybe this time pretend like you mean it.” “I find that so rude!” “Both of them are deathly dull and lame.” “Why God-slash-Satan, did you send these bed wetters?” “Well that was a soliloquy so you're the one who's being rude.” “Ugh, these dopes are both hopeless.”

Ready Set (Reprise) "That needy pervert was right." "If we want our house back, we have to fight for it!" "We're ghosts, damn it! Let's haunt this bitch!" "We might as well walk through some walls." "We're ready as we'll ever get." "I gotta get right outside my comfort zone."

No Reason “Just think of the universe as a female best friend.” “You're on the right track, girl. I got your back, girl.” “Think positive. Act positive.” “You are a child of the Earth.” “Life-coaching! Nailing it!” “You dictate the hand the universe deals.” “Who needs evidence? Go with your feels.” “Buy more crystals!” “Everything happens for a reason.” “Be a beacon of light in the world.” “Perception is reality.” “The universe is just the contents of time, matter and space.” “You think life is all unicorns and rainbows.” “Positivity is a luxury that few can afford.” “So you cry yourself to sleep in deep despair- talkin' to the walls 'cause there's no one there.” “Be prepared to take your eggs and freeze 'em.” “Terrible things can happen because the universe is random.”

Invisible (Reprise)/On the Roof “You're invisible when you're me.” “There's no one to see my truth.” “Hey, somebody's on the roof!” “God, it's mortifying. What's the point of even trying?” “Nobody said life's fair.” “By the time you read this I, _______, will be gone.” “There's nothing for me here. I'm alone, forsaken, invisible.” “That makes two of us.” “Can you... see me?!” “I'm gonna have a new best friend!”

Say My Name “You could use a buddy. Don't you want a pal?” “Don't end yourself. Defend yourself.” “The finer points can wait.” “Go ahead and jump but that won't stop him.” “Here you got a solid plan B option.” “You won't believe how far I'll go.” “I'm on the bench, but coach, just put me in the game.” “All you gotta do is say my name.” “How 'bout a game of charades?” “I'll think about your offer, let you know.” “I prefer my chances down below.” “Being young and female doesn't mean that I'm an easy mark.” “Yes, life sucks but not that much.” “Be a doll and spare the lecture.” “I may be suicidal but _____, it's not as if I've lost my mind” “Playing hardball, huh? You are tougher than you look.” “This is a dangerously unstable individual.” “He can help. We found him on Yelp.” “Our troubles all ended on the day that we befriended him.” “There you go, kid. Couple of five-star reviews.” “That was possession. Any ghost can do that in less than one lesson.” “They're sweet, but I'm a demon straight from Hell.” “I know, I went a little hard on the sell.” “But we're BFF-F-F's forever!” “What? He was already dead.” “Together we can make a grown man weep.” “I'll lead that lamb to slaughter.” “I'm gonna make him say my name.”

Day-O (The Banana Boat Song)/Act I Finale “I have only known this amazing, amazing man and his unique daughter for a few months.” “What's goin' on, _____? Are you all right?” “What is happening to me?” “Wait, why aren't you dancing?” “This house is haunted and the ghosts who live here want you out!” “No! I'm a vegan!” “A genuine haunted house? It's a gold mine!” “No, you're supposed to be scared!” “There's one thing that can still stop him.” “I can't keep living like this!” “I'm so glad you changed your mind. You are never gonna regret this.” “We are gonna make such a great team” “It's showtime!” “It's our house now, kid.” “Looks like we're not invisible anymore.”