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She slides off her jacket, revealing more of the black dress underneath. Her arms and shoulders are exposed, the flesh tight and moon-pale. On her back, a tattoo of the Grim Reaper has been inked just below her right shoulder, its skeletal face momentarily bisected by the strap of her dress.
“Calvin Whitmer,” she says, climbing back into bed. “The Sack Man.”
The name prompts a deep, internal shiver. It feels like a chunk of ice is tangled among my organs.
“You said his name.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’ve never said His name.” There’s no need for me to clarify. She knows who I’m talking about. “Not once.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” Sam says as she pulls the bottle from my grip. “I think about him all the time. I can still see him, you know? When I close my eyes. He had cut eyeholes into the sack. Plus a little slit right over his nose for air. I’ll never forget the way it flapped whenhe breathed. He had tied string around his neck to keep the sack in place.”
I sense another chunk of ice forming in my gut. I take the Wild Turkey from Sam even though she’s not finished with it. I swallow two gulps, hoping it will melt the chill.
“Too many details?” Sam says.
I shake my head. “Details matter.”
“What about you? You remember any details at all?”
“A few.”
“But not much.”
“No.”
“I’ve heard it’s not a real thing,” she says. “All that repressed-memory stuff.”
I help myself to another swallow, trying to ignore the vague needling from Sam. Despite all we have in common, she’s incapable of peering into my brain and seeing the black hole where memories of Pine Cottage should be. She’ll never know how comforting yet frustrating it is to remember the very beginning of something and then the tail end. It’s like leaving a theater five minutes into the movie and returning right when the end credits start to roll.
“Trust me,” I say. “It’s real.”
“And you don’t mind not remembering?”
“I think it’s probably better that I don’t.”
“But don’t you want to know what really happened?”
“I know the end result,” I say. “That’s all I need to know.”
“I heard it’s still standing,” Sam says. “Pine Cottage. I read it on one of those shitty true-crime sites.”
I had read the same thing several years ago. Probably on the same website. Once the investigation was over, Pine Cottage’s owner had tried to sell the land. No one wanted it, of course. Nothing sinks land values more than blood in the soil. When he went into bankruptcy, it passed into the hands of his creditors. They couldn’t sell it either. So Pine Cottage remains, a cabin-size tombstone in the Pennsylvania woods.
“You ever think about going back there and taking a look?” Sam asks. “Maybe it would help you remember.”
The very idea nauseates me. “Never.”
“Do you ever think about him?”
It’s obvious she wants me to say His name. Anticipation pulses like body heat off her skin.
“No,” I lie.
“I figured you’d say that,” Sam says.
“It’s true.”