BY KATE BRETAS
The autumn air of Croton-on-Hudson always has a chill to it, but up by the Dam is where the wind cuts most harshly. That night, its iciness pierced the thick forest, stripping branches of their withered leaves and chilling the skin and bones of any who found themselves in its path. The girl and the boy in the’ wood-panelled station wagon didn’t notice. They did not notice the howl or the chill, for the cabin was full of their heat and the radio blasting a song called “Maneater”... They could not hear and did not see through the fogged-up windows what was coming for them. There was nothing to alert them, except maybe the inexplicable feeling that someone - or something - was watching them.
“WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED REPORTS OF A BREAK OUT FROM SING SING PRISON.”
The teenaged girl sitting in the passenger seat started and pulled away from her boyfriend at the sound of the news report cutting into Hall & Oates new 1983 release. She fended off her boyfriend’s advances, as the reporter continued.
THE PRISONER IS THOUGHT TO BE AT LARGE IN THE WOODS NEAR THE CROTON RESERVOIR, HE CAN BE IDENTIFIED BY HIS JUMPSUIT AND THE HOOK-SHAPED PROSTHETIC CONNECTED TO HIS RIGHT HAND WRIST.”
The girl furrowed her brow and turned up the radio while her boyfriend scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Y’know, people go to prison for any old thing. Probably just a cokehead or something,” he quipped before shutting his mouth when she gave him a dark look.
“THE PRISONER WAS CONVICTED FOR THE MURDERS OF MACY AND SIMON LEWIS IN 1981 AND SHOULD BE REGARDED AS DANGEROUS.”
“They said he killed someone.” The girl chewed on her lower lip in worry. “Yeah, I heard,” he replied, reaching forward to shut the radio off. She tugged at his jacket.“I really want to go home now.”
When he didn’t respond, she began to get upset, her voice breaking slightly as she pleaded, “I’m being serious, I don’t like this. Let’s go already.” At the sound of her tearful voice he turned around, suddenly apologetic. “Sorry, I was only teasing. I’ll drop you off.”
With a jolt, the car sprang to life, its tires squealing and kicking up pebbles and leaves. Maybe the boyfriend was a little more frustrated than he let on. The drive home was quiet and tense. Neither of them had imagined the evening to end like this. As the car pulled into the driveway of the girl’s house, she began to reach for her door, but he stopped her. “Let me get that,” he offered, opening his own door and stepping out of the car. He walked around the front of the car. But then he stopped, face white as a sheet -
“What’s wrong?”
He remained silent, for just there, wedged in the corner where the handle met the car door, marking the end of a scratch, its straps swinging lazily in the night breeze, hung a hook.