S2, E2 | The Ghosts of Remedy Hills

“Welcome back to the Oprah Winfrey show. My guest today is an author whose newest release is taking the nation by storm” the woman remarks, seated across from a much younger gentleman before a captivated, live studio audience. “Tackling the cause behind our fixations on the sick and depraved acts in this world left for only God to know the truth behind” she declares into the running camera, “here to talk about his newest book- The Garden Manifesto- here is Avon King!”

With a youthful grin and the wave of his hand, a much younger and less-experienced author occupies the seat across from the host he nods toward, appreciative for the roar of the audience’s applause that she’d initiated. Watching the events play out from behind the screen of his laptop, a much older and life-experienced Avon King watches himself from the past with his hands folded beneath his chin, the recording allowed to play just as it had all those years ago.

“Mr. King, thank you for joining me. I’d like to start with this- after I read your book for the first time, I was so intrigued by a lot of the parallels you were drawing between the murders in this book and the ones you’d covered in your last one” Oprah compliments, holding a copy of the novel in question for illustration. “I couldn’t help myself but go back to read this for a second time because my mind was so captivated by your writing” the host proceeds, flattering her guest.

“Well, thank you. I must say, I found myself following a similar line of thought when I’d initially begun to write the book” Avon confesses, watching the grainy effects similar to that found on VHS tapes tear across the screen in spite of the disc this recording was burned to. “Acts of evil like the ones Whitney Merrimack committed against her family are so much more than just empty encounters with evil” the young author explains, “there’s emotion there- a disturbingly human kind.”

Allowed to continue speaking by the host, the author is left with the audience gathered together in silence, the hair on the women both curly and puffy to go along with their shoulder pad-fitted suit jackets. Though outnumbered, the men in the audience- dressed their bushy moustaches, plaid shirts and khakis- join in a similar intrigue, latching onto every word with every last bit of the same fascination.

“When cruelties such as the ones depicted in the Garden Manifesto are committed, people are incredibly quick to write them off as an act of depravity so sick that it can’t even be considered natural” Avon confesses, looking toward the ground as he formulates his explanation on the fly. “There are a lot of these acts that receive that treatment even though it’s not that true” the young man continues, “even if they aren’t humane- the criminals, that is- their actions often can be rooted in that.”

“You’re talking about their emotions, correct?” Oprah interjects, adding emphasis to the man’s point whilst the audience sits in a collective hush, the air slightly chilled by the studio’s central air conditioning to leave their hairs on a half-stand. “Yes, more specifically- their motivations” Avon replies, nodding along with the woman’s conclusion, “on a surface level, Whitney Merrimack’s actions seem like a heinous display of empty evil. When you dig in, she feels much colder and ruthless.”

“And that you’re talking about are her motivations, yes?” Oprah tacks on, again keeping the conversation to a more-direct point. “Yes, very much so. But also, I’m talking about the way in which she’d committed her crimes” Avon proceeds, lifting his left leg to sit upon his right, “it’s one thing to believe she’d felt trapped in her marriage and that was why she’d killed her family, but it’s another for her to not just kill her family, but to dismember them and scatter their remains.”

Watching the footage cut out the following comments, the edited video that the future Avon King watches skips to a later point in the interview, one picking up mid-conversation. “-gued that there was a point to her not taking off and trying to out-run the consequences of her choices that wasn’t out of self-preservation, explain that for us?” Oprah questions, leaning toward her left side with her right leg gracefully crossed over her left. 

“Well, the thing that people need to remember about Whitney was that she was a very unstable woman” Avon explains, pausing with his hands gently placed atop his lap as he attempts to clarify his rationale. “So is every woman!” a man interrupts out from the audience, earning a mixture of laughter and jeers from those that he’s surrounded by, the crowd split evenly.

Amused herself, Oprah tries to contain her humour as her guest turns his focus toward the crowd, his finger pointed in the direction of the comment. “And that’s exactly why I’m never getting married!” Avon jokes, again humouring the audience in a much more unified way, the laughter shared amongst those in a light-hearted moment, its presence much appreciated with the conversation unfolding at hand. 

“But Whitney specifically had been off of medication for months, and her less-reasonable demeanour was always allowed to go unchecked. Her husband just figured it would sort itself out” the author continues whilst the audience quiets down, returning to their genuine interest. “Everything from leading authorities on to the way in which her life ended was less about being an odd character, but about the way in which she was remembered” Avon proceeds, “it was what she wanted.”

“You’re saying that her behaviour after the fact was all for show?” Oprah inquires, finally presenting a suggestion that her guest can’t fully dedicate himself to. “No, I wouldn’t argue that. I’m more so talking along the lines of the aftermath of her actions” Avon corrects, emphasising his point further, “you have to remember that- as odd as it is- there’s something persistently-striking about committing suicide by burying yourself in your own flower garden and leaving a laminated confession.”

“So it was about how she would be remembered” Oprah concludes, nodding along as the author’s explanation lends her own discovery credence. “Yes. She was fully aware of what she’d done, but it was her last days immediately following her crimes that led her to use them for notoriety” Avon proclaims, “we all- as humans- want to be remembered after we go. Leading cops on, killing herself in such a horrifyingly fascinating way- all of it- was meant to keep people talking about her.”

Reaching the end of that line of dialogue, the studio audience begins to applaud as the host’s face takes toward the camera, her lips parting to throw the show to a commercial that never presents itself. Again watching the feed skip into another segment of the episode, Avon’s viewership of his past-self slides past the commercials and right back to the start of a new line of questioning.

“Arguing that Whitney Merrimack wanted her crimes to be talked about long after she had come and gone leaves you in an interesting personal conundrum, doesn’t it?” Oprah inquires, elaborating further on her question, “do you feel a personal guilt for writing this book knowing that it’s what was wanted by someone that did such a deplorable thing?”

With the slightest grin, a younger Avon relishes in the difficulty that comes with answering the question, knowing that such is the case with at least a part of his reasoning. For a few seconds, the man nods to himself as he stares at the ground, considering the inquiry for as long as he needs before finally providing an answer.

“To a small extent, I’d say I do. I almost think it would be disrespectful to try and find an excuse to vindicate myself in ways that others wouldn’t- or shouldn’t- use” the man confesses, owning up to his own creative shortcomings, “but I also see there being a justification in using Whitney Merrimack’s actions as a cover for what The Garden Manifesto actually is- which is a breakdown in the simplest terms of how something so unthinkable is so ironically easy to imagine.”

For the third time, an older and wiser Avon watches as the video skips multiple other lines of communication, eventually ending back up on the start of the host’s next set of inquiries. “-is a noble undertaking, but it does seem as though it sets you up to be a ‘go-to guy’ almost for when situations like these arise” Oprah proceeds, staring at the ground as she forms her following question, “on that note, would a situation similar to the one that occurred only a few days ago be similar to this?”

For a moment, the younger Avon looks off toward the colourful talk show set as he lets the question linger, trying on his own to find the line of thought that the host has presented him with. “You’re referring to the murder that happened in Remedy Hills, right?” the man questions, given his answer through the silent nod of agreement that the interviewer returns to him, “possibly. There are obviously parallels to draw even if it's impossible for Whitney Merrimack to have been the Remedy culprit.”

“I’m not talking about the similarities, per say, as much as I am the motivations like you’d argued earlier” Oprah confesses, steering the man’s mindset onto the track she feels it best desired upon. “Well, I’d say it’s very much a possibility, but we’re not going to know until the investigation has all played out” Avon responds honestly, “with Whitney Merrimack, we know what she did and can speculate on her motivations. Until the killer is caught in Remedy, we can never know for sure.”

“You remember that interview, don’t you?” a man in a smiley face mask questions from within the laptop’s screen, seated upon a metal folding chair as the talk show segment is cut away from completely. “You gave that interview thirteen years ago. I’m sure that’s more like a blast from the past for you, but for me- it’s so much more than that” the facially-obstructed, lone subject of the video explains, continuing to hide his true identity as he addresses the author.

“When I heard you were coming to Remedy Hills, I figured just as anyone else did. I thought you were just another writer looking to cover your ass as best you could so the locals didn’t run you out of town” the smiley face mercenary confesses, “I’ve never thought highly of writers- at least the ones that came to Remedy. This town has always been so much more than its mystery, and yet- its mystery keeps the town from ever keeping going back to being sleepy and cosy. I blamed people like you.”

Lowering his hands toward either side of his computer, Avon looks deeper into the screen and squints, his ears incapable of making out any distinctive speech patterns within the comments that are made. “And that’s how most of us remain, Mr. King” the tormentor on the other side of the screen continues, shaking his head as he leans forward, arms draped over both knees, “but some of us realise that you- as ironic as it is for a writer to be- may just be able to help put the town to sleep again.”

Genuinely curious, the writer drops his index finger onto the spacebar and pauses the video, leaving his chair and picking up the computer before turning away from the still-unobstructed sliding back door. Wanting to keep the video’s contents to his eyes and his eyes only, Avon walks over to his kitchen and closes the blinds on them, redirecting the laptop’s screen away from the direction of any windows before unpausing it.

“Something that you were wrong about in that interview was that we wouldn’t know what the motivations were until the investigation had all played out” the smiley face figure reveals, “we didn’t find out the killer’s motivations. However, that’s not because the investigation never ended... ‘cause it did.”

Pressing the palms of his hands against the kitchen countertop, Avon stares into the screen before lowering the volume, taking as many precautions- even those unnecessary- as he can manage. “Keep this secret between us and I can promise you that this story will be your best one yet” the plastic mask-hiding individual explains, “I can tell you on good authority that the police worked day and night to figure out who the killer was for years... Then they found them.”

Silent and still, the air in the home leaves the author’s ears burdened by nothing less than his own attention, its pay given to the video in full. “Remedy Hills is a quiet town. Its people are not used to seeing things like explosions and prison breaks, and yet- that’s what tonight showed them” the mysterious figure confesses, “but before tonight, the people had to be exposed to visitor after visitor, tourists coming from all over the globe wanting to visit the grizzly little town. A mockery.”

Lowering his head, the masculine-appearing figure takes shame in the revelation that proceeds his continued explanation. “There was profit to be made in leaving Remedy Hills to end up like Centralia, or Pripyat, or Nagasaki. People from all around the world come into a place haunted by chaos and refuse the right to put its ghosts to bed” the tormented vigilante continues, “the ghosts of Remedy Hills still walk these streets looking for peace... But the system will not allow them to rest.”

“What is this Ghosts of Ishinomaki-like shit?” Avon whispers in wonder, finding the claims made in the video to be crazy, though they come from a source that keeps him from writing them off and looking away. “I can promise you that the police in this town already figured out who the killer was. From my understanding, they may have known for as long as a decade by now” the smiley face injustice fighter heralds, “but the corruption rooted deep within the ground wanted the mystery to live on.”

Lifting his head from the ground, the smiley mask takes its gaze toward the camera lens, looking deep into the soul of the man he cannot see- but knows will inevitably be on the opposite end. “No writer, nor tourist, has ever come here looking for the truth before” the masked vigilante carries on, pointing his finger toward the camera’s direction, “but with how long you’ve disregarded our attempts at running you off or keeping you out... Maybe you really should be one of us.”

Stricken by an uncertain feeling that lingers deep within his body, Avon fights the urge to look away from the recording in an effort of knowing more, too invested in what’s presented to look away. “When I watched that interview of you after you’d already moved in, I began to get this feeling that you might not be the same kind of writer that this town usually sees” the purveyor of justice proclaims, “for the first time in my life, I believe that a writer- of all people- might just belong here.”

Clearing their throat, the figure behind the smiley face mask nods to himself with reassurance. “I can promise you that I’m not the only one here that’s starting to feel that way. However, I can’t be sure- just yet- that your heart is where I hope it truly is. I suppose I can extend an olive branch and give you a chance to prove my instincts right, Mr. King” the vigilante proceeds, leaning back in his seat with his full attention on the camera’s lens, “write down this address.”

= Remedy Hills is created by Zachary Serra, all rights to the series belong to Zachary Serra and his entity of Pacer1 from the start of Season 1 onwards =

Watching the back of a hardcover novel slam against the basement’s floor, Beth lets the wafting sound of impact that echoes from one side of the room to the other dissipate before speaking aloud. “What is this?” the restrained woman wonders aloud, watching Harlington retreat to the chair across from her.

“Do you recognise it?” the man asks, prompting the woman to take a second look at the novel’s front cover, its upside-down appearance properly adjusted by the man’s foot so she can better register its promotional face. “Avon King” Beth whispers after a few seconds, reading the name of the author printed at the bottom of the book’s title, the name bringing a slight widening of her eyes.

“You know him, right?” Harlington asks aloud, his question being left to simmer in the silence that precedes the woman’s head lifting up toward him. “What did you do to him!?” the woman worriedly questions aloud, her immediate question prompting her kidnapper to look at her with confusion. “What did I-!? NO!” the man proclaims, pulling back in his seat as he realises his immediate efforts had been misunderstood.

“I didn’t do anything to him! I was asking you about the book!” Harlington explains, extending his hand toward the two hundred-plus page novel at his feet. “It’s one of his best sellers. He wrote it after this murder that happened across the country about twenty years ago” the kidnapper proceeds, clarifying the intention behind his quandary, “it took the nation by storm. Conservatives hated it and Liberals wanted it banned from schools for the graphic depictions of violence.”

“So?” Beth questions back, unsure over what the man is trying to get at. “He’s living in Remedy Hills now” the captor quickly responds, crossing his arms whilst sitting on the left side of his hip, leaning against the back of his chair, “he’s doing a new novel on the murder that happened thirteen years ago and doesn’t even realise he’s practically writing the same exact story.”

Meeting the hostage taker with silence, the former librarian looks her jailer in the eyes and waits for him to continue. Without much in the way of background noise to fill the vacancy of speech that’s left in the wake of each pause, Harlington’s hairs raise with the prolonged opening that follows his explanation before leaning his voice back into the fold.

“A grizzly murder happens, police don’t know what could’ve happened and the murderer never faces justice” the man remarks, citing the order of events as if they were bullet points for him to read off a grocery list, “well, the woman in this book was eventually found out, but it was only ‘cause she killed herself and admitted to it all when the cops found her trail. The mystery that unfolded captured everyone’s imagination, but unlike the woman in this story- an entire town became the mystery.”

“The Garden Manifesto?” Beth questions aloud, taking a second glance toward the object left just a few inches away from her feet, reading off the title of the novel with curiosity. “Whitney Merrimack killed her two sons and her husband. She chopped them up into pieces and started scattering them around town for people to find in their recycling bins” Harlington remarks, “police took a few weeks to catch her trail, and she killed herself when they did.”

“What does that have to do with-?” Beth proceeds to question, only for her captor to interrupt her attempted inquiry, continuing along with the recollection of the tale. “She’d been feeding them lies and giving news interviews with this really strange and erratic behaviour before the officers caught on and starting looking at her as the primary suspect” Harlington proceeds, “she wrote a confession, laminated it, and buried herself deep under her flower garden. She suffocated within hours.”

“What does that have to do with anything!?” the woman again speaks aloud, interjecting her question into the discussion at hand for her kidnapper to elaborate upon. “Because there’s been something going on with Remedy Hills for a very, very, very long time” Harlington explains, reaching toward the ground and reclaiming the hardcover book, presenting its cover to his prisoner, “like I said, some aspects of what I have to say sound crazy. Others however, don’t sound that insane.”

“Like what? Implying there’s something wrong with the coffee? Or claiming that the whole fucking town is alive?” Beth questions, having made peace with the situation that she’s in enough to come off oddly composed for a prisoner outside of her own volition. “No, there’s not much that I can do to make any of that seem less insane” Harlington confesses, listening to the sound of an engine riding off into the distance, freeing him the comfort of mind that their third resident has departed.

“When I was younger, my babysitter used to read me a story about how there were never any monsters under my bed, and I was convinced” Harlington explains, resting the hardcover book atop his lap before turning to the first page, “so I’m gonna read you this book. Hopefully, when I say the stuff that sounds less-insane than the town having a mind of its own, you’ll be more inclined to at least entertain it.”

Waiting for the woman to reply, Harlington looks across the sealed-off room of the home and waits for a rebuttal, only to watch as the former librarian juts her chin forward and shakes her head. “What?” Beth questions, almost as if she were unsure of what he was waiting for, receiving no reply as the kidnapper’s attention sets upon the book, ending the awkwardness by reading the first page.

|

“Ruben Spence?” Beau calls out, slamming the passenger’s door to his cruiser shut whilst Jake steps out from the driver’s seat, waking up to a man in a green flannel as he traipses across his front yard with a bundle of lumber carried over his shoulder. “Can I help you boys with something?” the man of similar age to the younger cop questions aloud, setting his building materials down upon a saw table whilst the detectives answer.

“Yes sir, we were hoping to ask you a few questions about Rico Martinez” the older officer proclaims, watching the blue collar worker look toward him with a confused squint in his eye. “Rico Martinez? What do you wanna know about him for?” Ruben questions back, removing his white hard hat before meeting the cops halfway, “didn’t that psychopath get locked up years ago?”

“He did. Unfortunately for us, just because someone gets sentenced to life imprisonment doesn’t always mean they actually stay there until they’re dead” Beau replies, tucking his hands into the waistband of his slacks, “he escaped from the correctional facility a few miles north last night.” His alert immediately being raised, Ruben rolls his eyes in disbelief as he stares out into the surrounding treeline, nothing more than his shack and a cosy cabin to be found aside from the driveway.

“That sick son of a bitch escaped?” the man replies in horror, hands pressing against his face as he tries to quickly let the information settle. “He did, and now we’re looking for any place he could be hiding out in” Beau responds, continuing to lead the conversation as Jake comes to a stop at his side, “the two of you were pretty connected back in the day, we figured there might be a chance he could’ve come out here to hang low for a few days.”

“We weren’t connected! He paid me to build a cabin for him a few months before he got locked up!” Ruben responds defensively, almost insulted at the notion that he’d be close enough to the convict to warrant being a noteworthy figure, “if you call that connected, then you’re really reaching for it. I wouldn’t even call us contractor-and-contracted let alone connected.”

“Where’s this cabin?” Jake interjects, not paying pleasantries to the man’s comments before latching onto the notable discovery that catches his ear. “It’s a mile or so out from the border of the town! Hidden pretty deep in the woods just like my place” Ruben replies, accepting the extension of a notepad that leaves Beau’s side, given to the figure in hopes of earning an address.

“Mind if we take a look inside your house real quick for good measure?” Jake inquires, patting Beau on the shoulder with trust that he’ll perform a thorough search once the homeowner grants them permission.

|

“Where are you headed out to?” Penny questions, her voice tired and spent as she watches her husband round the corner, the sweatpants and sweatshirt combination he’d normally wear in the home replaced by an outfit different from the one he’d greeted her in the night prior. “I have to go get my laptop fixed” Avon answers, his upper body draped in a black, long-sleeved shirt and lower body fitted into a pair of blue jeans, the ends of which hang over a pair of grey running shoes.

“Oh, yeah- alright” Penny responds, too tired to make much of a deal out of the reasonable explanation that she’s already too exhausted to take much consideration in as is. Standing in an odd silence, the couple remain unmoved within each other’s presence as the prior night’s conversation soon returns to the woman’s mind, the recollection bringing with it a faint- yet present- hint of newfound energy to the depleted wife.

“Shit, I forgot about last night” Penny remarks, hand pressing against her forehead as she stares off at the side of the room, her husband’s head nodding as he reserves his voice, not wanting to speak out of line. “Um, I guess I said some things that I probably shouldn’t-” the woman begins, preparing herself to apologise before her husband’s soft and reassuring voice interjects, preventing her from continuing on.

“I understand and it’s alright” Avon concedes, watching the woman’s face take toward his direction, a noticeable guise of guilt worn upon her face. “I definitely didn’t give you a reason to think that I’d do... that... to you, but I can see why you’d have your suspicions of me” the author continues, accepting his end of the blame in lieu of anything else being said that can’t be taken back, “all that matters is that you know there’s only one woman that I have eyes for, and it was never Beth.”

With a slight pout in her bottom lip, Penny steadies herself as her husband approaches, her eyes looking up toward the man’s own. “You’re not mad?” she wonders aloud, watching his grin spread from one side of his face to the other, his hands taking the woman by each side of her face as he shakes his head in refusal. “I’m not mad, baby” Avon replies, leaning in to give his wife a long, drawn out kiss on the lips.

“You’ve had a long night. Let’s get you to bed, and then I’ll head to drop my laptop off, alright?” the man questions aloud, watching his wife muster enough strength to lift her lips into a smile, her nod gently nodding with his touch. “One more thing, alright?” he questions, watching the woman’s eyelids part from the momentary closure they’d taken on, watching the reassuring light in the man’s eyes glisten, “from here on out- we’re going to be totally transparent with each other.”

As her smile deepens, the sides of Penny’s face rub against her husband’s palms as she nods in agreement, “no secrets from now on” she whispers, the man that she stands before using his thumbs to move hairs away from her face. “No secrets from now on” Avon repeats, smiling just as intensively as his wife does before leaning in to kiss her once more, leaning toward the ground just slightly in an effort to sweep her off both feet, his arms carrying her down the hall and back to bed.

Turning out the bedroom light, Avon gently closes their bedroom door shut and makes for the living room, walking down the hall as the sun begins to set, entering the communal area before making for the dining room. Grabbing his coat off the back of the opposite chair from the one he normally occupies, the author dawns it upon his person before picking up his computer, walking toward the front door with it under his arm before redirecting himself.

Flicking on the lightswitch beside a closet off near the side of their home’s entrance, Avon hides his laptop beneath a pile of sweaters in a nearby cubby, shielding it with the soft, warm fabrics before closing off the room and stepping through the front door with keys in hand. Descending the steps to the vehicle, the author unlocks the car and takes over its driver’s seat, pausing for a moment as he sits at the wheel and thinks to himself.

Reaching into his back pocket, the author picks out the folded note that he’d stored away and unfolds it, reading the text that was written upon it in pencil before making out the address that he’d earlier been told to jot down. Punching in the address in his phone, Avon sets up the screen to face him as he pulls out of the driveway, his tires crunching down upon saltrock as he descends through the neighbourhood’s quiet streets, driving off into the night toward wherever the GPS takes him.

== Remedy Hills ==