Five Raptured From
Laughing River, So Far
By L. G. Merrick
Illustrated by Steve Morris
Sales brochure for the Laughing River development in Columbia, Maryland, upon its opening in April 2019.
You’re not buying a mere house from Humphrey Construction — because we build homes. Homes where you can take pride in five-star quality of design, materials, and workmanship, because Lance Humphrey promised never to compromise his “three essentials” when he founded our company in 1974. And when he handed the reins to his only son Reese in 2001, he did so only after Reese proved that he too lived by the Humphrey commitment to thoroughness.
So tour Laughing River Estates, and whichever luxurious model you choose — the Briar Oak, the Edgelord, the Masterall — you will experience a legacy of lasting value. Where energy-efficient windows brighten with sunlight, hearths of rich stone glow warmly, and your life can unfold.
Starting at $679,490.
Audio recording of statement by Andrew Preston, taken at his home (210 Riverrun Road) by Detective Michael Highcard, 11:45 p.m., June 10, 2019.
I was in the kitchen. It was my night to cook, and I heard Ashley upstairs. It’s a brand-new house, it’s very solid, we’re incredibly happy with it, and there’s a layer of professional-grade rubberized soundproofing under the hardwood, so it’s quiet as can be. But if someone is directly above, approximately, you can hear it. Faintly. So I knew where she was.
And I sent her a text. Here. See? “Dinner in 5 minutes.” She wrote back, “See you in 4.95.” That exchange was at, let’s see, 7:08 p.m. So she was fine. Upstairs.
Then, while I was plating our meal, I remember a good thump. Upstairs. As if she jumped. Just stood in place and jumped. Once. Not extreme. I figured it meant she was on her way.
Except she never showed up.
So I texted her again. “Gonna get cold.” See? At 7:16. She didn’t reply. So I went to the bottom of the stairs and called up. No answer. I figured she must be in the bathroom. I was trying to decide if I should transfer the dinner to the oven to keep it warm, but it’s too easy to dry out sole.
I mean, look, we just moved in three weeks ago. This was the start of our new life. It felt like a second honeymoon. Bliss. Every day felt new. We were completely considerate of each other, all the time. So where the hell was she?
I went upstairs. Maybe she was sick, right? And that’s when I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t upstairs. She wasn’t anywhere.
Text exchange between Christina Elgin (babysitter, age 14, then at 212 Riverrun Road) and Cynthia Kaiser (then at Tuscany Steakhouse with husband Robert) between 7:29 and 8:06 p.m., June 14, 2019.
So sorry to interrupt your dinner Mrs K! Can I ask a question about Finn?
Ask away.
As a game, does he hide?
He likes hide and seek. Play that. But it’s his bedtime, Christina.
No I mean does he play without telling you? Like just hide?
Where is he hiding?
I can’t find him.
Ha. We heard you were a highly capable sitter. We have faith you will solve this crisis while we enjoy dinner.
Is it OK to open closets?
Yes. He’s only 6, he will be easy to find.
OK I looked everywhere. So much closet space! You still have boxes from moving in. Would he go in them?
The unpacked boxes are too full. Just find him.
I looked in some boxes. I can’t find him!!!!
Check basement.
I did. Where else? I keep calling his name.
Under the sink.
I checked. Every sink. Five sinks. The yard too. I can’t find him.
Was he mad at you?
No! We were having fun with blocks. We built a town.
Are the doors locked?
Yes he couldn’t go outside but I looked anyway.
Play song Tightrope by Janelle Monae. He will come out to dance.
OK!
Did it work??
I keep calling his name. I keep trying to sound cheerful.
Can you come home. I’m really worried.
Getting our dinners wrapped
Can you hurry I am so so sorry
Don’t cry just find him
Are you looking
FIND HIM
I am crying. I am sorry
DAMN YOU WE ARE ON WAY
Email from Jennet Arboleda, manager of Pūr-Kleen-Now, to Linda Silvers, July 19, 2019, 1:18 p.m.
Hello Ms. Silvers. I just spoke with Gianna Torretta, the cleaning woman arranged to start at your home at 27 Riverrun Rd. Because today was your first use of our service, I want to make sure you are satisfied.
Ms. Torretta arrived at 10:00 a.m. as you requested. In fact she was early, and noticed your property is equipped with Vivint Exterior Surveillance, so you can verify this. Ms. Torretta rang the bell and, when there was no answer, walked to the back yard. She thought you might be gardening and unable to hear. When she did not find you, she tried the door and found it unlocked.
I want to point out, our contract states that employees may care for the home when you are not present. As one of our top workers, Ms. Torretta has several clients who entrust her this way. Because of this, and knowing that you arranged for her to arrive at 10:00, at 10:05 she took the initiative and entered your home to clean it.
Having completed the work at 11:40, she left to make her next appointment. But on the way she called me, out of concern. She expressed that not only was nobody home, but also, a shower was running, with the bathroom door wide open. She found that peculiar. She turned the water off and cleaned the bathroom, as well as all other bathrooms and the kitchen, and vacuumed, per your contract.
So I’m reaching out to make sure you are satisfied with Ms. Torretta’s performance, and to ask if you would like to provide instructions about what to do if you are not home in the future. Additionally, Ms. Torretta, being extremely conscientious, worries that you may have left the shower running for a reason. She wants to apologize if she erred in shutting it off. In the future simply advise us of any plumbing emergencies (etc.) and we will be sure to accommodate them, however you instruct!
Sincerely,
Jennet
A Pūr-Kleen-Now home is a vision of your home’s best self.
Transcript, interrogation of Reina Hanson (of 78 Riverrun Rd.) by Detective Michael Highcard, conducted at Howard County Police HQ, September 1, 2019.
DET: Reina, we both know how your situation looks. You look guilty. But I keep wondering. Some wives are in a jam, in their marriages. They live in these beautiful houses, but there’s troubles inside the walls other people wouldn’t believe. I understand that.
RH: So. After everything I’ve told you, you’re still saying that I, a respected senior VP of experiential marketing at Domestic International, killed Marcus. An executive VP of immersive experience at Digital Victory.
DET: I’m saying I know a prosecutor who wants that case. She’s good at making a jury want to convict. There’s a judge who likes to max out sentences. For this? You’re looking at life without parole. In a very ugly prison. No carpeting, no Sub-Zero, thing like that home of yours. So maybe you’ll tell me something right now to help me understand why you did it. That can mitigate your outcome. For example, there’s a huge difference between murder one and self-defense. Then it might not even be a crime, right? Or you killed him accidentally, and covered it up only because you panicked. I can be understanding. Tell me what really happened.
RH: I did. Five times. I told you every damn detail. Don’t you think I’d have a better cover story?
DET: So you admit it’s a cover story.
RH: Oh God. I’ll tell you again. Pay attention this time. It was the middle of the night. I couldn’t sleep. We’d just bought a new Helix Midnight, the best mattress there is, but I wasn’t used to it. I was tossing around, so he got up. He sighed to let me know he was frustrated. I said I was sorry. It wasn’t a fight. He asked would I be offended if he went to sleep in the guest room. He had to get up early for a client meeting. I said we just bought a house with three guest rooms, we better get some use out of them. He laughed, and he left. Seconds later, I heard him yelp.
DET: As soon as he left the room?
RH: Seconds later! Jesus. Down the hall. Around the corner. Or so. He yelped. I’d say it was a muffled scream but it cut off. It lasted not even half a second. It didn’t turn into a big sound like a scream. It happened fast, like he didn’t have time to take a full breath for it. It was a sound of surprise that got cut off with a hollow thonk. I’m telling you it ended even more suddenly than it started. You couldn’t end a sound more suddenly if it was coming from a show and you switched off the TV.
DET: This hollow thonk. . .
RH: You know cardboard tubes? The long ones, that come in the center of Christmas wrap? It was a sound like when you bop one of those on something. A hollow thonk.
DET: So you heard a sound that reminded you of Christmas. And nothing after that.
RH: I told you. A faint click came next. Then the house went totally silent.
DET: Like, click-click-click.
RH: One click. As if someone closed a door softly. Then nothing. At all.
DET: And you stayed in bed? Didn’t get up to investigate?
RH: I was paralyzed with fear. You try it.
DET: How did you know he didn’t yelp because he stubbed his toe? You’ve only lived there a month. Still switching furniture around, right?
RH: I tried to tell myself it was something like that. But I knew it wasn’t.
DET: So you heard a door softly close. When you finally did go look, were any doors closed?
RH: No.
DET: Any theories as to what became of Marcus, Ms. Hanson?
RH: Theories are your job. I just know facts. My husband got up in the middle of the night. He went around the corner, he got a surprise, and he disappeared completely from the world.
Notes saved to file “Washburn, Herbert - Infidelity,” by D. Colson, private investigator, at 1:58 a.m., September 3, 2019.
Subject traveled straight from work to family home (105 Riverrun) arriving 6:15 p.m. Was inside briefly, exited 6:35 with both his children (girl 10, boy 7), visibly agitated. Brought children to his sister’s house (Pineview Apts, Sykesville) arriving 7:00. Left without them at 7:05, talking excitedly on phone.
Drove to Chesapeake Pub, Columbia (7:30) where he parked (photo of car attached) and entered. Subject sat in booth with Lover #2, Shaina Taggart, who was already present (photo of couple kissing in booth attached). Surreptitiously I gained the booth adjacent. Overheard him speak in agitated state.
“It means she left me! Somehow she found out about us, I guess, and flew,” he said. “It means we are free, you and me, to be together. She has freed us to stop sneaking around.”
Miss Taggart replied, “All she was, was not home. Maybe she went to pick up Chinese food.”
Subject told her, “She didn’t take her purse or keys or phone. The kids didn’t see her leave. She didn’t tell them anything. Didn’t make a scene. Just walked out. Got in a friend’s car, I guess. To me, that’s a person who snapped. A person who knows it’s you I love, and she can’t deal, and she cracked. But you know? She was a good mother right to the end. She didn’t burden the kids with a lot of hooey about me being a bad dad. She knows it’s important for them to believe in their dad.”
“Sounds like you still love her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said it in your tone.”
“Well my wife just left me without so much as a note. I think I’m entitled to a tone.”
Subject and Miss Taggart argued briefly in low voices. Then Miss Taggart said:
“That area where you live, that’s where people keep disappearing. I seen it on the news. There’s a million unsolved murders, right on your street.”
“There’s no dead bodies. It’s all people just walking out.”
“Oh yeah? Where to? Black holes? None of them are ever seen again.”
“Don’t act like you’re suddenly one of these UFO nuts. These UFO nuts drive up and down the street, hoping to see a saucer. Then there’s the loons who think it’s the Rapture.”
“So I’m crazy now.”
“People just go. To start new lives. That’s all Alicia did. And it’s what you and me are about to do, Sara.”
Shaina Taggart (Lover #2) noticed the name switch. Still no clear sign she knows of Lover #1, Sara Royal (I think she does not), but very mad at the slip regardless.
Told subject, “All your neighbors disappear. A pattern. Suddenly it benefits you? What a coincidence. I don’t think I want any part of your pattern, HERMAN.”
She walked out.
Subject (Herbert) finished drink. Then placed call from table.
“My wife left me,” he said. “We’re free now. Free to be us. Can I come over?”
Subject drove to apartment of Lover #1 (S. Royal, in Towson), arrived 8:45 (photo of #1 welcoming him at door with kiss, attached).
Subject remained inside. Windows went dark at 12:25. Ended observation, 1:00 a.m.
Suggest now is good time to contact Alicia Washburn, ask if she wants to see the file she’s been paying for. If she cannot be located, contact police re: possible homicide arranged by subject.
Letter dated April 1, 2019, locked in a safe at home of Reese Humphrey, contractor, owner of Humphrey Construction. Envelope is not sealed. Is labeled “Feeling Blue?”
You’re doing great.
Remember: a good mystery is better than taking credit. Who would care about Amelia Earhart today if they found her plane the next day?
Just like no one would ever care about the people who live in your houses. Dull houses (the truth stings) for boring lives.
Until you fixed that with Laughing River.
Your 6th development in 18 years. Your 300th house.
The first time you built something noticeable.
And a secret IS noticeable!
You added hidden rooms to most of the houses on Riverrun. In the basement. Or lower. Each is accessed only by a trapdoor in its ceiling. Is the trap obvious from the outside? Not at all. You’ve been building all your life. You know how to hide a trapdoor in the seams of a hardwood floor, or the grout of tiling.
Each trap is on a timer. While the house is being shown by agents, while moving companies are dollying in your West Elm dining set, the floor is firm. Three weeks later. . . the trap unlocks.
Savor what this means. Picture yourself as the suburban wife, settling into your new routine. I’m a suburban wife! I cross to the laundry machine, the most numbing task imaginable! — one I hope to do a thousand times in that house. Or I’m the pathetic husband, sneaking into the den to get turned on by porn before bed. Aware I will do that a thousand times in this den. Or I’m their kid, treated as exceptional, but totally average. In 20 years my highest ambition will be to buy my very own too-big suburban home.
I’m a person destined to have no destiny.
Unless I cross one of your trapdoors.
If the trap is on the first floor, I probably drop immediately into the secret room. If it’s upstairs, I’ll plunge down a narrow concrete shaft to get to it.
Then?
Usually a bed of spikes.
That’s rebar set in concrete, cut by you to points. Quick. Messy. Startling. Depending where the spikes pierce, maybe it’s instant lights out. Maybe I get two minutes in the dark. There I am on pins, like a butterfly immortalized in a collection, trying to figure out what happened to me.
Above, the trap closed as soon as I was through it. On a soundproof, airtight gasket. Bolts slide into place. It’s not a trap anymore, it is as solid as that beautiful floor in Mayflower Latte Brazilian Oak. Or whatever veneer you chose, whatever I was stupid enough to fall in love with.
Of course, if all traps led to the same fate, they’d be as dull as the houses.
One lands me in three feet of broken glass. One in a tank filled with carbon dioxide. Some are slides instead of straight drops, into a wall of knives, or down long razors. A couple of the chutes fork. Right leg goes right, left leg left, razor in between. It’s fun to think of me at eternal rest in two different rooms, but the truth is, I might lodge at the fork. You don’t have final control. You don’t know which traps will trigger and which never will, or what will happen to my sanity in that last minute.
And that’s what you like. After a life spent controlling every detail down to the last bathroom tile. To have no real control, in the end.
We all secretly want that. The mess. Life is too full of surrenders to order. We take jobs, we marry for life, we pay mortgages, we go to church, we strive. Surrenders to order. That’s why everyone loves an unsolved mystery. Its disorder. Its unknowability. They hint at escape to a place where no one is held accountable.
Your favorite house does not kill. I land in a ball pit. Colored balls six feet deep. Fun! In a smooth concrete cylinder, 9 feet in diameter, ceiling 7 feet above the balls. You installed a string of white Christmas lights. They show me all the bright colors of the balls. And it’s enough light to reveal that if I can get to the ceiling, I’ll have to shimmy up eighteen feet of concrete shaft to the trap, in a second-story floor.
You don’t think I can do it.
And if I can, the trap is bolted shut.
Yelling won’t do me any good. You tested. Lowered speakers down there playing Metallica turned up to 11. That house stayed Christmas-Eve silent. You layered aluminum into the cement to block cell signal, in case I have my phone. And the best part: on a small shelf, you placed one protein bar, one bottle of water. To lend me a little time to think.
You think I might come around to feeling glad that I finally have no control, there in the ball pit. No control, like a child again.
So you’re writing yourself this letter. To read over whenever you feel down. To remember you used your control to save me from myself. By giving me something new. Luxurious. Exclusive. Exactly what I secretly wanted.
Total loss of everything.
Timers will bolt all the traps on October 1. Disappearances will end as inexplicably as they began. Cops will stop investigating. I will remain hidden, and that will make me memorable.
When you turn 80, you’re going to celebrate by burning this letter. If it is never known what happened, the world will be better for it. The world does not need more murder. There’s too much of that. What the world needs is mystery.
The end
Writer’s Notes: Building a story is like building a house