Knock Three Times

2. Strife in the Wastelands

                 THE RESOUNDING RING OF the school bell seemed to shock the students out of a half-asleep stupor. It was the first class of the day, and contagious yawns were passed around plentifully as a stout, balding teacher scribbled out the title of his daily subject on the blackboard.

    Barely legible, the words read: "Urban Myths."

    'Good morning class!' he seemed overly enthusiastic for a Monday, a trait which commonly annoyed any student still fighting the pull of slumber first thing in the morning. 'Which one of my half-dead zombie students can give me an example of a common urban myth?' He asked while flicking the chalk dust from his fingers. When no one seemed to want to respond, most barely looking toward the front of the class, Mr. Dixon slammed a text book onto his desk, so loud that every eye jolted alert.

    'Come on people; I know it's early but if you plan on passing this class, I'll need to see some participation. Life requires a living presence, after all.' When a single hand finally lifted he shook his head in disappointment.

    'If it wasn't for Ms. Davidson, I dare say you'd all come off as fools.' He pointed with forced enthusiasm. 'Yes, Christine; give us a myth, my dear.'

    'The Crazy Hook Man?' she replied as more of a question than an answer.

    'An oldie, but a goodie. There are several renditions of this myth, however; to which do you refer?' He asked, scribbling down her answer beneath the subject title on the chalk board.

    'Teenage girl hits a hitchhiker with her car, but neglects to stop and see if he needs help, or call an ambulance. When she arrives home, she discovers he was holding on to the undercarriage of the car the whole time, and proceeds to slice and dice.'

    'Yes, and as I seem to recall, Hollywood milked that story beyond dry back in the 90's.'

    'My dad has the series.' said a young man in the second row. '"I still know what you might have done eight winters ago, while on vacation" . . . or something like that.' He replied, not taking his gaze from his cell phone.

    'Horrible films, and even more so named.' Mr. Dixon replied.

    'I think he just likes watching rich white kids get iced.' The young man replied with a slight middle-eastern accent.

    'Might I remind you about screens in my class room, Mr. Abbas?' he pointed to a sign just above the door which read, "Use of devices will be marked as zero attendance." 'You're either with us or absent; pick one, as I will not play a secondary roll to a machine.'

    'Right.' He sighed, bitterly shoving his phone into the pocket of his hoodie.

    'Your dad seems like a peach.' Christine retorted, her red hair highlighting as the sun's rays beamed through a nearby window at just the right angle.

    'All racism aside, the franchise was vastly popular for a long period of time. The result of which was an entire generation of idiots checking their back seats before driving at night, letting fear control their actions—'

    'Wait, what's wrong with teaching young women to be cautious?' Christine replied. 'I don't think it's exactly idiotic to check the back seat of your car before entering. In fact, self defense courses encourage it.'

    'Indeed true, my dear, but my remark was meant to point out just how easily influenced the human mind can be. We can warn people through public service announcements or newspapers, but nothing quite captures the mind like the fear behind the urban myth. Now, fear can make people do horrible things, but in this case, it seems to be the only way to reach the youth of our populous. A warning simply will not do, so these myths regularly circulate through generations to teach the less than cautious teenager important lessons they would otherwise ignore; a Hail Mary attempt to reach the kids who refuse to listen to parental advice. Nothing straightens out a delinquent youth like the cold sound of bars clinking closed for the first time. Now, who could tell me the lesson of this particular story?'