'Salem's Lot(29)

Another branch snapped off to their left.

Danny suddenly wished they had gone by the road.

Another branch snapped.

'Danny, I'm scared,' Ralphie whispered.

'Don't be stupid,' Danny said. 'Come on.'

They started to walk again. Their feet crackled in the pine needles. Danny told himself that he didn't hear any branches snapping. He didn't hear anything except them. Blood thudded in his temples. His hands were cold. Count steps, he told himself. We'll be at Jointner Avenue in two hundred steps. And when we come back we'll go by the road, so ringmeat won't be scared. In just a minute we'll see the streetlights and feel stupid but it will be good to feel stupid so count steps. One . . . two . . . three . . .

Ralphie shrieked.

'I see it! I see the ghost! I SEE IT!'

Terror like hot iron leaped into Danny's chest. Wires seemed to have run up his legs. He would have turned and run, but Ralphie was clutching him.

'Where?' he whispered, forgetting that he had invented the ghost. 'Where?' He peered into the woods, half afraid of what he might see, and saw only blackness.

'It's gone now - but I saw him . . . it. Eyes. I saw eyes. Oh, Danneee - ' He was blubbering.

'There ain't no ghosts, you fool. Come on.'

Danny held his brother's hand and they began to walk His legs felt as if they were made up of ten thousand pencil erasers. His knees were trembling. Ralphie was crowding against him, almost forcing him off the path.

'It's watchin' us,' Ralphie whispered.

'Listen, I'm not gonna - '

'No, Danny. Really. Can't you feel it?'

Danny stopped. And in the way of children, he did feel something and knew they were no longer alone. A great bush had fallen over the woods; but it was a malefic hush. Shadows, urged by the wind, twisted languorously around them.

And Danny smelled something savage, but not with his nose.

There were no ghosts, but there were preeverts. They stopped in black cars and offered you candy or hung around on street corners or . . . or they followed you into the woods. . . .

And then . . .

Oh and then they . . .

'Run,' he said harshly.

But Ralphie trembled beside him in a paralysis of fear. His grip on Danny's hand was as tight as baling wire. His eyes stared into the woods, and then began to widen.

'Danny?'

A branch snapped.

Danny turned and looked where his brother was looking.

The darkness enfolded them.

19

9:00 P.M.

Mabel Werts was a hugely fat woman, seventy-four on her last birthday, and her legs had become less and less reliable. She was a repository of town history and town gossip, and her memory stretched back over five decades of necrology, adultery, thievery, and insanity. She was a gossip but not a deliberately cruel one (although those whose stories she had sped on their back fence way might tend to disagree); she simply lived in and for the town. In a way she was the town, a fat widow who now went out very little, and who spent most of her time by her window dressed in a tentlike silk camisole, her yellowish-ivory hair done up in a coronet of thick, braided cables, with the telephone on her right hand and her high-powered Japanese binoculars on the left. The combination of the two - plus the time to use them fully - made her a benevolent spider sitting in the center of a communications web that stretched from the Bend to east 'salem.

She had been watching the Marsten House for want of something better to watch when the shutters to the left of the porch were opened, letting out a golden square of light that was definitely not the steady glow of electricity. She had gotten just a tantalizing glimpse of what might have been a man's head and shoulders silhouetted against the light. It gave her a queer thrill.

There had been no more movement from the house She thought: Now, what kind of people is it that only opens up when a body can't catch a decent glimpse of them?

She put the glasses down and carefully picked up the telephone. Two voices - she quickly identified them as Harriet Durham and Glynis Mayberry - were talking about the Ryerson boy finding Irwin Purinton's dog.

She sat quietly, breathing through her mouth, so as to give no sign of her presence on the line.

20

11:59 P.M.

The day trembled on the edge of extinction. The houses slept in darkness. Downtown, night lights in the hardware store and the Foreman Funeral Home and the Excellent Café threw mild electric light onto the pavement. Some lay awake - George Boyer, who had just gotten home from the three-to-eleven shift at the Gates Mill, Win Purinton, sitting and playing solitaire and unable to sleep for thinking of his Doc, whose passing had affected him much more deeply than that of his wife - but most slept the sleep of the just and the hard-working.

In Harmony Hill Cemetery a dark figure stood meditat?ively inside the gate, waiting for the turn of time. When he spoke, the voice was soft and cultured.

'O my father, favor me now. Lord of Flies, favor me now. Now I bring you spoiled meat and reeking flesh. I have made sacrifice for your favor. With my left hand I bring it. Make a sign for me on this ground, consecrated in your name. I wait for a sign to begin your work.'

The voice died away. A wind had sprung up, gentle, bringing with it the sigh and whisper of leafy branches and grasses and a whiff of carrion from the dump up the road.

There was no sound but that brought on the breeze. The figure stood silent and thoughtful for a time. Then it stooped and stood with the figure of a child in his arms.