Nightmare Short Stories

SALEM'S LOT XV / THE LOT (II)

At age twelve, Mark Petrie was a little skinnier than the average and slightly delicate-looking. Yet he moved with a grace and litheness that is not the common lot of boys his age, who seem mostly made up of knees and elbows and scabs. His complexion was fair, almost milky, and his features, which would be considered aquiline later in life, now seemed a trifle feminine. It had caused him some trouble even before the Richie Boddin incident in the schoolyard, and he had determined to handle it himself. He had made an analysis of the problem. Most bullies, he had decided, were big and ugly and clumsy. They scared people by being able to hurt them. They fought dirty. Therefore, if you were not afraid of being hurt a little, and if you were willing to fight dirty, a bully might be bested. Richie Boddin had been the first full vindication of his theory. He and the bully at the Kittery Elementary School had come off even (which had been a victory of a kind; the Kittery bully, b****y but unbowed, had proclaimed to the schoolyard community at large that he and Mark Petrie were pals. Mark, who thought the Kittery bully was a dumb piece of s**t, did not contradict him. He understood discretion.). Talk did no good with bullies. Hurting was the only language that the Richie Boddins of the world seemed to understand, and Mark supposed that was why the world always had such a hard time getting along. He had been sent from school that day, and his father had been very angry until Mark, resigned to his ritual whipping with a rolled-up magazine, told him that Hitler had just been a Richie Boddin at heart. That had made his father laugh like hell, and even his mother snickered. The whipping had been averted.

Now June Petrie was saying: “Do you think it’s affected him, Henry?”

“Hard…to tell.” And Mark knew by the pause that his father was lighting his pipe. “He’s got a hell of a poker face.”

“Still waters run deep, though.” She paused. His mother was always saying things like still waters run deep or it’s a long, long road that has no turning. He loved them both dearly, but sometimes they seemed just as ponderous as the books in the folio section of the library…and just as dusty.

“They were on their way to see Mark,” she resumed. “To play with his train set…now one dead and one missing! Don’t fool yourself, Henry. The boy feels something.”

“He’s got his feet pretty solidly planted on the ground,” Mr Petrie said. “Whatever his feelings are, I’m sure he’s got them in hand.”

Mark glued the Frankenstein monster’s left arm into the shoulder socket. It was a specially treated Aurora model that glowed green in the dark, just like the plastic Jesus he had gotten for memorizing all of the 119th Psalm in Sunday school class in Kittery.

“I’ve sometimes thought we should have had another,” his father was saying. “Among other things, it would have been good for Mark.”

And his mother, in an arch tone: “Not for lack of trying, dear.”

His father grunted.

There was a long pause in the conversation. His father, he knew, would be rattling through The Wall Street Journal. His mother would be holding a novel by Jane Austen on her lap, or perhaps Henry James. She read them over and over again, and Mark was darned if he could see the sense in reading a book more than once. You knew how it was going to end.

“D’you think it’s safe to let him go in the woods behind the house?” his mother asked presently. “They say there’s quicksand somewhere in town—”

“Miles from here.”

Mark relaxed a little and glued the monster’s other arm on. He had a whole table of Aurora horror monsters, arranged in a scene that he changed each time a new element was added. It was a pretty good set. Danny and Ralphie had really been coming to see that the night when…whatever.

“I think it’s okay,” his father said. “Not after dark, of course.”

“Well, I hope that awful funeral won’t give him nightmares.”

Mark could almost see his father shrug. “Tony Glick…unfortunate. But death and grief are part of living. Time he got used to the idea.”

“Maybe.” Another long pause. What was coming now? he wondered. The child is the father of the man, maybe. Or as the twig is bent the tree is shaped. Mark glued the monster onto his base, which was a grave mound with a leaning headstone in the background. “In the midst of life we’re in death. But I may have nightmares.”

“Oh?”

“That Mr Foreman must be quite an artist, grisly as it sounds. He really looked as if he was just asleep. That any second he might open his eyes and yawn and…I don’t know why these people insist on torturing themselves with open-coffin services. It’s…heathenish.”

“Well, it’s over.”

“Yes, I suppose. He’s a good boy, isn’t he, Henry?”

“Mark? The best.”

Mark smiled.

“Is there anything on TV?”

“I’ll look.”

Mark turned the rest off; the serious discussion was done. He set his model on the windowsill to dry and harden. In another fifteen minutes his mother would be calling up for him to get ready for bed. He took his pajamas out of the top dresser drawer and began to undress.

In point of fact, his mother was worrying needlessly about his psyche, which was not tender at all. There was no particular reason why it should have been; he was a typical boy in most ways, despite his economy and his gracefulness. His family was upper middle class and still upwardly mobile, and the marriage of his parents was sound. They loved each other firmly, if a little stodgily. There had never been any great trauma in Mark’s life. The few school fights had not scarred him. He got along with his peers and in general wanted the same things they wanted.

If there was anything that set him apart, it was a reservoir of remoteness, of cool self-control. No one had inculcated it in him; he seemed to have been born with it. When his pet dog, Chopper, had been hit by a car, he had insisted on going with his mother to the vet’s. And when the vet had said, The dog has got to be put to sleep, my boy. Do you understand why? Mark said, You’re not going to put him to sleep. You’re going to gas him to death, aren’t you? The vet said yes. Mark told him to go ahead, but he had kissed Chopper first. He had felt sorry but he hadn’t cried and tears had never been close to the surface. His mother had cried but three days later Chopper was in the dim past to her, and he would never be in the dim past for Mark. That was the value in not crying. Crying was like pissing everything out on the ground.

He had been shocked by the disappearance of Ralphie Glick, and shocked again by Danny’s death, but he had not been frightened. He had heard one of the men in the store say that probably a s*x p*****t had gotten Ralphie. Mark knew what perverts were. They did something to you that got their rocks off and when they were done they strangled you (in the comic books, the guy getting strangled always said Arrrgggh) and buried you in a gravel pit or under the boards of a deserted shed. If a s*x p*****t ever offered him candy, he would kick him in the balls and then run like a split streak.

“Mark?” His mother’s voice, drifting up the stairs.

“I am,” he said, and smiled again.

“Don’t forget your ears when you wash.”

“I won’t.”

He went downstairs to kiss them good night, moving lithely and gracefully, sparing one glance backward to the table where his monsters rested in tableau: Dracula with his mouth open, showing his fangs, was menacing a girl lying on the ground while the Mad Doctor was torturing a lady on the rack and Mr Hyde was creeping up on an old guy walking home.

Understand death? Sure. That was when the monsters got you.

Roy McDougall pulled into the driveway of his trailer at half past eight, gunned the engine of his old Ford twice, and turned the engine off. The header pipe was just about shot, the blinkers didn’t work, and the sticker came up next month. Some car. Some life. The kid was howling in the house and Sandy was screaming at him. Great old marriage.

He got out of the car and fell over one of the flagstones he had been meaning to turn into a walk from the driveway to the steps since last summer.

“Shitfire,” he muttered, glowering balefully at the piece of flagging and rubbing his shin.

He was quite drunk. He had gotten off work at three and had been drinking down at Dell’s ever since with Hank Peters and Buddy Mayberry. Hank had been flush just lately, and seemed intent on drinking up the whole of his dividend, whatever it had been. He knew what Sandy thought of his buddies. Well, let her get tight-assed. Begrudge a man a few beers on Saturday and Sunday even though he spent the whole week breaking his back on the goddamn picker—and getting weekend overtime to boot. Who was she to get so holy? She spent all day sitting in the house with nothing to do but take care of the place and shoot the s**t with the mailman and see that the kid didn’t crawl into the oven. She hadn’t been watching him too close lately, anyway. Goddamn kid even fell off the changing table the other day.

Where were you?

I was holding him, Roy. He just wriggles so.

Wriggles. Yeah.

He went up to the door, still steaming. His leg hurt where he had bumped it. Not that he’d get any sympathy from her. So what was she doing while he was sweating his guts out for that prick of a foreman? Reading confession magazines and eating chocolate-covered cherries or watching the soap operas on the TV and eating chocolate-covered cherries or gabbing to her friends on the phone and eating chocolate-covered cherries. She was getting pimples on her a*s as well as her face. Pretty soon you wouldn’t be able to tell the two of them apart.

He pushed open the door and walked in.

The scene struck him immediately and forcibly, cutting through the beer haze like the flick of a wet towel: the baby, n***d and screaming, blood running from his nose; Sandy holding him, her sleeveless blouse smeared with blood, looking at him over her shoulder, her face contracting with surprise and fear; the diaper on the floor.

Randy, with the discolored marks around his eyes barely fading, raised his hands as if in supplication.

“What’s going on around here?” Roy asked slowly.

“Nothing, Roy. He just—”

“You hit him,” he said tonelessly. “He wouldn’t hold still for the diapers so you smacked him.”

“No,” she said quickly. “He rolled over and bumped his nose, that’s all. That’s all.”

“I ought to beat the s**t out of you,” he said.

“Roy, he just bumped his nose—”

His shoulders slumped. “What’s for dinner?”

“Hamburgs. They’re burnt,” she said petulantly, and pulled the bottom of her blouse out of her Wranglers to wipe under Randy’s nose. Roy could see the roll of fat she was getting. She’d never bounced back after the baby. Didn’t care.

“Shut him up.”

“He isn’t—”

“Shut him up!” Roy yelled, and Randy, who had actually been quieting down to snuffles, began to scream again.

“I’ll give him a bottle,” Sandy said, getting up.

“And get my dinner.” He started to take off his denim jacket. “Christ, isn’t this place a mess. What do you do all day, beat off?”

“Roy!” she said, sounding shocked. Then she giggled. Her insane burst of anger at the baby who would not hold still on his diapers so she could pin them began to be far away, hazy. It might have happened on one of her afternoon stories, or “Medical Center.”

“Get my dinner and then pick this frigging place up.”

“All right. All right, sure.” She got a bottle out of the refrigerator and put Randy down in the playpen with it. He began to suck it apathetically, his eyes moving from mother to father in small, trapped circles.

“Roy?”

“Hmmm? What?”

“It’s all over.”

“What is?”

“You know what. Do you want to? Tonight?”

“Sure,” he said. “Sure.” And thought again: Isn’t this some life. Isn’t this just some life.

Nolly Gardener was listening to rock ’n’ roll music on WLOB and snapping his fingers when the telephone rang. Parkins put down his crossword magazine and said, “Cut that some, will you?”

“Sure, Park.” Nolly turned the radio down and went on snapping his fingers.

“Hello?” Parkins said.

“Constable Gillespie?”

“Yeah.”

“Agent Tom Hanrahan here, sir. I’ve got the information you requested.”

“Good of you to get back so quick.”

“We haven’t got much of a hook for you.”

“That’s okay,” Parkins said. “What have you got?”

“Ben Mears investigated as a result of a traffic fatality in upstate New York, May 1973. No charges brought. Motorcycle smash. His wife, Miranda, was killed. Witnesses said he was moving slowly and a breath test was negative. Apparently just hit a wet spot. His politics are leftish. He was in a peace march at Princeton in 1966. Spoke at an antiwar rally in Brooklyn in 1967. March on Washington in 1968 and 1970. Arrested during a San Francisco peace march November 1971. And that’s all there is on him.”

“What else?”

“Kurt Barlow, that’s Kurt with a ‘k’. He’s British, but by naturalization rather than birth. Born in Germany, fled to England in 1938, apparently just ahead of the Gestapo. His earlier records just aren’t available, but he’s probably in his seventies. The name he was born with was Breichen. He’s been in the import-export business in London since 1945, but he’s elusive. Straker has been his partner since then, and Straker seems to be the fellow who deals with the public.”

“Yeah?”

“Straker is British by birth. Fifty-eight years old. His father was a cabinetmaker in Manchester. Left a fair amount of money to his son, apparently, and this Straker has done all right, too. Both of them applied for visas to spend an extended amount of time in the United States eighteen months ago. That’s all we have. Except that they may be queer for each other.”

“Yeah,” Parkins said, and sighed. “About what I thought.”

“If you’d like further assistance, we can query CID and Scotland Yard about your two new merchants.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“No connection between Mears and the other two, by the way. Unless it’s deep undercover.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“It’s what we’re here for. If you want assistance, get in touch.”

“I will. Thank you now.”

He put the receiver back in its cradle and looked at it thoughtfully.

“Who was that, Park?” Nolly asked, turning up the radio.

“The Excellent Café. They ain’t got any ham on rye. Nothin’ but toasted cheese and egg salad.”

“I got some raspberry fluff in my desk if you want it.”

“No thanks,” Parkins said, and sighed again.

The dump was still smoldering.

Dud Rogers walked along the edge, smelling the fragrance of smoldering offal. Underfoot, small bottles crunched and powdery black ash puffed up at every step. Out in the dump’s wasteland, a wide bed of coals waxed and waned with the vagaries of the wind, reminding him of a huge red eye opening and closing…the eye of a giant. Every now and then there was a muffled small explosion as an aerosol can or lightbulb blew up. A great many rats had come out of the dump when he lit it that morning, more rats than he had ever seen before. He had shot fully three dozen, and his pistol had been hot to the touch when he finally tucked it back in its holster. They were big bastards, too, some of them fully two feet long stretched end to end. Funny how their numbers seemed to grow or shrink depending on the year. Had something to do with the weather, probably. If it kept up, he would have to start salting poison bait around, something he hadn’t had to do since 1964.

There was one now, creeping under one of the yellow sawhorses that served as fire barriers.

Dud pulled out his pistol, clicked off the safety, aimed, and fired. The shot kicked dirt in front of the rat, spraying its fur. But instead of running, it only rose up on its hind legs and looked at him, beady little eyes glittering red in the fire glow. Jesus, but some of them were bold!

“By-by, Mr Rat,” Dud said, and took careful aim.

Kapow. The rat flopped over, twitching.

Dud walked across and prodded it with one heavy work boot. The rat bit weakly at the shoe leather, its sides aspirating weakly.

“Bastard,” Dud said mildly, and crushed its head.

He hunkered down, looked at it, and found himself thinking of Ruthie Crockett, who wore no b*a. When she wore one of those clingy cardigan sweaters, you could see her little n*****s just as clear, made erect by the friction as they rubbed against the wool, and if a man could get ahold of those t**s and rub them just a little, just a little, mind you, a s**t like that would go off just like a rocket…

He picked the rat up by its tail and swung it like a pendulum. “How’d you like ole Mr Rat in your pencil box, Ruthie?” The thought with its unintentional double entendre amused him, and he uttered a high-pitched giggle, his oddly off-center head nodding and dipping.

He slung the rat far out into the dump. As he did so, he swung around and caught sight of a figure—a tall, extremely thin silhouette about fifty paces to the right.

Dud wiped his hands on his green pants, hitched them up, and strolled over.

“Dump’s closed, mister.”

The man turned toward him. The face that was discovered in the red glow of the dying fire was high-cheekboned and thoughtful. The hair was white, streaked with oddly virile slashes of iron gray. The guy had it swept back from his high, waxy forehead like one of those fag concert pianists. The eyes caught and held the red glow of the embers and made them look bloodshot.

“Is it?” the man asked politely, and there was a faint accent in the words, although they were perfectly spoken. The guy might be a frog, or maybe a bohunk. “I came to watch the fire. It is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Dud said. “You from around here?”

“I am a recent resident of your lovely town, yes. Do you shoot many rats?”

“Quite a few, yeah. Just lately there’s millions of the little sonsa-w****s. Say, you ain’t the fella who bought the Marsten place, are you?”

“Predators,” the man said, crossing his hands behind his back. Dud noticed with surprise that the guy was all tricked out in a suit, vest and all. “I love the predators of the night. The rats…the owls…the wolves. Are there wolves in this area?”

“Naw,” Dud said. “Guy up in Durham bagged a coyote two years ago. And there’s a wild-dog pack that’s been runnin’ deer—”

“Dogs,” the stranger said, and gestured with contempt. “Low animals that cringe and howl at the sound of a strange step. Fit only to whine and grovel. Gut them all, I say. Gut them all!”

“Well, I never thought of it that way,” Dud said, taking a shuffling step backward. “It’s always nice to have someone come out and, you know, shoot the s**t, but the dump closes at six on Sundays and it’s happast nine now—”

“To be sure.”

Yet the stranger showed no sign of moving away. Dud was thinking that he had stolen a march on the rest of the town. They were all wondering who was behind that Straker guy, and he was the first to know—except maybe for Larry Crockett, who was a deep one. The next time he was in town buying shells from that prissy-faced George Middler, he would just happen to say casually: Happened to meet that new fella the other night. Who? Oh, you know. Fella that took the Marsten House. Nice enough fella. Talked a little like a bohunk.

“Any ghosts up in that old house?” he asked, when the old party showed no signs of hauling a*s.

“Ghosts!” The old party smiled, and there was something very disquieting about that smile. A barracuda might smile like that. “No; no ghosts.” He placed a faint emphasis on that last word, as if there might be something up there that was even worse.

“Well…gettin’ late and all…you really ought to go now, Mister—?”

“But it’s so pleasant, speaking with you,” the old party said, and for the first time he turned his full face to Dud and looked in his eyes. The eyes were wide-set, and still rimmed with the dump’s sullen fire. There was no way you could look away from them, although it wasn’t polite to stare. “You don’t mind if we converse a bit longer, do you?”

“No, I guess not,” Dud said, and his voice sounded far away. Those eyes seemed to be expanding, growing, until they were like dark pits ringed with fire, pits you could fall into and drown in.

“Thank you,” he said. “Tell me…does the hump on your back discommode you in your job?”

“No,” Dud said, still feeling far away. He thought faintly: I be buggered if he ain’t hypnotizin’ me. Just like that fella at Topsham Fair…what was his name? Mr Mephisto. He’d put you to sleep and make you do all kinds of comical things—act like a chicken or run around like a dog or tell what happened at the birthday party you had when you were six. He hypnotized ole Reggie Sawyer and Gawd didn’t we laugh…

“Does it perhaps inconvenience you in other ways?”

“No…well…” He looked into the eyes, fascinated.

“Come, come,” the old party’s voice cajoled gently. “We are friends, are we not? Speak to me, tell me.”

“Well…girls…you know, girls…”

“Of course,” the old party said soothingly. “The girls laugh at you, do they not? They have no knowing of your manhood. Of your strength.”

“That’s right,” Dud whispered. “They laugh. She laughs.”

“Who is this she?”

“Ruthie Crockett. She…she…” The thought flew away. He let it. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this peace. This cool and complete peace.

“She makes the jokes perhaps? Snickers behind her hand? Nudges her friends when you pass?”

“Yes…”

“But you want her,” the voice insisted. “Is it not so?”

“Oh yes…”

“You shall have her. I am sure of it.”

There was something…pleasant about this. Far away he seemed to hear sweet voices singing foul words. Silver chimes…white faces…Ruthie Crockett’s voice. He could almost see her, hands cupping her titties, making them bulge into the V of her cardigan sweater in ripe white half-globes, whispering: Kiss them, Dud…bite them…suck them…

It was like drowning. Drowning in the old man’s red-rimmed eyes.

As the stranger came closer, Dud understood everything and welcomed it, and when the pain came, it was as sweet as silver, as green as still water at dark fathoms.

His hand was unsteady and instead of gripping the bottle the fingers knocked it off the desk and to the carpet with a heavy thump, where it lay gurgling good scotch into the green nap.

“s**t!” said Father Donald Callahan, and reached down to pick it up before all was lost. There was, in fact, not much to lose. He set what was left on the desk again (well back from the edge) and wandered into the kitchen to look for a rag under the sink and a bottle of cleaning fluid. It would never do to let Mrs Curless find a patch of spilled scotch by the leg of his study desk. Her kind, pitying looks were too hard to take on the long, grainy mornings when you were feeling a little low—

Hung over, you mean.

Yes, hung over, very good. Let’s have a little truth around here, by all means. Know the truth and it will set you free. Bully for the truth.

He found a bottle of something called E-Vap, which was not too far from the sound of violent regurgitation (“E-Vap!” croaked the old drunk, simultaneously crapping himself and blowing lunch), and took it back to the study. He was not weaving at all. Hardly at all. Watch this, Ossifer, I’m going to walk right up this white line to the stop light.

Callahan was an imposing fifty-three. His hair was silvery, his eyes a direct blue (now threaded with tiny snaps of red) surrounded by Irish laugh wrinkles, his mouth firm, his slightly cleft chin firmer still. Some mornings, looking at himself in the mirror, he thought that when he reached sixty he would throw over the priesthood, go to Hollywood, and get a job playing Spencer Tracy.

“Father Flanagan, where are you when we need you?” he muttered, and hunkered down by the stain. He squinted, read the instructions on the label of the bottle, and poured two capfuls of E-Vap onto the stain. The patch immediately turned white and began to bubble. Callahan viewed this with some alarm, and consulted the label again.

“For really tough stains,” he read aloud in the rich, rolling voice that had made him so welcome in this parish after the long, denture-clicking peregrinations of poor old Father Hume, “allow to set for seven to ten minutes.”

He went over to the study window, which fronted on Elm Street and St Andrew’s on the far side.

Well, well, he thought. Here I am, Sunday night and drunk again.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

If you went slow and if you continued to work (on his long, solitary evenings, Father Callahan worked on his Notes. He had been working on the Notes for nearly seven years, supposedly for a book on the Catholic Church in New England, but he suspected now and then that the book would never be written. In point of fact, the Notes and his drinking problem had begun at the same time. Genesis 1:1—“In the beginning there was scotch, and Father Callahan said, Let there be Notes.”), you were hardly aware of the slow growth of drunkenness. You could educate your hand not to be aware of the bottle’s lessening weight.

It has been at least one day since my last confession.

It was eleven-thirty, and looking out the window he saw uniform darkness, broken only by the spotlight circle of the streetlight in front of the church. At any moment Fred Astaire would dance into it, wearing a top hat, tails, spats, and white shoes, twirling a cane. He is met by Ginger Rogers. They waltz to the tune of “I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic E-Vap Blues Again.”

He leaned his forehead against the glass, allowing the handsome face that had been, in some measure at least, his curse sag into drawn lines of distracted weariness.

I’m a drunk and I’m a lousy priest, Father.

With his eyes closed he could see the darkness of the confessional booth, could feel his fingers sliding back the window and rolling up the shade on all the secrets of the human heart, could smell varnish and old velvet from the kneeling benches and the sweat of old men; could taste alkali traces in his saliva.

Bless me, Father,