Four Past Midnight - Stephen King [248]
The scar overlaid the geography of that face exactly as it had in Sam's imagination - across the left cheek, below the left eye, across the bridge of the nose. Except for the scar, it was the man in the poster ... or was it? He could no longer be sure.
Come with me, son ... I'm a poleethman.
Sam Peebles, darling of the Junction City Rotary Club, wet his pants. He felt his bladder let go in a warm gush, but that seemed far away and unimportant. What was important was that there was a monster in his kitchen, and the most terrible thing about this monster was that Sam almost knew his face. Sam felt a triplelocked door far back in his mind straining to burst open. He never thought of running. The idea of flight was beyond his capacity to imagine. He was a child again, a child who has been caught red-handed
(the book isn't The Speaker's Companion)
doing some awful bad thing. Instead of running
(the book isn't Best Loved Poems of the American People)
he folded slowly over his own wet crotch and collapsed between the two stools which stood at the counter, holding his hands up blindly above his head.
(the book is)
'No,' he said in a husky, strengthless voice. 'No, please - no, please, please don't do it to me, please, I'll be good, please don't hurt me that way.'
He was reduced to this. But it didn't matter; the giant in the fog-colored trenchcoat
(the book is The Black Arrow by Robert Louts Stevenson)
now stood directly over him.
Sam dropped his head. It seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. He looked at the floor and prayed incoherently that when he looked up - when he had the strength to look up - the figure would be gone.
'Look at me,' the distant, thudding voice instructed. It was the voice of an evil god.
'No,' Sam cried in a shrieky, breathless voice, and then burst into helpless tears. It was not just terror, although the terror was real enough, bad enough. Separate from it was a cold deep drift of childish fright and childish shame. Those feelings clung like poison syrup to whatever it was he dared not remember, the thing that had something to do with a book he had never read: The Black Arrow, by Robert Louis Stevenson.
Whack!
Something struck Sam's head and he screamed.
'Look at me!'
'No, please don't make me,' Sam begged.
Whack!
He looked up, shielding his streaming eyes with one rubbery arm, just in time to see the Library Policeman's arm come down again.
Whack!
He was hitting Sam with Sam's own rolled-up copy of the Gazette, whacking him the way you might whack a heedless puppy that has piddled on the floor.
'That'th better,' said the Library Policeman. He grinned, lips parting to reveal the points of sharp teeth, teeth which were almost fangs. He reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and brought out a leather folder. He flipped it open and revealed the strange star of many points. It glinted in the clean morning light.
Sam was now helpless to look away from that merciless face, those silver eyes with their tiny birdshot pupils. He was slobbering and knew it but was helpless to stop that, either.
'You have two books which belong to uth,' the Library Policeman said. His voice still seemed to be coming from a distance, or from behind a thick pane of glass. 'Mith Lorth is very upthet with you, Mr Peebles.'
'I lost them,' Sam said, beginning to cry harder. The thought of lying to this man about
(The Black Arrow)
the books, about anything, was out of the question. He was all authority, all power, all force. He was judge, jury, and executioner.
Where's the janitor? Sam wondered incoherently. Where's the janitor who checks the dials and