Salem's Lot - Stephen King [115]
‘I suppose I do. But it all seems more real after dark, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘God, yes.’
For no reason at all he thought of Miranda and Miranda’s dying: the motorcycle hitting the wet patch, going into a skid, the sound of her scream, his own brute panic, and the side of the truck growing and growing as they approached it broadside.
‘Susan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Take good care of yourself. Please.’
After she hung up, he put the phone back in the cradle and stared at the TV, barely seeing the Doris Day-Rock Hudson comedy that had begun to unreel up there. He felt naked, exposed. He had no cross himself. His eyes strayed to the windows, which showed only blackness. The old, childlike terror of the dark began to creep over him and he looked at the television where Doris Day was giving a shaggy dog a bubble bath and was afraid.
11
The county morgue in Portland is a cold and antiseptic room done entirely in green tile. The floors and walls are a uniform medium green, and the ceiling is a lighter green. The walls are lined with square doors which look like large bus-terminal coin lockers. Long parallel fluorescent tubes shed a chilly neutral light over all of this. The decor is hardly inspired, but none of the clientele have ever been known to complain.
At quarter to ten on this Saturday night, two attendants were wheeling in the sheet-covered body of a young homosexual who had been shot in a downtown bar. It was the first stiff they had received that night; the highway fatals usually came in between 1:00 and 3:00 A.M.
Buddy Bascomb was in the middle of a Frenchman joke that had to do with vaginal deodorant spray when he broke off in midsentence and stared down the line of locker doors M-Z. Two of them were standing open.
He and Bob Greenberg left the new arrival and hurried down quickly. Buddy glanced at the tag on the first door he came to while Bob went down to the next.
TIBBITS, FLOYD MARTIN
Sex: M
Admitted: 10/4/75
Autops. sched.: 10/5/75
Signator: J. M. Cody, MD
He yanked the handle set inside the door, and the slab rolled out on silent casters.
Empty.
‘Hey!’ Greenberg yelled up to him. ‘This fucking thing is empty. Whose idea of a joke-’
‘I was on the desk all the time,’ Buddy said. ‘No one went by me. I’d swear to it. It must have happened on Carty’s shift. What’s the name on that one?’
‘McDougall, Randall Fratus. What does this abbreviation inf. mean?’
‘Infant,’ Buddy said dully. ‘Jesus Christ, I think we’re in trouble.’
12
Something had awakened him.
He lay still in the ticking dark, looking at the ceiling.
A noise. Some noise. But the house was silent.
There it was again. Scratching.
Mark Petrie turned over in bed and looked through the window and Danny Glick was staring in at him through the glass, his skin grave-pale, his eyes reddish and feral.
Some dark substance was smeared about his lips and chin, and when he saw Mark looking at him, he smiled and showed teeth grown hideously long and sharp.
‘Let me in,’ the voice whispered, and Mark was not sure if the words had crossed dark air or were only in his mind.
He became aware that he was frightened-his body had known before his mind. He had never been so frightened, not even when he got tired swimming back from the float at Popham Beach and thought he was going to drown. His mind, still that of a child in a thousand ways, made an accurate judgment of his position in seconds. He was in peril of more than his life.
‘Let me in, Mark. I want to play with you.’
There was nothing for that hideous entity outside the window to hold onto; his room was on the second floor and there was no ledge. Yet somehow it hung suspended in space… or perhaps it was clinging to the outside shingles like some dark insect.
‘Mark… I finally came, Mark. Please… ’
Of course. You have to invite them inside. He knew that from his monster magazines, the ones his mother was afraid might damage or warp him in some way.
He got out of bed and almost fell down. It was only then that he realized fright was too mild a word for this. Even terror did