Salem's Lot - Stephen King [82]
He was bled almost white.
No sound from up the hall. Matt thought: He is sleeping like the stones himself. Well, why not? Why had he invited Mike back to the house, if not for a good night’s sleep, uninterrupted by… by bad dreams? He got out of bed and turned on the lamp and went to the window. From here one could just see the roof tree of the Marsten House, frosted in moonlight.
I’m frightened.
But it was worse than that; he was dead scared. His mind ran over the old protections for an unmentionable disease: garlic, holy wafer and water, crucifix, rose, running water. He had none of the holy things. He was a nonpracticing Methodist, and privately thought that John Groggins was the asshole of the Western world.
The only religious object in the house was -
Softly yet clearly in the silent house the words came, spoken in Mike Ryerson’s voice, spoken in the dead accents of sleep:
‘Yes. Come in.’
Matt’s breath stopped, then whistled out in soundless scream. He felt faint with fear. His belly seemed to have turned to lead. His testicles had drawn up. What in God’s name had been invited into his house?
Stealthily, the sound of the hasp on the guest room window being turned back. Then the grind of wood against wood as the window was forced up.
He could go downstairs. Run, get the Bible from the dresser in the dining room. Run back up, jerk open the door to the guest room, hold the Bible high: In the nameof the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I commandyou to be gone -
But who was in there?
Call me in the night if you want anything.
But I can’t, Mike. I’m an old man. I’m afraid.
Night invaded his brain and made it a circus of terrifying images which danced in and out of the shadows. Clown-white faces, huge eyes, sharp teeth, forms that slipped from the shadows with long white hands that reached for… for…
A shuddering groan escaped him, and he put his hands over his face.
I can’t. I am afraid.
He could not have risen even if the brass knob on his own door had begun to turn. He was paralyzed with fear and wished crazily that he had never gone out to Dell’s that night.
I am afraid.
And in the awful heavy silence of the house, as he sat impotently on his bed with his face in his hands, he heard the high, sweet, evil laugh of a child
-and then the sucking sounds.
Part Two: THE EMPEROR OF ICE CREAM
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream
Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered three fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.
Wallace Stevens
This column has
A hole. Can you see
The Queen of the Dead?
George Seferis
Chapter Eight
BEN (III)
1
The kicking must have been going on for a long time, because it seemed to echo far down the avenues of sleep as he slowly struggled up to wakefulness. It was dark outside, but when he turned to grasp the clock and bring it to his face, he knocked it onto the floor. He felt disoriented and frightened.
‘Who is it?’ he called out.
‘It’s Eva, Mr Mears. There’s a phone call for you.’
He got up, pulled on his pants, and opened the door bare-chested. Eva Miller was in a white terry-cloth robe, and her face was full of the slow vulnerability of a person still two-fifths asleep. They looked at each other nakedly, and he was thinking: Who’s sick? Who’s died?
‘Long-distance?’
‘No, it’s Matthew Burke.’
The knowledge did not relieve him as it should have done. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after four. Mr Burke sounds very-upset.
Ben went downstairs and picked the phone up. ‘This is Ben, Matt.’
Matt was breathing rapidly into the phone,