“Little too much to drink.”
“You all right to drive?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Sure?”
“Positive.”
“I’d be happy to run you home.”
“Thanks, Donny, but I’ll be fine.”
But he sure was giving me a funny look. I nodded a good night and took off walking to my car, knowing he was watching me again.
At home I drank four beers and sat in the dark kitchen and listened to an owl that sounded every bit as lonely as I felt. Then I tumbled into bed and began seven hours of troubled and exhausting sleep.
—
At six I dragged myself from bed for a quick shave and shower. I’d just lathered up when I looked out the bathroom window and saw Donny Newton, still in uniform, doing something to my right rear tire. There’s no garage or concrete drive. I just park on the grass on the east side of the house.
I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing. He was down on one knee, spraying something in the tire tracks I’d made on the grass. Then he took this small wooden frame and put it over a portion of the tire marks he’d just sprayed.
Only then did I understand what he was doing—getting an impression of my tracks, the way the cops do at a crime scene.
But why the hell was he interested in my tire tracks? Had there been a hit-and-run last night and he suspected me of driving drunk and leaving the scene of the accident?
He left quickly. Probably had no idea I’d seen him. Probably figured I was still asleep.
At noon, I saw him again, Donny. When did he sleep?
He was out in the lumberyard with my boss, Mr. Axminster. A couple times when they were talking, they’d both looked back at the front office where I was. Then he was gone.
The rest of the afternoon, Mr. Axminster acted pretty funny. He was already pissed that I’d been so preoccupied lately, and that I was making a lot of mistakes, but now it wasn’t so much that he was mad—more that he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. As if I were some kind of alien being or something.
Just before quitting time, the phone rang. I was checking in some wallpaper kits, so Mr. Axminster had to take it. He talked for a few minutes, in a whispery kind of voice, so I figured it was his lady friend. Rumor had it that he was sweet on a waitress named Myrna over at the Chow Down café. I think it was true, because she called here sometimes. He was always boasting about how good a Lutheran he was, so his being a family man and having a little strange on the side surprised me.
Then he said, “It’s for you, Spence.”
He tried to act like everything was just fine and dandy. But he was sweating a lot suddenly and it wasn’t hot, and he couldn’t look me directly in the eye. He handed me the phone. I said hello.
“Spence?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Donny Newton.”
I looked at Mr. Axminster, who looked quickly away.
“Wondered if we could get together.”
“When?”
“You’re off in fifteen minutes, right?”
“Right.”
“How about then?”
“Have a beer somewhere, you mean? Maybe a little bumper pool?” But I knew better, knew what he was really up to.
“Uh…well, actually, I was hoping you’d sort of stop over to the station.”
“The station? How come?” I played it real dumb.
“Oh, just a couple things came up. Hoping you could help us clear them up a little.”
“Well, sure, Donny. If it’s important.”
“I’d sure appreciate it.”
“Sure thing, Donny. About fifteen minutes?”
“Fifteen minutes would be great. That’ll give me time to empty the old bladder and grab us a pair of Pepsis.”
“See you then, Donny.”
Panic. Tried to control it. Closed my eyes. Forced myself to take deep breaths. Gripped the edge of the counter so I’d quit shaking.
Good old Cindy. The only person who could possibly have interested the police in my tire tracks. We’d used my car on all our murders and robberies. If Cindy had decided to blame me and to cooperate with authorities in reeling me in—
Cindy would likely avoid jail herself. And she’d have her brand-new beau.
“They asked me about you, Spence. In case you’re wondering.”
When I opened my eyes, Mr. Axminster was standing there. “You’ve gotten yourself in some serious trouble, Spence.” He shook his head. “When Donny Newton told me, well—” He looked very said. “I’ve known your folks all my life, Spence. When they hear about this—”
But I wasn’t waiting around for any more of his hand-wringing dramatic presentation.
I ran out to my car, hopped in, tore out of the driveway.
I drove. I have no idea where. Just—around. And fast. Very fast.
When I was aware of things again, it was an hour later and I was racing up a gravel road, leaving a plume of dust in my wake.
Instinctively, I headed for the only place I’d find any wisdom or solace.
I pulled into the surrounding woods so nobody could see my car from the highway. I waited till dark before finding the trail that led to the well.
Downhill, a crow sat on the rickety remains of the cabin. He was big and shiny in the cool dusk.
The well looked the same as I approached it, the native stone of the pit a dead white in the darkening shadows.
I knelt down next to the well and put my head down inside. I needed to hear Him. Needed His wisdom.
Right away, I started crying. I was going to lose it all. My job. My girl. My freedom.
All I’d done was what the voice in the well had told me to do. And I had no control over that.
You’ll feel better soon.
I let those words echo in my mind for a time before asking Him what He meant.
And He told me that I’d soon know what He meant.
And right after that, I heard her laugh.
Cindy. Coming down the path. Then: a second voice. Male. The guy she’d met at the mall.
Everything was dark now. I staggered to my feet and scurried into the woods.
They were holding hands. And laughing. And she was telling him about the well.
“You really love putting me on, don’t you?” he said.
“It’s not a put-on. Honest.”
“There’s this voice down the well.”
“Not just a voice—an entity.”
“Hey—big word. Entity.”
“Right,” Cindy said.
She slid her arm around him. Kissed him playfully on the chin. I was afraid I was going to be sick again. Real sick.
“It’s an alien.”
“From outer space?” he said.
“Exactly.”
He laughed again. “What a con artist.”
He sat on the edge of the well pit and took her to him and then kissed her long and deep and passionately.
And then the knife was in my hand. The knife I’d used on the Mex.
And suddenly I was screaming and running from the woods toward the well and I saw the mall guy looked startled and then terrified and I heard Cindy scream.
But I didn’t stop.
I ran straight up to the guy and stabbed him in the chest. Stabbed him again and again and again.
He fell to the ground, all blood and dying gasps now, but I kept right on stabbing him until I heard Cindy’s feet slapping up the path as she tried to escape.
But she wasn’t going to escape.
No way.
I went after her, grabbed her by the long hair, whipped her back to me until our faces were almost touching.
“I loved you and you didn’t give a damn at all.”
“I still love you, Spence. It’s just that I’m so—confused—please don’t—please understand that I love you, Spence—and we can be together again just the way we were and—”
I stabbed her in the chest.
She didn’t screa
m or even cry.
In fact, her hands fitted themselves around the hilt of the knife, as if she wanted to make sure that the blade stayed deep and true in her heart.
And then she fell into my arms.
And that was the weird thing, you know.
She didn’t scream. But I did.
She didn’t cry. But I did.
She didn’t call for help. But I did.
The way it was later told to me, a farmer looking for a couple stray head of cattle found me just like that—holding Cindy lifeless in my arms, and sobbing so hard he was afraid I was going to suffer some kind of seizure.
Later there were lights and harsh voices and then the tearstained faces of my parents.
Oh my God, Spence.
How could you do this, Spence?
Spence, we’re going to get you the best lawyer we can afford, but your father’s not a rich man, you know.
Mr. Spencer, this is your attorney, Dan Myles.
Seven different counts of murder, Mr. Spencer.
Seven different…
The same night they put me in jail they transferred me to a mental hospital on the outskirts of Iowa City. I was so cold I ended up with six wool blankets on me before they could stop me from shuddering. They gave me three different shots in my hip. Then I seemed to die. There was just—darkness.
Over the next few weeks, they gave me several tests a day. I saw medical doctors; psychologists; a priest, though I’m not Roman Catholic; and then a young reporter named Donna Mannering who had just started working for our small-town newspaper.
They let her see me for twenty minutes in a room with an armed guard outside. I had told the MD that I wanted to talk to a reporter and he had seen to it that Donna was brought in.
“Dr. Wingate said you were saving something to tell me.”
She was blond and a little bit overweight, but very pretty. She was also terrified. I’m sure I was the first killer she’d ever met in person.
“Yeah.”
She flipped open her long, skinny reporter’s notebook. “I guess I’ll just let you do the talking.”
“I want to tell you about the well.”
“You mean like a wishing well.”
I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of like a wishing well. Only you don’t make the wishes. The thing in the well does.”
“The thing in the well?”
“This alien.”
“I see.”
Now she looked more frightened than ever. Her blue gaze fled to the door several times. She wanted to be sure she could get away from me if I suddenly went berserk.
“There’s an alien in the well.”
“Right,” I said.
“And it told you to do things?”
“Everything I did. I mean the killing, the robberies, the arson fires.”
“The alien?”
“Uh-huh. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I don’t mind if you smile. Because I know how crazy it all must sound.”
“Well, I guess it does sound a little—” But then she stopped herself. “Did the thing in the well tell you to kill Cindy and her new friend?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have done it otherwise?”
“I don’t think so.” Pause. “I want you to go out there.”
“Where?”
“The well.” I told her where she’d find it.
“When?”
“Soon as you can. But I want you to go alone.”
“Why?”
“Because the thing will be more apt to talk to you if you’re alone.”
“Were you alone when you first heard it?”
“No. I was with Cindy, but she already knew about the alien, so that was different.”
“I see.” She glanced at her watch. She was trembling and licking her lips frantically. Her mouth must have been very dry. “Boy, where has the time gone. I need to get out of here. Guard!” she practically shouted.
The guard came in and led her out.
She glanced over her shoulder when she reached the threshold.
I said, “Please go out there, all right?”
She looked anxiously away and followed the guard out the door.
My trial didn’t start for seven months. Because we were pleading insanity, there wasn’t much I had to do but wait for the trial date.
During this time, I started reading about the strange murders taking place in and around my small hometown. Old ladies viciously strangled to death with rosary beads.
On the first day of my trial, the day my lawyer spoke aloud my defense, that I had been taking orders from an alien being at the bottom of a well, I saw Donna Mannering sitting with several other reporters near the back of the courtroom. The other reporters were all smirking at the reference to the alien in the well.
But Donna wasn’t.
At the end of the day, when I was being led back to county lockup, Donna pushed past the deputies surrounding me and pushed her face into mine. I saw in her eyes that same anger and same madness I’d known when I’d been under the sway of the voice in the well.
“You bastard,” she spat at me.
And then she grabbed my right hand and shoved something into it and ran out of the courtroom.
I kept my hand closed all the way back to my cell for fear that one of the guards would see what she’d given me and confiscate it.
I sat on the edge of my bunk and opened my hand and stared down at the snakelike coil of black rosary beads.
—
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Stephen King has been a big influence on me. Somebody once called him the Thomas Wolfe of popular fiction, but to me he’s more the Thomas Hardy. He has Hardy’s social eye and his obsession with what time does to us all. And he has Hardy’s generosity of spirit, too. The beautiful and forlorn poetry of Pet Sematary will tell you all you need to know about King’s soul. I like just about everything he does, but I especially like some of the stories nobody seems to mention much: Christine, which is one of the great high school novels of our time; “Strawberry Spring,” which is one of the best crime stories of the seventies; and “Nona,” which I had in mind when I wrote “The Brasher Girl.” Some people call this sort of thing homage; others, the more vigilant, perhaps, call it theft.
Creature Feature
Heather Graham
The Jack the Ripper mannequin glared at Emma Cowell with eyes that were purely evil. Emma stared back for a bit before breaking the glance to look around.
Setup was almost complete; tomorrow, fans, nerds, and old—with some new—stars of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror would pour in to sell their photos and autographs. Producers would come and look for the Rick Bakers of tomorrow.
Everything had to be perfect.
And this…this fabrication was perfect. Nothing truly defined the face, while the stance and the eyes excellently told of evil. Everything about it seemed to leap to life; everything about it looked real, down to the knife held high in its hand, dripping blood…like the blood that dripped around the corpse it stood over and the blood that spattered on the false wall behind it. It was amazing; it was so real, she couldn’t stop staring at it.
Oh, some of the other displays were excellent. Truly excellent. But there was nothing as terrifyingly real as this tableau of Jack the Ripper standing over his assumed last victim, Mary Jane Kelly.
One problem with the creation—it wasn’t hers.
“Emma, heading out!” Rory Welsh called to her. Rory worked with her at Aspirations. Their last assignment together had been a muskrat for what she had considered to be a horrible commercial. Rory didn’t mind; she did. She wanted the big assignments; she wanted movies or a television series with big stars—real work.
“Emma!”
“Yep, I’m done!” she said.
“Well, I’m leaving, and you’d better come. There’s supposedly a curse on the convention. If anyone messes with any of the characters, the whole place comes to life
. Werewolves tear into people and chew them all up. Zombies will come for your brains—and vampires will suck the blood right out of you.”
“Yeah, yeah, right. Go on—I’m coming. I’m done.”
But she wasn’t.
“Be right there,” she added.
“Lights going out for now—you need anything else, just be in here bright and early in the morning,” Lloyd Harrison, the producer of the show, called to her. “All right, I’m leaving. Make sure you go out the main door and that it clicks locked behind you when you leave! Lights out!”
Lloyd was impatient—the ass. He had learned how to make the big bucks on other people’s work. And people did pay the big money, while the big shops and well-known fabricators came in to show off their wares and await the next big movie-slash-television-slash-commercial producer to see their work and hire them for their next piece of film magic.
Emma didn’t move; the lights went out. The floor—with its monsters, vampires, werewolves, aliens, and more—seemed exceptionally eerie, lit only by thin strips of emergency lighting along the pathways.
After a moment, she hurried toward the exit to assure herself that both Rory and Lloyd were really gone. Certain that they were, she headed back to the tableau.
“I’m not a bad person—it just can’t be that perfect!” she told herself aloud.
She moved closer to the fabricator’s image of the Ripper; it was magnificent. The eyes actually seemed to glow red—like demon eyes. The eyes of a satanic killer. She moved closer to get a better view of the eyes, wondering if there was a way to make the whole Ripper tableau less appealing—and to make her own sea demon attacking a ship appear as real.
Something caught her peripheral vision: a movement. She turned around, curious. It was true, those who had fabricated the creatures here were incredibly talented. Zombies seemed ready to walk off their pedestals; a werewolf’s snarl was so real, she could almost hear a howl coming from its mouth. Skeletons danced in the shadowy mist, caught in the breeze created by the air conditioner.
A sense of unease filled her. Ridiculous. She was a fabricator. She created talking camels and whimsical mermaids and monsters herself.
And yet it looked as if the vast army of creatures in the convention center was about to come to life!
Silly. Ludicrous. And yet she had to force herself to move. A strange, almost primeval fear gripped her. She made herself walk up to the werewolf; it was just synthetic hair, wire, and foam.
Dark Screams, Volume 4 Page 8