Sometimes They Come Back

by Stephen King

  Diner.'

  'Christ, that's been gone ten years. Wait a minute.' He came back on the phone

  and read an address and a phone number. Jim jotted them down, thanked

  Livingston, and hung up.

  He dialled 0 again, gave the number, and waited. When the phone began to ring, a

  sudden hot tension filled him and he leaned forward, turning instinctively away

  from the drugstore soda fountain, although there was no one there but a plump

  teen-age girl reading a magazine.

  The phone was picked up and a rich, masculine voice, sounding not at all old,

  said, 'Hello?' That single word set off a dusty chain reaction of memories and

  emotions, as startling as the Pavlovian reaction that can be set off by hearing

  an old record on the radio.

  'Mr Nell? Donald Nell?'

  'Yes.'

  'My name is James Norman, Mr Nell. Do you remember me, by any chance?'

  'Yes,' the voice responded immediately. 'Pie a'la mode. Your brother was killed

  . . . knifed. A shame. He was a lovely boy.'

  Jim collapsed against one of the booth's glass walls. The tension's sudden

  departure left him as weak as a stuffed toy. He found himself on the verge of

  spilling everything, and he bit the urge back desperately.

  'Mr Nell, those boys were never caught.'

  'No,' Nell said. 'We did have suspects. As I recall, we had a lineup at a

  Bridgeport police station.'

  'Were those suspects identified to me by name?'

  'No. The procedure at a police showup was to address the participants by number.

  What's your interest in this now, Mr Norman?'

  'Let me throw some names at you,' Jim said. 'I want to know if they ring a bell

  in connection with the case.'

  'Son, I wouldn't -'

  'You might,' Jim said, beginning to feel a trifle desperate. 'Robert Lawson,

  David Garcia, Vincent Corey. Do any of those -'Corey,' Mr Nell said flatly. 'I

  remember him. Vinnie the Viper. Yes, we had him up on that. His mother alibied

  him. I don't get anything from Robert Lawson. That could be anyone's name. But

  Garcia . . . that rings a bell. I'm not sure why. Hell. I'm old.' He sounded

  disgusted.

  'Mr Nell, is there any way you could check on those boys?'

  'Well, of course, they wouldn't be boys anymore.'

  Oh, yeah?

  'Listen, Jimmy. Has one of those boys popped up and started harassing you?'

  'I don't know. Some strange things have been happening. Things connected with

  the stabbing of my brother.'

  'What things?'

  'Mr Nell, I can't tell you. You'd think I was crazy.'

  His reply, quick, firm, interested: 'Are you?'

  Jim paused. 'No,' he said.

  'Okay, I can check the names through Stratford R&I. Where can I get in touch?'

  Jim gave his home number. 'You'd be most likely to catch me on Tuesday night.'

  He was in almost every ~ight, but on Tuesday evenings Sally went to her pottery

  class.

  'What are you doing these days, Jimmy?'

  'Teaching school.'

  'Good. This might take a few days, you know. I'm retired now.'

  'You sound just the same.'

  'Ah, but if you could see me!' He chuckled, 'D'you still like a good piece of

  pie a' la mode, Jimmy?'

  'Sure,' Jim said. It was a lie. He hated pie a la mode.

  'I'm glad to hear that. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll -' 'There is one

  more thing. Is there a Milford High in Stratford?'

  'Not that I know of.'

  'That's what I -'

  'Only thing name of Milford around here is Milford Cemetery out on the Ash

  Heights Road. And no one ever graduated from there.' He chuckled dryly, and to

  Jim's ears it sounded like the sudden rattle of bones in a pit.

  'Thank you,' he heard himself saying. 'Goodbye.'

  Mr Nell was gone. The operator asked him to deposit sixty cents, and he put it

  in automatically. He turned, and stared into a horrid, squashed face plastered

  up against the glass, framed in two spread hands, the splayed fingers flattened

  white against the glass, as was the tip of the nose.

  It was Vinnie, grinning at him.

  Jim screamed.

  Class again.

  Living with Lit was doing a composition, and most of them were bent sweatily

  over their papers, putting their thoughts grimly down on the page, as if

  chopping wood. All but three. Robert Lawson, sitting in Billy Steam's seat,

  David Garcia in Kathy Slavin's, Vinnie Corey in Chip Osway's. They sat with

  their blank papers in front of them, watching him.

  A moment before the bell, Jim said softly, 'I want to talk to you for a minute

  after class, Mr Corey.'

  'Sure, Norm.'

  Lawson and Garcia tittered noisily, but the rest of the class did not. When the

  bell rang, they passed in their papers and fairly bolted through the door.

  Lawson and Garcia lingered, and Jim felt his belly tighten.

  Is it going to be now?

  Then Lawson nodded at Vinnie. 'See you later.'

  'Yeah.'

  They left. Lawson closed the door, and from behind the frosted glass, David

  Garcia suddenly yelled hoarsely, 'Norm eats it!' Vinnie looked at the door, then

  back at Jim. He smiled.

  He said, 'I was wondering if you'd ever get down to it.'

  'Really?' Jim said.

  'Scared you the other night in the phone booth, right, dad?'

  'No one says dad any more, Vinnie. It's not cool. Like cool's not cool. It's as

  dead as Buddy Holly.'

  'I talk the way I want,' Vinnie said.

  'Where's the other one? The guy with the funny red hair.'

  'Split, man.' But under his studied unconcern, Jim sensed a wariness.

  'He's alive, isn't he? That's why he's not here. He's alive and he's thirty-two

  or three, the way you would be if -'

  'Bleach was always a drag. He's nothing'.' Vinnie sat up behind his desk and put

  his hands down flat on the old graffiti. His eyes glittered. 'Man, I remember

  you at that lineup. You looked ready to piss your little old corduroy pants. I

  seen you lookin' at me and Davie. I put the hex on you.'

  'I suppose you did,' Jim said. 'You gave me sixteen years of bad dreams. Wasn't

  that enough? Why now? Why me?'

  Vinnie looked puzzled, and then smiled again. 'Because you're unfinished

  business, man. You got to be cleaned up.'

  'Where were you?' Jim asked. 'Before.'

  Vinnie's lips thinned. 'We ain't talkin' about that. Dig?'

  'They dug you a hole, didn't they, Vinnie? Six feet deep. Right in the Milford

  Cemetery. Six feet of -'

  'You shut up!'

  He was on his feet. The desk fell over in the aisle. 'It's not going to be

  easy,' Jim said. 'I'm not going to make it easy for you.'

  'We're gonna kill you, dad. You'll find out about that hole.'

  'Get out of here.'

  'Maybe that little wifey of yours, too.

  'You goddamn punk, if you touch her -' He started forward blindly, feeling

  violated and terrified by the mention of Sally.

  Vinnie grinned and started for the door. 'Just be cool. Cool as a fool.' He

  tittered.

  'If you touch my wife, I'll kill you.'

  Vinnie's grin widened. 'Kill me? Man, I thought you knew, I'm already dead.'

  He left. His footfalls echoed in the corridor for a long time.

  'What
are you reading, hon?'

  Jim held the binding of the book, Raising Demons, out for her to read.

  'Yuck.' She turned back to the mirror to check her hair.

  'Will you take a taxi home?' he asked.

  'It's only four blocks. Besides, the walk is good for my figure.'

  'Someone grabbed one of my girls over on Summer Street,' he lied. 'She thinks

  the object was rape.'

  'Really? Who?'

  'Dianna Snow,' he said, making a name up at random. 'She's a level-headed girl.

  Treat yourself to a taxi, okay?'

  'Okay,' she said. She stopped at his chair, knelt, put her hands on his cheeks

  and looked into his eyes. 'What's the matter, Jim?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Yes. Something is.'

  'Nothing I can't handle.'

  'Is it something. . . about your brother?'

  A draught of terror blew over him, as if an inner door had been opened. 'Why do

  you say that?'

  'You were moaning his name in your sleep last night. Wayne, Wayne, you were

  saying. Run, Wayne.'

  'It's nothing.'

  But it wasn't. They both knew it. He watched her go. Mr Nell called quarter past

  eight. 'You don't have to worry about those guys,' he said. 'They're all dead.'

  'Is that so?' He was holding his place in Raising Demons with his index finger

  as he talked.

  'Car smash. Six months after your brother was killed. A cop was chasing them.

  Frank Simon was the cop, as a matter of fact. He works out at Sikorsky now.

  Probably makes a lot more money.'

  'And they crashed.'

  'The car left the road at more than a hundred miles an hour and hit a main power

  pole. When they finally got the power shut off and scraped them out, they were

  cooked medium rare.'

  Jim closed his eyes. 'You saw the report?'

  'Looked at it myself.'

  'Anything on the car?'

  'It was a hot rod.'

  'Any description?'

  'Black 1954 Ford sedan with "Snake Eyes" written on the side. Fitting enough.

  They really crapped out.'

  'They had a sidekick, Mr Nell. I don't know his name, but his nickname was

  Bleach.'

  'That would be Charlie Sponder,' Mr Nell said without hesitation. 'He bleached

  his hair with Clorox one time. I remember that. It went streaky-white, and he

  tried todye it back. The streaks went orange.'

  'Do you know what he's doing now?'

  'Career army man. Joined up in fifty-eight or nine, after he got a local girl

  pregnant.'

  'Could I get in touch with him?'

  'His mother lives in Stratford. She'd know.'

  'Can you giye me her address?'

  'I won't, Jimmy. Not until you tell me what's eating you.' 'I can't, Mr Nell.

  You'd think I was crazy.'.

  'Try me.'

  'I can't.'

  'All right, son.'

  'Will you -' But the line was dead.

  'You bastard,' Jim said, and put the phone in the cradle. It rang under his hand

  and he jerked away from it as if it had suddenly burned him. He looked at it,

  breathing heavily. It rang three times, four. He picked it up. Listened. Closed

  his eyes.

  A cop pulled him over on his way to the hospital, then went ahead of him, siren

  screaming. There was a young doctor with a toothbrush moustache in the emergency

  room. He looked at Jim with dark, emotionless eyes.

  'Excuse me, I'm James Norman and -'

  'I'm sorry, Mr Norman. She died at 9.04p.m.'

  He was going to faint. The world went far away and swimmy, and there was a high

  buzzing in his ears. His eyes wandered without purpose, seeing green tiled

  walls, a wheeled stretcher glittering under the overhead fluorescents, a nurse

  with her cap on crooked. Time to freshen up, honey. An orderly was leaning

  against the wall outside Emergency Room No.1. Wearing dirty whites with a few

  drops of drying blood splattered across the front. Cleaning his fingernails with

  a knife. The orderly looked up and grinned into Jim's eyes. The orderly was

  David Garcia.

  Jim fainted.

  Funeral. Like a dance in three acts. The house. The funeral parlour. The

  graveyard. Faces coming out of nowhere, whirling close, whirling off into the

  darkness again. Sally's mother, her eyes streaming tears behind a black veil.

  Her father, looking shocked and old. Simmons. Others. They introduced themselves

  and shook his hand. He nodded, not remembering their names. Some of the women

  brought food, and one lady brought an apple pie and someone ate a piece and when

  he went out in the kitchen he saw it sitting on the counter, cut wide open and

  drooling juice into the pie plate like amber blood and he thought: Should have a

  big scoop of vanilla ice cream right on top.

  He felt his hands and legs trembling, wanting to go across to the counter and

  throw the pie against the wall.

  And then they were going and he was watching himself, the way you watch yourself

  in a home movie, as he shook hands and nodded and said: Thank you. . . Yes, I

  will.

  Thank you. . . I'm sure she is. . . Thank you .

  When they were gone, the house was his again. He went over to the mantel. It was

  cluttered with souvenirs of their marriage. A stuffed dog with jewelled eyes

  that she had won at Coney Island on their honeymoon. Two leather folders - his

  diploma from B.U. and hers from U. Mass. A giant pair of styrofoam dice she had

  given him as a gag after he had dropped sixteen dollars in Pinky Silverstein's

  poker game a year or so before. A thin china cup she had bought in a Cleveland

  junk shop last year. In the middle of the mantel, their wedding picture. He

  turned it over and then sat down in his chair and looked at the blank TV set. An

  idea began to form behind his eyes.

  An hour later the phone rang, jolting him out of a light doze. He groped for it.

  'You're next, Norm.'

  'Vinnie?'

  'Man, she was like one of those clay pigeons in a shooting gallery. Wham and

  splatter.'

  'I'll be at the school tonight, Vinnie. Room 33. I'll leave the lights off.

  It'll be just like the overpass that day. I think I can even provide the train.'

  'Just want to end it all, is that right?'

  'That's right,' Jim said. 'You be there.'

  'Maybe.'

  'You'll be there,' Jim said, and hung up.

  It was almost dark when he got to the school. He parked in his usual slot,

  opened the back door with his pass-key, and went first to the English Department

  office on the second floor. He let himself in, opened the record cabinet, and

  began to flip through the records. He paused about halfway through the stack and

  took out one called Hi-Fi Sound Effects. He turned it over. The third cut on the

  A side was 'Freight Train: 3.04'. He put the album on top of the department's

  portable stereo and took Raising Demons out of his overcoat pocket. He turned to

  a marked passage, read something, and nodded. He turned out the lights.

  Room 33.

  He set up the stereo system, stretching the speakers to their widest separation,

  and then put on the freight-train cut. The sound came swelling up out of nothing

  until it filled the whole room with the harsh clash of diesel engines and steel

  on steel.

  With his eyes closed,
he could almost believe he was under the Broad Street

  trestle, driven to his knees, watching as the savage little drama worked to its

  inevitable conclusion .

  He opened his eyes, rejected the record, then reset it. He sat behind his desk

  and opened Raising Demons to a chapter entitled 'Malefic Spirits and How to Call

  Them'. His lips moved as he read, and he paused at intervals to take objects out

  of his pocket and lay them on his desk.

  First, an old and creased Kodak of him and his brother, standing on the lawn in

  front of the Broad Street apartment house where they had lived. They both had

  identical crew cuts, and both of them were smiling shyly into the camera.

  Second, a small bottle of blood. He had caught astray alley cat and slit its

  throat with his pocketknife. Third, the pocketknife itself. Last, a sweatband

  ripped from the lining of an old Little League baseball cap. Wayne's cap. Jim

  had kept it in secret hopes that some day he and Sally would have a son to wear

  it.

  He got up, went to the window, looked out. The parking lot was empty.

  He began to push the school desks towards the walls, leaving a Tough circle in

  the middle of the room. When that was done he got chalk from his desk drawer

  and, following the diagram in the book exactly and using a yardstick, he drew a

  pentagram on the floor.

  His breath was coming harder now. He turned off the lights, gathered his objects

  in one hand, and began to recite.

  'Dark Father, hear me for my soul's sake. I am one who promises sacrifice. I am

  one who begs a dark boon for sacrifice. I am one who seeks vengeance of the left

  hand. I bring blood in promise of sacrifice.'

  He screwed the cap off the jar, which had originally held peanut butter, and

  splashed it within the pentagram.

  Something happened in the darkened schoolroom. It was not possible to say

  exactly what, but the air became heavier. There was a thickness in it that

  seemed to fill the throat and the belly with grey steel. The deep silence grew,

  swelled with something unseen.

  He did as the old rites instructed.

  Now there was a feeling in the air that reminded Jim of the time he had taken a

  class to visit a huge power station - a feeling that the very air was crammed

  with electric potential and was vibrating. And then a voice, curiously low and

  unpleasant, spoke to him.

  'What do you require?'

  He could not tell if he was actually hearing it or only thinking that he did. He