by Стивен Кинг
“When I regained complete consciousness (if there is such a state), I floor. I got up, disinfected the cut on my forehead, and on the lip of the tub with my head lowered to my knees until I felt enough to stand up. I sat there for fifteen minutes, I guess, that space of time I decided that barring some miracle, my career Harold would scream in pain and Debra would moan in disbut what could they do? Send out the Publication Police? me with the Book-of-the-Month-Club Gestapo? Even if they could, what difference would it make? You couldn’t get sap out of a brick or blood out of a stone. Barring some miraculous recovery, my life as a writer was over. And if it is? I asked myself. What’s on for the back jrty, Mike? You can play a lot of Scrabble in jrty years, go on a lot of Crossword Cruises, drink a lot of whiskey. But is that enough?
What else are you going to put on your back jrty? I didn’t want to think about that, not then. The next forty years could take care of themselves; I would be happy just to get through New Year’s Day of 1998.
When I felt I had myself under control, I went back into my study, shuffled to the computer with my eyes resolutely on my feet, felt around for the right button, and turned off the machine. You can damage the program shutting down like that without putting it away, but under the circumstances, I hardly thought it mattered. That night I once again dreamed I was walking at twilight on Lane Forty-two, which leads to Sara Laughs; once more I wished on the evening star as the loons cried on the lake, and once more I sensed something in the woods behind me, edging ever closer. It seemed my Christmas holiday was over.
That was a hard, cold winter, lots of snow and in February a flu epidemic that did for an awful lot of Derry’s old folks. It took them the way a hard wind will take old trees after an ice storm. It missed me completely. I hadn’t so much as a case of the sniffles that winter. In March, I flew to Providence and took part in Will Weng’s New England Crossword Challenge. I placed fourth and won fifty bucks. I framed the uncashed check and hung it in the living room. Once upon a time, most of my framed Certificates of Triumph (Jo’s phrase; all the good phrases are Jo’s phrases, it seems to me) went up on my office walls, but by March of 1998, I wasn’t going in there very much. When I wanted to play Scrabble against the computer or do a tourney-level crossword puzzle, I used the Powerbook and sat at the kitchen table. I remember sitting there one day, opening the Powerbook’s main menu, going down to the crossword puzzles… then dropping the cur ’two or three items further, until it had highlighted my old pal, Word What swept over me then wasn’t frustration or impotent, balked (I’d experienced a lot of both since finishing All the yfrom the p), sadness and simple longing. Looking at the Word Six icon was sud-like looking at the pictures of Jo I kept in my wallet. Studying I’d sometimes think that I would sell my immortal soul in order have her back again… and on that day in March, I thought I would soul to be able to write a story again. Go on and try it, then, a voice whispered. Maybe things have changed. Except that nothing had changed, and I knew it. So instead of openword Six, I moved it across to the trash barrel in the lower right.
corner of the screen, and dropped it in. Goodbye, old pal. Weinstock called a lot that winter, mostly with good news. in March she reported that Helen’s Promise had been picked as one the Literary Guild’s main selection for August, the other half a legal thriller by Steve Martini, another veteran of the eight-tosegment of the 5’mes bestseller list. And my British publisher, loved Helen, was sure it would be my “breakthrough book.” ’ British sales had always lagged.)…Promise is sort of a new direction for you,” Debra said. “Wouldn’t you kind of thought it was,” I confessed, and wondered how Debbie respond if I told her my new-direction book had been written a dozen years ago.
il’it’s got… I don’t know… a kind of maturity.”
I think the connection’s going. You sound muffled.” I did. I was biting down on the side of my hand to keep from with laughter. Now, cautiously, I took it out of my mouth and. bite-marks. “Better?” lots. So what’s the new one about? Give me a hint.” know the answer to that one, kiddo.”
“"You’ll have to read the book to find out, Josephine,’”
“Right?”
“Yessum.”
“Well, keep it coming. Your pals at Putnam are crazy about the way you’re taking it to the next level.” I said goodbye, I hung up the telephone, and then I laughed wildly for about ten minutes. Laughed until I was crying. That’s me, though. Always taking it to the next level.
During this period I also agreed to do a phone interview with a Newsweek writer who was putting together a piece on The New American Gothic (whatever that was, other than a phrase which might sell a few magazines), and to sit for a Publishers lekly interview which would appear just before publication of Helen’s Promise. I agreed to these because they both sounded softball, the sort of interviews you could do over the phone while you read your mail. And Debra was delighted because I ordinarily say no to all the publicity. I hate that part of the job and always have, especially the hell of the live TV chat-show, where nobody’s ever read your goddam book and the first question is always “Where in the world do you get those wacky ideas?” The publicity process is like going to a sushi bar where you’re the sushi, and it was great to get past it this time with the feeling that I’d been able to give Debra some good news she could take to her bosses. “Yes,” she could say, “he’s still being a booger about publicity, but I got him to do a couple of things.” All through this my dreams of Sara Laughs were going on—not every night but every second or third night, with me never thinking of them in the daytime. I did my crosswords, I bought myself an acoustic steel guitar and started learning how to play it (I was never going to be invited to tour with Patty Loveless or Alan Jackson, however), I scanned each day’s bloated obituaries in the Derry News for names that I knew. I was pretty much dozing on my feet, in other words. What brought all this to an end was a call from Harold Oblowski not more than three days after Debra’s book-club call. It was storming out-side—a vicious snow-changing-over-to-sleet event that proved to be the last and biggest blast of the winter. By mid-evening the power would be off all over Derry, but when Harold called at five P.M… things were just getting cranked up.
“I just had a very good conversation with your editor,” Harold said.
Very enlightening, very energizing conversation. Just got off the in fact.”
“Oh?”
“Oh indeed. There’s a feeling at Putnam, Michael, that this latest of yours may have a positive effect on your sales position in the It’s very strong.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m taking it to the next level.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just blabbing, Harold. Go on.”
“Well… Helen Nearing’s a great lead character, and Skate is your villain ever.” I said nothing. “Debra raised the possibility of making Helen’s Promise the opener of a book contract. A very lucrative three-book contract. All without prompting from me. Three is one more than any publisher has to commit to ’til now.
I mentioned nine million dollars, three per book, in other words, expecting her to laugh… but an has to start somewhere, and I always choose the highest ground I I think I must have Roman military officers somewhere back in r family tree.” Ethiopian rug-merchants, more like/t, I thought, but didn’t say. I felt the do when the dentist has gone a little heavy on the Novocain your lips and tongue as well as your bad tooth and the patch surrounding it. If I tried to talk, I’d probably only flap and spit. Harold was almost purring. A three-book contract for the mature Michael Noonan. Tall tickets, baby. time I didn’t feel like laughing. This time I felt like screaming. went on, happy and oblivious.
Harold didn’t know the book-tree had died. Harold didn’t know the new Mike Noonan had shortness of breath and projectile-vomiting fits every time write. want to hear how she came back to me, Michael?” it on me.”
“Well, nine’s obviously high, but it’s as good a place to start as any. We feel this new book is a big step f
orward for him.” This is extraordinary. Extraordinary. Now, I haven’t given anything away, wanted to talk to you first, of course, but I think we’re looking at seven-point-five, minimum. In fact—”
“No.” He paused a moment. Long enough for me to realize I was gripping the phone so hard it hurt my hand. I had to make a conscious effort to relax my grip. “Mike, if you’ll just hear me out—”
“I don’t need to hear you out. I don’t want to talk about a new contract.”
“Pardon me for disagreeing, but there’ll never be a better time. Think about it, for Christ’s sake. We’re talking top dollar here. If you wait until after Helen’s Promise is published, I can’t guarantee that the same offer—”
“I know you can’t,” I said. “I don’t want guarantees, I don’t want offers, I don’t want to talk contract.”
“You don’t need to shout, Mike, I can hear you.” Had I been shouting? Yes, I suppose I had been. “Are you dissatisfied with Putnam?
I think Debra would be very distressed to hear that. I also think Phyllis Grann would do damned near anything to address any concerns you might have.” Are you sleeping with Debra, Harold? I thought, and all at once it seemed like the most logical idea in the world—that dumpy, fiftyish, balding little Harold Oblowski was making it with my blonde, aristocratic, Smith-educated editor. Are you sleeping with her, do you talk about my future while you’re lying in bed together in a reom at the Plaza? Are the pair of you trying to figure how many golden eggs you can get out of this tired old goose bejre you finally wring its neck and turn it into paltg? Is that what you’re up to? “Harold, I can’t talk about this now, and I won’t talk about this now.”
“What’s wrong? Why are you so upset? I thought you’d be pleased. Hell, I thought you’d be over the fucking moon.”
“There’s nothing wrong. It’s just a bad time for me to talk long-term contract. You’ll have to pardon me, Harold. I have something coming out of the oven.”
“Can we at least discuss this next w—”
“No,” I said, and hung up. I think it was the first time in my adult life I’d hung up on someone who wasn’t a telephone salesman.,I had nothing coming out of the oven, of course, and I was too upset to think about putting something in. I went into the living room instead, short whiskey, and sat down in front of the T. I sat there: almost four hours, looking at everything and seeing nothing. Outside, storm continued cranking up. Tomorrow there would be trees down over Derry and the world would look like an ice sculpture. At quarter past nine the power went out, came back on for thirty sec-or so, then went out and stayed out. I took this as a suggestion to stop about Harold’s useless contract and how Jo would have chortled the idea of nine million dollars. I got up, unplugged the blacked-out TV it wouldn’t come blaring on at two in the morning (I needn’t have wor-the power was off in Derry for nearly two days), and went upstairs; my clothes at the foot of the bed, crawled in without even both-to brush my teeth, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I don’t how long after that it was that the nightmare came.
It was the last dream I had in what I now think of as my “Manderley the culminating dream. It was made even worse, I suppose, by unrelievable blackness to which I awoke. It started like the others. I’m walking up the lane, listening to the crick-the loons, looking mostly at the darkening slot of sky overhead. the driveway, and here something has changed; someone has put the LAUGHS sign. I lean closer and see it’s a radio sta- WBLM, it says. 102.9, PORTLAND’s ROCK AND ROLL BLIMP. sticker I look back up into the sky, and there is Venus. I wish her as I always do, I wish for Johanna with the dank and vaguely smell of the lake in my nose… g lumbers in the woods, rattling old leaves and breaking a It sounds big. there, a voice in my head tells me. Something has taken out you, Michael. A three-book contract, and that’s the worst kind. I can never move, I can only standhere. I’ve got walker’s block. that’s just talk. I can walk. This time I can walk. I am delighted.
I have had a major breakthrough. In the dream I think This changes everything/This changes everything! Down the driveway I walk, deeper and deeper into the clean but sour smell of pine, stepping over some of the fallen branches, kicking others out of the way. I raise my hand to brush the damp hair off my forehead and see the little scratch running across the back of it. I stop to look at it, curious. No time r that, the dream-voice says. Get down there. You’ve got a book to write. I can’t write, I reply. Thatpart’s over. I’m on the backjrty now. No, the voice says. There is something relentless about it that scares me. Writer’s walk, not writer’s block, and as you can see, it’s gone. Now hurry up and get down there. I’m ajaid, I tell the voice. Afraid of what? Well… what if Mrs. Danvers is down there? The voice doesn’t answer. It knows I’m not afraid of Rebecca de Winter’s housekeeper, she’s just a character in an old book, nothing but a bag of bones. So I begin walking again. I have no choice, it seems, but at every step my terror increases, and by the time I’m halfway down to the shadowy sprawling bulk of the log house, fear has sunk into my bones like fever.
Something is wrong here, something is all twisted up. I’ll run away, I think. I’ll run back the way I came, like the gingerbread man I’ll run, run all the way back to Derry, if that’s what it takes, and I’ll never come here anymore. Except I can hear slobbering breath behind me in the growing gloom, and padding footsteps. The thing in the woods is now the thing in the driveway. It’s right behind me. if I turn around the sight of it will knock the sanity out of my head in a single roundhouse slap.
Something with red eyes, something slumped and hungry. The house is my only hope of safety. I walk on. The crowding bushes clutch like hands.
In the light of a rising moon (the moon has never risen before in this dream, but I have never stayed in it this long before), the rustling leaves look like sardonic faces. I see winking eyes and smiling mouths.
Below me are the black of the house and I know that there will be no power when I get the storm has knocked the power out, I will flick the lightswitch down, up and down, until something reaches out and takes my and pulls me like a lover deeper into the dark. I am three quarters of the way down the driveway now. I can see the steps leading down to the lake, and I can see the float out on the water, a black square in a track of moonlight. Bill Dean has it out. I can also see an oblong something lying at the place where driveway ends at the stoop. There has never been such an object What can it be? Another two or three steps, and I know. It’s a coffin, the one Frank Arlen for… because, he said, the mortician was trying to stick it to me. and lying on its side with the top partway open, enough for. to see it’s empty. I think I want to scream. I think I mean to turn around and run back: the driveway—I will take my chances with the thing behind me. But I can, the back door of Sara Laughs opens, and a terrible figure darting out into the growing darkness. It is human, this figure, it’s not. It is a crumpled white thing with baggy arms upraised.
No face where its face should be, and yet it is shrieking in a glot.
Loonlike voice. It must be Johanna. She was able to escape her coffin, her winding shroud. She is all tangled up in it.)usly speedy this creature is! It doesn’t drift as one imagines drifting, but races across the stoop toward the driveway. It has wating down here during all the dreams when I had been frozen, that I have finally been able to walk down, it means to have scream when it wraps me in its silk arms, and I will scream when its rotting, bug-raddled flesh and see its dark staring eyes fine weave of the cloth. I will scream as the sanity leaves my forever. I will scream… but there is no one out here to hear me. The loons will hear me. I have come again to Manderley, and this I will never leave.
White thing reached for me and I woke up on the floor of crying out in a cracked, horrified voice and slamming my head repeatedly against something. How long before I finally realized I was no longer asleep, that I wasn’t at Sara Laughs? How long before I realized that I had fallen out of bed at some point and had crawled across the room in my sleep, that I was on my ha
nds and knees in a corner, butting my head against the place where the walls came together, doing it over and over again like a lunatic in an asylum? I didn’t know, couldn’t with the power out and the bedside clock dead. I know that at first I couldn’t move out of the corner because it felt safer than the wider room would have done, and I know that for a long time the dream’s force held me even after I woke up (mostly, I imagine, because I couldn’t turn on a light and dispel its power). I was afraid that if I crawled out of my corner, the white thing would burst out of my bathroom, shrieking its dead shriek, eager to finish what it had started. I know I was shivering all over, and that I was cold and wet from the waist down, because my bladder had let go. I stayed there in the corner, gasping and wet, staring into the darkness, wondering if you could have a nightmare powerful enough in its imagery to drive you insane. I thought then (and think now) that I almost found out on that night in March. Finally I felt able to leave the corner. Halfway across the floor I pulled off my wet pajama pants, and when I did that, I got disoriented. What followed was a miserable and surreal five minutes in which I crawled aimlessly back and forth in my familiar bedroom, bumping into stuff and moaning each time I hit something with a blind, flailing hand. Each thing I touched at first seemed like that awful white thing.
Nothing I touched felt like anything I knew. With the reassuring green numerals of the bedside clock gone and my sense of direction temporarily lost, I could have been crawling around a mosque in Addis Ababa. At last I ran shoulder-first into the bed. I stood up, yanked the pillowcase off the extra pillow, and wiped my groin and upper legs with it. Then I crawled back into bed, pulled the blankets up, and lay there shivering, listening to the steady tick of sleet on the windows. There was no sleep for me the rest of that night, and the dream didn’t fade as dreams usually do upon waking. I lay on my side, the shivers slowly subsiding, thinking of her coffin there in the driveway, think ’ that it made a kind of mad sense—Jo had loved Sara, and if she were haunt anyplace, it would be there. But why would she want to hurt Why would my Jo ever want to hurt me? I could think of no reason. Somehow the time passed, and there came a moment when I realized the air had turned a dark shade of gray; the shapes of the furniture in it like sentinels in fog. That was a little better. That was more it. I would light the kitchen woodstove, I decided, and make strong Begin the work of getting this behind me. I swung my legs out of bed and raised my hand to brush my sweat-hair off my forehead. I froze with the hand in front of my eyes. I have scraped it while I was crawling, disoriented, in the dark and to find my way back to bed. There was a shallow, clotted cut across the back, just below the knuckles.