The Collective

by The Collective [lit]

  We ran up to the lab door and threw it open. It was empty. The

  screams and the terrible mewing sounds came from the garage. I

  ran through, and ever since have been glad that Vicki stayed in the

  lab and was spared the sight that had wakened me from a thousand

  awful nightmares.

  The lab was darkened and all that I could make out was a huge

  shadow moving sluggishly. And the screams! Screams of terror,

  the screams of a man faced with a monster from the pits of hell. It

  mewed horribly and seemed to pant in delight.

  My hand moved around for a light switch. There, I found it! Light

  flooded the room, illuminating a tableau of horror that was the

  result of the grave thing I had performed, I and the dead uncle.

  A huge, white maggot twisted on the garage floor, holding

  Weinbaum with long suckers, raising him towards its dripping,

  pink mouth from which horrid mewing sounds came. Veins, red

  and pulsating, showed under its slimy flesh and millions of

  squirming tiny maggots - in the blood vessels, in the skin, even

  forming a huge eye that stared out at me. A huge maggot, made up

  of hundreds of millions of maggots, the feasters on the dead flesh

  that Weinbaum had used so freely.

  In a half-world of terror I fired the revolver again and again. It

  mewed and twitched.

  Weinbaum screamed something as he was dragged inexorably

  toward the waiting mouth. Incredibly, I made it out over the

  hideous sound that the creature was making.

  "Fire it! In the name of heaven, fire it!"

  Then I saw the sticky pools of green liquid which had trickled over

  the floor from the laboratory. I fumbled for my lighter, got it and

  frantically thumbed it. Suddenly I remembered that I had forgotten

  to put a flint in. I reached for matches, got one and fired the others.

  I threw the pack just as Weinbaum screamed his last. I saw his

  body through the translucent skin of the creature, still twitching as

  thousands of maggots leeched onto it. Retching, I threw the now

  flaring matches into the green ooze. It was flammable, just as I had

  thought. It burst into bright flames. The creature was twisted into a

  horrid ball of pulsing, putrid flesh.

  I turned and stumbled out to where Vicki stood, shaking and white

  faced.

  "Come on!" I said, "Let's get out of here! The whole place is going

  to go up!"

  We ran out to the car and drove away rapidly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There isn't too much left to say. I'm sure that you have all read

  about the fire that swept the residential Belwood District of

  California, leveling fifteen square miles of woods and residential

  homes. I couldn't feel too badly about that fire. I realize that

  hundreds might have been killed by the gigantic maggot-things

  that Weinbaum and Rankin were breeding. I drove out there after

  the fire. The whole place was smoldering ruins. There was no

  discernable remains of the horror that we had battled that final

  night, and, after some searching, I found a metal cabinet. Inside

  there were three ledgers.

  Once of them was Weinbaum's diary. I clears up a lot. It revealed

  that they were experimenting on dead flesh, exposing it to gamma

  rays. One day they observed a strange thing. The few maggots that

  had crawled over the flesh were growing, becoming a group.

  Eventually they grew together, forming three separate large

  maggots. Perhaps the radioactive bomb had speed up the evolution.

  I don't know.

  Furthermore, I don't want to know.

  In a way, I suppose, I assisted in Rankin's death; the flesh of the

  body whose grave I had robbed had fed perhaps the very creature

  that had killed him.

  I live with that thought. But I believe that there can be forgiveness.

  I'm working for it. Or, rather, we're working for it.

  Vicki and I. Together.

  THE END

  IN THE KEY CHORD OF

  DAWN

  STEPHEN KING

  first appeared in

  Contraband#2 Onan 1971

  In the key-chords of dawn

  all waters are depthless.

  The fish flash recalls

  timberline clefts where water

  pours between the rocks of frost.

  We live the night and wait

  for the day dream

  (we fished the Mississippi with

  Norville as children

  catching mostly crawdaddies from

  the brown silk water)

  when we say "love is responsibility";

  our poles are adrift in a sea of compliments.

  Now you fish for me and I for you.

  The line, the red bobber, the worm on the hook: the fishing more

  than the

  eating: bones and scales and gutting knife make a loom of

  complexity so we are

  forced to say "fishing is responsibility"

  and put away our poles.

  Jhonathan and the Witches

  Stephen King

  From

  First Words 1993, King wrote this 1956

  Once upon a time there was a boy named Jhonathan. He was smart,

  handsome, and very brave. But, Jhonathan was cobblers son.

  One days his father said, "Jhonathan, you must go and seek your

  fortune. You are old enough."

  Jhonathan, being a smart boy knew he better ask the king for work.

  So, he set out.

  On the way, he met a rabbit who was a fairy in disguise. The

  scared thing was being pursued by hunters and jumped into

  Jhonathans arms. When the hunters came up Jhonathan pointed

  excitedly and shouts, "That way, that way !"

  After the hunters had gone, the rabbit turned into a fairy and said,

  "you have helped me. I will give you three wishes. What are they?"

  But Jhonathan could not think of anything, so the fairy agreed to

  give him when he needed them.

  So Jhonathan kept walking until he made the kingdom without

  incident.

  So he went to the king and asked for work.

  But, as luck would have it, the king was in a very bad mood that

  day. So he vented his mood on Jhonathan.

  "Yes there is something you can do. On yonder Mountain there are

  three witches. If you can kill them, I will give you 5,000 crowns. If

  you cannot do it I will have your head! You have 20 days." With

  this he dismissed Jhonathan.

  "Now what am I to do?", thought Jhonathan. Well I shall try.

  The he remembered the three wishes granted him and set out door

  the mountain.

  * * *

  Now Jhonathan was at the mountain and was just going to wish for

  a knife to kill the witch, when he heard a voice in his ear, "The first

  witch cannot be pierced."

  The second witch cannot be pierced or smothered.

  The third cannot be pierced, smothered and is invisible.

  With this knowledge Jhonathan looked about and saw no one.

  Then he remembered the fairy, and smile.

  He then went in search of the first witch.

  At last he found her. She was in a cave near the foot of the

  mountain, and was a mean looking hag.

  He remembered the fairy words, and before the witch could do

  anything but give him an ugly look, he wished
she should be

  smothered. And Lo! It was done.

  Now he went higher in search of the second witch. There was a

  second cave higher up. There he found the second witch. He was

  about to wish her smothered when he remembered she could not be

  smothered. And the before the witch could do anything but give

  him an ugly look, he had wished her crushed. And Lo! It was done

  Now he had only to kill the third witch and he would have the

  5,000 crowns. But on the way up, he was plagued with thoughts of

  how?

  Then he it upon a wonderful plan.

  The, he saw the last cave. He waited outside the entrance until he

  heard the witches footsteps. He then picked up a couple of big

  rocks and wishes.

  He the wished the witch a normal women and Lo! She became

  visible and then Jhonathan struck her head with the rocks he had.

  Jhonathan collected his 5,000 crowns and he and his father lived

  happily ever after.

  The End

  STEPHEN

  KING

  Keyholes

  The

  Leprechaun

  by

  Stephen King

  Incomplete novel King was writing for his son Owen in 1983. King

  had written several pages of the story in longhand in a notebook

  and then transcribed them. While on a trip to California, he wrote

  about 30 more pages of the story in the same notebook, which was

  lost off the back of his motorcycle (somewhere in coastal New

  Hampshire) on a trip from Boston to Bangor. He mentioned that he

  could reconstruct what was lost, but had not gotten around to it (as

  of June, 1983). The only part that still exists today is the 5

  typescript pages that had been transcribed. The 5 pages, plus a 3-

  page cover letter to a senior editor at Viking are now owned by a

  King collector.

  Once upon a time--which is how all the best stories start-- a little

  boy named Owen was playing outside his big red house. He was

  pretty bored because his big brother and big sister, who could

  always think of things to do, were in school. His daddy was

  working, and his mom was sleeping upstairs. She asked him if he

  would like a nap, but Owen didn't really like naps. He thought they

  were boring.

  He played with his G.I. Joe men for awhile, and then he went

  around to the back and swung on the swing for awhile. He gave the

  tetherball a big hit with his first--ka-bamp!--and watched the rope

  wind up as the ball went around and around the pole. He saw his

  big sister's softball bat lying in the grass and wished Chris, the big

  boy who sometimes came to play with him, was there to throw him

  a few pitches. But Chris was in school too. Owen walked around

  the house again. He thought he would pick some flowers for his

  mother. She liked flowers pretty well.

  He got around to the front of the house and that was when he saw

  Springsteen in the grass. Springsteen was his big sister's new cat.

  Owen liked most cats, but he didn't like Springsteen much. Hie

  was big and black, with deep green eyes that seemed to see

  everything. Every day owen had to make sure that Springsteen

  wasn't trying to eat Butler. Butler was Owen's guinea pig. When

  Springsteen thought no one was around, he would jump up on the

  shelf' where Butler's big glass cage was and stare in through the

  screen on top with his hungry green eyes. Springsteen wuld sit

  there, all crouched down, and hardly move at all. Springsteen's tail

  would wag back and forth a little, and sometimes one of his ears

  would flick a bit, but that was all. I'll get in there pretty soon, you

  cruddy little guinea pig, Springsteen seemed to say. And when I

  get you, I'll eat you! Better believe it! If guinea pigs say prayers,

  you better say yours!

  Whenever Owen saw Springsteen the cat up on Butler's shelf, he

  would make him get down. Sometimes Springsteen put his claws

  out (although he knew better than to try to put them in Owen) and

  Owen imagined the black cat saying, You caught me this time, but

  so what? Big deal! Someday you won't! And then, yum! yum!

  dinner is served! Owen tried to tell people that Springsteen wanted

  to eat Butler, but nobody believed him.

  "Don't worry, Owen," Daddy said, and went off to work on a

  novel that's what he did for work.

  "Don't worry, Owen," Mommy said, and went off to work on a

  noivel-because that was what she did for work, too.

  "Don't worry, Owen" Big Brother said, and went off to watch The

  Tomorrow People on TV.

  "You just hate my cat!" Big sister said, and went off to play The

  Entertainer on the piano.

  But no matter what they said, Owen knew he'd better keep a good

  old eye on Springsteen, because Springsteen certainly did like to

  kill things. Worse, he liked to play with them before he killed

  them. Sometimes Owen would open the door in the morning and

  there would be a dead bird on the doorsteo. Then he would look

  further, and there would be Springsteen crouched on the porch rail,

  the tip of his tail switching slightly and his big green eyes looking

  at Owen, as if to say: Ha! I got another one... and you couldn't stop

  me, could you? Then Owen would ask permission to bury the dead

  bird. Sometimes his mommy or daddy would help him.

  So when Owen saw Springsteen on the grass of the front lawn, all

  crouched down with his tail twirching, he thought right away that

  the cat might be playing with some poor, hurt little animal. Owen

  forgot about picking flowers for his mom and ran over to see what

  Springsteen had caught.

  At first he thought Springsteen didn't have anything at all. Then

  the cat leaped, and Owen heard a very tiny scream from the grass.

  He saw something green and blue between Springsteen had was

  shrieking and trying to get away. And now Owen saw something

  else-little spots of blood on the grass.

  "No!" Owen shouted. "Get away, Springsteen!" The cat flattened

  his ears back and turned towards the sound of Owen's voice. His

  big green eyes glared. The green and blue thing between

  Springsteen paws squiggled and wiggled and got away. I started to

  run and Owen saw it was a person, a little tiny man wearing a

  green hat made out of a leaf. The little man looked back over his

  shoulder, and Owen saw how scared the little guy was. He was no

  bigger than the mice Springsteen sometimes killed in their big dark

  cellar. The little man had a cut down one of his cheeks from one of

  Springsteen's claws.

  Springsteen hissed at Owen and Owen could almost hear him say:

  "Leave me alone, he's mine and I'm going to have him!"

  Then Springsteen jumped for the little man again, just as quick as a

  cat can jump-and if you have a cat of your own, you'll know that

  is very fast. The little man in the grass tried to dodge away, but he

  didn't quite make it, Owen saw the back of the little man's shirt

  tear open as Springsteen's claws ripped it apart. And, I am sorry to

  say, he saw more blood and heard the little man cry out in pain. He

  went tumbling in the grass. His little leaf
hat went flying.

  Springsteen got ready to jump again.

  "No, Springsteen, no!" Owen cried. "Bad cat!"

  He grabbed Springsteen. Springsteen hissed again, and his needle-

  sharp teeth sank into one of Owen's hands. It hurt worse than a

  doctor's shot. "Ow!" Owen yelled, tears coming to his eyes. But he

  didn't let go of Springsteen. Now Springsteen started clawing at

  Owen, but Owen would not let go. He ran all the way to the

  driveway with Springsteen in his hands. Then he put Springsteen

  down. "Leave him alone, Springsteen!" Owen said, and, trying to

  think of the very worst thing he could, he added: "Leave him alone

  or I'll put you in the Oven and bake you like a pizza!"

  Springsteen hissed, showing his teeth. His tail switched back and

  forth-not just the tip now but the whole thing.

  "I don't care if you are mad!" Owen yelled at him. He was still

  crying a little, because his hands hurt as if he had put them in the

  fire. They were both bleeding, one from Springsteen biting him

  and one from Springsteen clawing him. "You can't kill people on

  our lawn even if they are little!"

  Springsteen hised again and backed away. Okay, his mean green

  eyes seemed to say. Okay for this time. Next time... we'll see!

  Then he turned and ran away. Owen hurried back to see it the little

  man was all right.

  At first he thought the little man was gone. Then he saw the blood

  on the grass, and the little leaf hat. The little man was nearby, lying

  on his side. The reason Owen hadn't been able to see him at first

  was the little man's shirt was the exact color of the grass. Owen

  touched him gently with his finger. He was terribly afraid the little

  man was dead. But when Owen touched him, the little man

  groaned and sat up.

  "Are you all right?" Owen asked.

  The fellow in the grass made a face and clapped his hands to his

  ears. For a moment Owen thought Springsteen must have hurt the

  little guy's head as well as his back, and then he realized that his

  voice must sound like thunder to such a small person. The little

  man in the grass was not much longer than Owen's thumb. This

  was Owen's first good look at the little fellow he had rescued, and

  he saw right away why the little man had been so hard to find

  again. His green shirt was not just the color of grass; it was grass.

  Carefully woven blades of green grass. Owen wondered how come

  they didn't turn brown.

  Silence

  Stephen King

  Published in "Moth", 1970