by Stephen King
The thing was a nightmare with a tawny brown coat, crooked green eyes, and a mouthful of jagged orange teeth. Not a cat but a misbegotten feline freak. It leaped, splintering the upheld Mossberg rifle with its enormous claws and tearing it away from the clenched hands which had held it. Then, still snarling, it went for Steve’s throat.
From Audrey Wyler’s journal June 12, 1995
It happened again-the daydream thing. If that’s what it is. 3rd or 4th time, but the first (I think) since I’ve been keeping this journal, amp; by far the most vivid. It always seems to happen when things around here aren’t going well, amp; oh God are things around here ever not going well!
Herb got up with Seth this morning, ran through the shower with him (saves lots of time), and when they came down Seth was sulking amp; Herb had. the start of a black eye. I didn’t have to ask him about it. Seth made him punch himself, of course, the same way he made him twist his lip when we got back from the ice cream parlor and Seth discovered his damned Power Wagon was gone. I looked at Herb amp; he gave me a little head-shake, telling me to keep quiet. Which I did. I’ve discovered you can always find something to be grateful for, in this case that making Herb punch himself was all Seth did (although it’s not really Seth who does the bad stuff but the other one, the Stalky Little Boy). Seth likes to stand by the bathroom sink and watch Herb shave in the mornings. The SLB could have popped out and made him cut his throat with his own Bic disposable, I suppose. Frightens me to write such a thing, but sometimes it’s better to have it out on the page. Like squeezing infected material out of a cut.
The Stalky Little Boy started in before I even had breakfast on the table-I always know when it’s him instead of Seth because his eyes aren’t dark brown but almost black. “Where my Dweem Fwoatah?” he asked.
“We haven’t found Dream Floater yet,” I said, “but I’m sure we will.”
1want my Dweem Fwoatah! he screamed, at the top of his lungs, and Herb kind of winced. I didn’t. At least when he’s screaming he’s not throwing things. “I want my fucking DWEEM FWOATAH!”
“Don’t you swear like that in front of your Aunt Audrey,” Herb said, and I was afraid at the look the SLB threw at him then, very afraid, but Herb’s look back never wavered. He is so brave. So simply, up-front no-bullshit brave. And it was the SLB who finally looked down.
“I want my Dweem Fwoatah,” he muttered in the sulky voice I hate most of all. “I want my Dweem Fwoatah, you find it.”
I made him French toast, usually his favorite, but he wouldn’t eat. Just walked off (sorry, stalked off) to the den. Pretty soon I heard the VCR, then one of his MotoKops tapes started. He’s got four or five, each with a dozen episodes on it. I have really gotten to hate those stupid cartoon voices, especially Cassie’s. Sometimes I wish No Face would kill her and dump her decapitated body in a ditch somewhere. God help me, I wish I was joking but I’m not.
When they were cackling away in there (he always turns up the volume, which is sometimes good) I asked Herb how he was going to explain his black eye when he got to work. He put his voice up to the falsetto range amp; batted his eyes and said, “I’ll just tell the boys I ran into a door, honey.” Trying to make a joke of it. It didn’t work.
The worst part of today hasn’t been Seth throwing things like he did when Herb suggested we could buy a replacement Dream Floater. He didn’t do that today. I almost wish he would. He simply goes from room to room, stalking, glaring, lower lip poached out, still looking for the missing P. W. Sometimes he goes into the den to watch TV, but not even Bonanza held him long today. I tried to get him to talk but he wouldn’t amp; the thing is… oh, I wish I could write better, express it so someone reading this (not that anyone ever will, I imagine) could understand. It’s like he-the SLB-generates a kind of poison electricity when he’s pissed. He seems to spin it right out of his body, like a spider spinning electric silk or thunderheads putting out lightning. It builds up and up until you feel like just running from room to room, screaming and beating your head against things. It’s real, not just a feeling but a physical thing. It makes you sweat ( amp; it’s stinky sweat, like when you have a high fever), amp; your muscles tremble, amp; your mouth gets dry. I’ll write something in here I’ve never told Herb. Sometimes, when it gets like that, I go in the bathroom, lock the door amp; masturbate like mad.
It’s the only thing that seems to take a little of the pressure off. The orgasms are so hard they’re frightening. Like bombs going off!
I’ve felt all this before when the Stalky Little Boy inside Seth is pissed about something, but it’s never gone on so long or revved up so high. By mid-afternoon it was like the whole house was full of natural gas, just waiting for a match to set it off. I was in the kitchen, walking aimlessly around, my head aching so badly that I could feel my eyeballs throbbing, amp; I kept wanting to grin. I don’t know why, there’s nothing funny about any of it, but the more my head ached and the more my eyes throbbed and the more I felt the atmosphere of the house pressing in on me, the more I wanted to grin. Christ!
I went to the sink amp; looked out the window into the back yard. Seth was sitting in the sandbox, playing with his other Power Wagons. Only if anyone but me had seen how he was playing, I’m sure he would have been in some sort of special installation by nightfall, some place where the government studies exceptional children.
The P.W.’s have pop-out wings, but they don’t really fly, of course. Except sometimes Seth’s do. He was sitting in the sand with his hands in his lap, and around and around his head they went, Tracker Arrow and Rooty-Toot and the Meatwagon and the rest, dipping and diving under each other, swooping and doing rolls, coming in for touch-and-go’s on a landing-strip Seth has made for them in the sandbox, sometimes doing formation flights down the yard to his swing, going under the seat like stunt pilots in a movie, then banking around and coming back. Kids” toys, all bright colors, flying missions in the back yard. I know I must sound like a raving madwoman, but I swear in the name of God that it’s true. Sometimes he dive-bombs Hannibal, the neighbors” dog, with them amp; H. runs away with his tail between his legs. Herb has seen this, too.
Any other kid seeing the MotoKops” Power Wagons doing tricks like that would be laughing amp; clapping amp; cheering, but not the Stalky Little Boy. He just sits there in the sand with his lip shoved out amp; glares.
Seth watching the wagons and me watching him, feeling whatever is inside him coming out in waves, filling the air with a hum that’s mostly in a person’s head. I felt ready to come out of my skin, ready to flip out right there in front of the sink, amp; then, all at once, the daydream came. It is the most wonderful thing, and although I call it a daydream, that isn’t how it feels; it feels real. In it I am reliving a weekend afternoon I spent at Mohonk Mountain House with my friend Jan. Back in 1982, this was, before either of us was married. We sat and talked for I don’t know how long-her mostly about this goofy, greasy guy she was so crazy about back then, me about how I’d love to take three months off after graduation and see some of the country.
It’s so beautiful there at Mohonk, so peaceful. We have a picnic lunch. The air is warm. Jan looks as gorgeous as I feel. I know it’s not real, amp; that I’ve got all this mess to come back to, but for the time I’m there, none of that matters. Jan amp; I talk, I feel the sun on my face, I smell the flowers. It’s wonderful. I don’t know what it is or why it happens, but as an antidote to the SLB’s rages, it beats rubbing off in the bathroom eight ways to Sunday. Does Seth have anything to do with it, I wonder?
I wish Herbie had a place to go, but I don’t think he does. His silly jokes are as close as he can come, poor man. I wish I could tell him about my place, maybe even take him there, but it wouldn’t be wise. I think the SLB can find things out from Herb that he can’t from me, amp; Herb looks so tired. It’s unfair to both of us that this should be happening, but it’s horribly unfair to Herbie.
June 13, 1995
“Dweem Fwoatah” is back. Just no
w. I don’t know whether to feel scared or relieved.
I mean of course I’m relieved, anyone would be, this place has been like a concentration camp since Saturday, but what happens next? How will the SLB react? Thank God he was napping when the doorbell rang, amp; thank God Herb’s at work, because the SLB eavesdrops on Herb’s mind sometimes, I know he does. I don’t think he can do it to me unless I let him in, or unless I’m unprepared.
Boy. I just read this over and it’s absolutely crazed. Let me take a deep breath and start from the beginning. I should have time. Seth hasn’t slept well since Friday night, and if I’m lucky he might nap until 4:30. That gives me at least an hour.
Around 3:00, while I was vacuuming, there was a knock on the kitchen door. I opened it amp; there stood Mr Hobart from down the street, and his son, who is a pudgy red-haired boy with thick glasses and pasty skin. Sort of repulsive-looking, if you want to know the truth. The kid had a Dream Floater van in his arms. There was no question it was Seth’s. I didn’t have to see the broken tail-light and the scratch up the driver’s side to know that, but as a matter of fact I could see both. You could have knocked me over with a broom-straw. I tried to say something amp; couldn’t, my throat was locked up. I don’t know what would have come out if I had been able to talk!
It’s hot today, mid 80s, but Wm. Hobart was dressed like a church deacon (which I’m sure he is) in a black suit amp; shoes. His kid was wearing the junior version of the same getup, amp; was snivelling. Had a pretty good bruise on one cheek, too. I’d bet my bank account his old man put it there.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t talk, because Hobart had the whole thing scripted. “My son has something to say to you, Mrs Wyler,” he said, then looked down at the boy as if to say you’re on, don’t fuck it up. “Hugh?”
Snivelling harder than ever, Hugh said he’d given in to the Tempting Voice of Satan (I guess that’s the TVS, just like the Stalky Little Boy is the SLB) amp; stolen Seth’s toy. He talked real fast, crying harder amp; harder as he went along. The kid finished by saying, “You can go to the police and I will make a full confession. You can spank me, or my Dad will spank me.” Listening to that pan was like when you call the weather amp; the recording says, “For current conditions, press one. For the current forecast, press two. For road conditions, press three.” I guess it was a blessing I was so stunned. If I hadn’t been, I might’ve laughed, and there was nothing funny about the two of them, standing there so holy amp; ashamed. I was more scared of them-of the father, especially-than I am on most days of Seth.
Scared for them, too.
“I am very sorry,” the kid says, still rapping it out as if it was on cue-cards in front of him. “I have asked my Dad for forgiveness, I have asked Lord Jesus for forgiveness, and now I am asking you for forgiveness.”
I got my act together enough then to take the wagon from him-I was so wrought-up I almost dropped it on my toes-and told him that no spankings would be required.
“The boy also has to apologize to your son,” Mr Hobart said. He looks like Moses with a clean-shaven face and a good haircut, if you can imagine Moses in a double-vented three-piece from Sears. After the things that have been going around here for the last few months, I have no problem imagining anything. That’s part of my trouble. “If you’ll just lead us to him, Mrs Wyler-”
I’ll be damned if the self-righteous SOB didn’t start trying to push his way right in! I pushed him right back, I can tell you. (Almost dropped Dream Floater again in the process, too.) The last thing I wanted was that fat little thief standing in front of the Stalky Little Boy.
What I wanted was for them to be out of my house, and quick. Before either their voices or their emotional vibes (and tho he wasn’t crying, Hob art was at least as upset as his kid, maybe more) could wake him up.
“Seth’s not my son, he’s my nephew,” I said, “and he’s taking a nap right now.”
“Very good,” Hobart says, giving a stiff little nod. “We will come back later. Is tonight convenient? If not, I can bring Hugh back tomorrow afternoon. I can ill afford to take off a second afternoon-I work at the stamping mill in Ten Mile, you know-but God’s business must always take precedence over man’s.”
His voice kept getting louder while he was talking, the way the voices of guys like him always seem to, it’s like they can’t tell you they’ve got to take a shit without turning it into a sermon. I started to feel really scared about Seth waking up, amp; all this time, I swear it’s true, the kid’s looking around like he wants to see if there’s anything else worth hawking. I’d say the day is going to come when Hughie winds up on some shrinky-dink’s couch, except that people like the Hobarts don’t believe in shrinks, do they?
I herded them out the door amp; kept them going right down the walk, I mean I was on a roll. The kid, meanwhile, is asking, “Do you forgive me? Do you forgive me?” over amp; over again, like a broken record. By the time I got them down to the sidewalk, I realized I was furious with both of them. Not just because of the hell we’ve been through but because they both acted like I was somehow responsible for the thieving little fart’s immortal soul. Plus I kept remembering the way his eyes were going everywhere, seeing what we had in our house that he didn’t have in his.
I’m pretty sure-almost positive, actually-that a lot of Seth’s “strange powers” have a very short range, like the radio transmitters they used to have at the drive-ins, the ones that piped the movie sound directly into your car radio. So when I got them down to the street, I felt safe (relatively safe, anyway) to ask how Hugh Hobart had come to lift Seth’s Power Wagon in the first place.
Pere and fils exchanged a glance at that. It was a funny, uneasy glance, and I realized neither of them much minded the idea of a spanking or even a visit from the cops, but they didn’t like the idea of talking about the actual theft itself. Not one little bit. No wonder the fundamentalists hate the Catholics so much. The idea of going to confession must make their balls shrivel.
Still, I had “em in a corner, amp; finally it came out. William did most of the talking; by then the kid had decided he didn’t like me. His eyes had gotten narrow, and they’d quit leaking, too.
Most of it I could’ve figured out myself. The Hobarts belong to the Zion’s Covenant Baptist Church, and one of the things they do as good church members is to “spread the Gospel”. This means leaving tracts like the one Herb found sticking out of our milkbox, the one about a million years in hell amp; not one drink of water. William and Hugh do this together, a father-and-son type of thing, I guess, a holy substitute for Little League or touch football. They stick mostly to houses that look temporarily empty, wanting “to spread the word amp; plant the seed, not engage in debate” (William Hobart’s words), or they put their little love-notes under the windshields of cars on the street.
They must’ve hit our place right after we left for Milly’s. Hugh ran up the driveway and stuck the tract under the milkbox, and of course he saw Dream Floater wherever Seth put it down. Later, after his father had declared him off-duty for the rest of the day but before we got back from the mall, Hugh wandered back up the street… amp; gave in to the ever-popular TVS (Tempting Voice of Satan). His mother found the PW yesterday, Monday, while Hugh was at school amp;she was cleaning in his room. Last night they had a “family conference” about it, then called their minister for his advice, had a little over-the-phone prayer, and now here they were.
Once the story was out, the kid started in on “Do you forgive me” again. The second time through, I said, “Quit saying that.”
He looked like I’d slapped him and his father’s face got all stiff. I didn’t give a crap. I squatted down so I could look directly into Hugh’s piggy little eyes. It wasn’t all that easy to see them, either, because of the dandruff flakes and grease-smears on his glasses.
“Forgiveness is between you and your God,” I said. “As for me, I’m going to keep quiet about what you did, and I’d advise the Hobarts to do the same.” Th
ey will, I’m pretty sure. I only had to look at the bruise on Hugh’s cheek, really, to know that. I don’t know about the creep’s mother, but what he did is absolutely killing his father.
Hugh backed a step away from me, and I could see in his face that this wasn’t going the way it was supposed to, amp; he hated me for it. That’s okay. I hate him a little, too. Not surprising, is it, after the weekend we put in because of his light fingers'?
“We’ll leave you now, Mrs Wyler, if you’re finished,” Hobart said. “Hugh has got a lot of meditation to do. In his room. On his knees.”
“But I’m not finished,” I said. “Not quite.” I didn’t look at him. It was the boy I looked at. I think I was trying to look past the hate amp; shame amp; self-righteousness, to see if there was a real boy left inside anywhere. And did I see one? I truly don’t know.
“Hugh,” I said, “you know that people only have to ask forgiveness if they do something wrong, don’t you?”
He nodded cautiously… like he was testifying in a trial amp; thought one of the lawyers was laying a trap.
“So you know that stealing Seth’s toy was wrong.”
He nodded again, more reluctantly than ever. By then he was practically hiding behind his father’s leg, as if he were three instead of eight or nine.
“Mrs Wyler, I hardly think it’s necessary to browbeat the boy,” his old man said. Unbelievable prig! He’s willing to let me turn the kid over my knee amp; whale on his ass like it was a snare drum, but when I want the kid to say out loud that he did wrong, all at once it’s abuse. There’s a lesson in this, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.
“I’m not browbeating him, but I want you to know that the last few days have been very difficult around here,” I said. It was the adult I was answering but still the kid I was really talking to. “Seth loves his Power Wagons very much. So here is what I want, Hugh. I want you to tell me that what you did was wrong, and it was bad, and you’re sorry. Then we’ll be done.”