Bag of Bones   ::   Кинг Стивен

Clapping my hands out here would be everybit as useful as King Canute commanding the tide to turn. This was her world, not mine… and only the edge of it, at that. Every step closer to The Street and the lake would bring me closer to that world’s heart, where time was thin and spirits ruled. Oh dear God, what had happened to cause this? The path to Jo’s studio had turned into a creek. I got a dozen steps down it before a rock turned under my foot and I fell heavily on my side. Lightning zigged across the sky, there was the crack of another breaking branch, and then something was falling toward me. I put my hands up to shield my face and rolled to the right, off the path. The branch splashed to the ground just behind me, and I tumbled halfway down a slope that was slick with soaked needles. At last I was able to pull myself to my feet. The branch on the path was even bigger than the one which had landed on the roof of the car. If it had struck me, it likely would have bashed in my skull.

Go back! A hissing, spiteful wind through the trees.

Finish it! The slobbering, guttural voice of the lake slamming into the rocks and the bank below The Street.

Mind your business! That was the very house itself, groaning on its foundations. Mind your business and let me mind mine!

But Kyra was my business. Kyra was my daughter.

I picked up the lantern. The housing was cracked but the bulb glowed bright and steady—that was one for the home team. Bent over against the howling wind, hand raised to ward off more falling branches, I slipped and stumbled my way down the hill to my dead wife’s studio.

C bi;P T R At first the door wouldn’t open. The knob turned under my hand so I knew it wasn’t locked, but the rain seemed to have swelled the wood… or had something been shoved up against it? I drew back, crouched a little, and hit the door with my shoulder. This time there was some slight give.

It was her. Sara. Standing on the other side of the door and trying to hold it shut against me. How could she do that? How, in God’s name? She was a fucking ghost!

I thought of the BAMM CONSTRUCTION pickup… and as if thought were conjuration I could almost see it out there at the end of Lane Forty-two, parked by the highway. The old ladies’ sedan was behind it, and three or four other cars were now behind them. All of them with their windshield wipers flopping back and forth, their headlights cutting feeble cones through the downpour. They were lined up on the shoulder like cars at a yard sale. There was no yard sale here, only the old-timers sitting silently in their cars.