Salem's Lot

And that story—

Neither Conway’s Daughternor Air Dancehinted at such a morbid turn of mind. The former was about a minister’s daughter who runs away, joins the counterculture, and takes a long, rambling journey across the country by thumb. The latter was the story of Frank Buzzey, an escaped convict who begins a new life as a car mechanic in another state, and his eventual recapture. Both of them were bright, energetic books, and Hubie Marsten’s dangling shadow, mirrored in the eyes of a nine-year-old boy, did not seem to lie over either of them.

As if by the very suggestion, she found her eyes dragged away from the river and up to the left of the porch, where the last hill before town blotted out the stars.

“Here,” he said. “I hope these’ll be all right—”

“Look at the Marsten House,” she said.

He did. There was a light on up there.

 

SEVEN

 

The drinks were gone and midnight passed; the moon was nearly out of sight. They had made some light conversation, and then she said into a pause:

“I like you, Ben. Very much.”

“I like you, too. And I’m surprised…no, I don’t mean it that way. Do you remember that stupid crack I made in the park? This all seems too fortuitous.”

“I want to see you again, if you want to see me.”

“I do.”

“But go slow. Remember, I’m just a small-town girl.”

He smiled. “It seems so Hollywood. But Hollywood good. Am I supposed to kiss you now?”

“Yes,” she said seriously, “I think that comes next.”

He was sitting in the rocker next to her, and without stopping its slow movement forth and back, he leaned over and pressed his mouth on hers, with no attempt to draw her tongue or to touch her. His lips were firm with the pressure of his square teeth, and there was a faint taste-odor of rum and tobacco.

She began to rock also, and the movement made the kiss into something new. It waxed and waned, light and then firm. She thought: He’s tasting me. The thought wakened a secret, clean excitement in her, and she broke the kiss before it could take her further.

“Wow,” he said.

“Would you like to come to di

“Home cooking?”

“The homiest.”

“I’d love it. I’ve been living on TV di

“Six o’clock? We eat early in Sticksville.”

“Sure. Fine. And speaking of home, I better get you there. Come on.”

They didn’t speak on the ride back until she could see the night-light twinkling on top of the hill, the one her mother always left on when she was out.

“I wonder who’s up there tonight?” she asked, looking toward the Marsten House.

“The new owner, probably,” he said noncommittally.

“It didn’t look like electricity, that light,” she mused. “Too yellow, too faint. Kerosene lamp, maybe.”

“They probably haven’t had a chance to have the power turned on yet.”

“Maybe. But almost anyone with a little foresight would call up the power company before they moved in.”

He didn’t reply. They had come to her driveway.

“Ben,” she said suddenly, “is your new book about the Marsten House?”

He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. “It’s late.”

She smiled at him. “I don’t mean to snoop.”

“It’s all right. But maybe another time…in daylight.”

“Okay.”

“You better get in, girly. Six tomorrow?”

She looked at her watch. “Six today.”

“Night, Susan.”

“Night.”

She got out and ran lightly up the path to the side door, then turned and waved as he drove away. Before she went in, she added sour cream to the milkman’s order. With baked potatoes, that would add a little class to supper.

She paused a minute longer before going in, looking up at the Marsten House.

 

EIGHT

 

In his small, boxlike room he undressed with the light off and crawled into bed naked. She was a nice girl, the first nice one since Miranda had died. He hoped he wasn’t trying to turn her into a new Miranda; that would be painful for him and horribly unfair to her.

He lay down and let himself drift. Shortly before sleep took him, he hooked himself up on one elbow, looked past the square shadow of his typewriter and the thin sheaf of manuscript beside it, and out the window. He had asked Eva Miller specifically for this room after looking at several, because it faced the Marsten House directly.

The lights up there were still on.

That night he had the old dream for the first time since he had come to Jerusalem’s Lot, and it had not come with such vividness since those terrible maroon days following Miranda’s death in the motorcycle accident. The run up the hallway, the horrible scream of the door as he pulled it open, the dangling figure suddenly opening its hideous puffed eyes, himself turning to the door in the slow, sludgy panic of dreams—

And finding it locked.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

The Lot (

I

)

 

The town is not slow to wake—chores won’t wait. Even while the edge of the sun lies below the horizon and darkness is on the land, activity has begun.

 

TWO

 

4:00 AM

The Griffen boys—Hal, eighteen, and Jack, fourteen—and the two hired hands had begun the milking. The barn was a marvel of cleanliness, whitewashed and gleaming. Down the center, between the spotless runways which fronted the stalls on both sides, a cement drinking trough ran. Hal turned on the water at the far end by flicking a switch and opening a valve. The electric pump that pulled water up from one of the two artesian wells that served the place hummed into smooth operation. He was a sullen boy, not bright, and especially irked on this day. He and his father had had it out the night before. Hal wanted to quit school. He hated school. He hated its boredom, its insistence that you sit still for great fifty-minute chunks of time, and he hated all his subjects with the exceptions of Woodshop and Graphic Arts. English was maddening, history was stupid, business math was incomprehensible. And none of it mattered, that was the hell of it. Cows didn’t care if you said ain’t or mixed your tenses, they didn’t care who was the Commander in Chief of the goddamn Army of the Potomac during the goddamn Civil War, and as for math, his own for chrissakes father couldn’t add two-fifths and one half if it meant the firing squad. That’s why he had an accountant. And look at that guy! College-educated and still working for a dummy like his old man. His father had told him many times that book learning wasn’t the secret of ru

Unfortunately, his father was a one.

He looked over his shoulder at Jack, who was forking hay slowly and dreamily into the first four stalls from a broken bale. There was the bookworm, Daddy’s pet. The miserable little shit.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Fork that hay!”

He opened the storage lockers and pulled out the first of their four milking machines. He trundled it down the aisle, frowning fiercely over the glittering stainless-steel top.

School. Fucking for chrissakes school.