The Man in the Black Suit (4)

She smiled, but it was the worried kind of smile she always seemed
to make since my father brought Dan back from the west field in his
arms. My father had come sobbing and bare-chested. He had taken
off his shirt and draped it over Dan’s face, which had swelled and
turned color. My boy! he had been crying. Oh, look at my boy! Jesus, look at my boy! I remember that as if it had been yesterday. It was the only time I ever heard my Dad take the Savior’s name in vain.

“What do you promise, Gary?” she asked.
“Promise not to go no further than where it forks, ma’am.”
“Any further.”
“Any.”
She gave me a patient look, saying nothing as her hands went on
working in the dough, which now had a smooth, silky look.
“I promise not to go any further than where it forks, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Gary,” she said. “And try to remember that grammar
is for the world as well as for school.”
“Yes, ma’am.”

Candy Bill followed me as I did my chores, and sat between my feet
as I bolted my lunch, looking up at me with the same attentiveness
he had shown my mother while she was kneading her bread, but when I got my new bamboo pole and my old, splintery creel and started out of the dooryard, he stopped and only stood in the dust by an old roll of snowfence, watching. I called him but he wouldn’t come. He yapped a time or two, as if telling me to come back, but that was all.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

The Man in the Black Suit (3)

This thing I’m telling about happened on a Saturday. My father gave
me a whole list of chores to do, including some that would have been
Dan’s, if he’d still been alive. He was my only brother, and he’d died
of being stung by a bee. A year had gone by, and still my mother
wouldn’t hear that. She said it was something else, had to have
been, that no one ever died of being stung by a bee. When Mama
Sweet, the oldest lady in the Methodist Ladies’ Aid, tried to tell her—
at the church supper the previous winter, this was—that the same
thing had happened to her favorite uncle back in ’73, my mother
clapped her hands over her ears, got up, and walked out of the
church basement. She’d never been back since, either, and nothing my father could say to her would change her mind. She claimed she was done with church, and that if she ever had to see Helen Robichaud again (that was Mama Sweet’s real name), she would slap her eyes out. She wouldn’t be able to help herself, she said.

That day, Dad wanted me to lug wood for the cookstove, weed the
beans and the cukes, pitch hay out of the loft, get two jugs of water
to put in the cold pantry, and scrape as much old paint off the cellar
bulkhead as I could. Then, he said, I could go fishing, if I didn’t mind
going by myself—he had to go over and see Bill Eversham about some cows. I said I sure didn’t mind going by myself, and my Dad
smiled like that didn’t surprise him so very much. He’d given me a
bamboo pole the week before—not because it was my birthday or
anything, but just because he liked to give me things, sometimes—
and I was wild to try it in Castle Stream, which was by far the troutiest brook I’d ever fished.

“But don’t you go too far in the woods,” he told me. “Not beyond
where it splits.”
“No, sir.”
“Promise me.”
“Yessir, I promise.”
“Now promise your mother.”

We were standing on the back stoop; I had been bound for the
springhouse with the waterjugs when my Dad stopped me. Now he
turned me around to face my mother, who was standing at the marble counter in a flood of strong morning sunshine falling through the double windows over the sink. There was a curl of hair lying across the side of her forehead and touching her eyebrow—you see how well I remember it all? The bright light turned that little curl to filaments of gold and made me want to run to her and put my arms around her. In that instant I saw her as a woman, saw her as my father must have seen her. She was wearing a housedress with little red roses all over it, I remember, and she was kneading bread. Candy Bill, our little black Scottie dog, was standing alertly beside her feet, looking up, waiting for anything that might drop. My mother was looking at me. “I promise,” I said.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

The Man in the Black Suit (2)

The town of Motton was a different world in those days—more different than I could ever tell you. That was a world without airplanes droning overhead, a world almost without cars and trucks, a world where the skies were not cut into lanes and slices by overhead power lines.

There was not a single paved road in the whole town, and the business district consisted of nothing but Corson’s General Store, Thut’s Livery & Hardware, the Methodist Church at Christ’s Corner, the school, the town hall, and Harry’s Restaurant half a mile down from there, which my mother called, with unfailing disdain, “the liquor
house.”

Mostly, though, the difference was in how people lived—how apart they were. I’m not sure people born after the middle of the twentieth
century could quite credit that, although they might say they could, to be polite to old folks like me. There were no phones in western Maine back then, for one thing. The first one wouldn’t be installed for another five years, and by the time there was one in our house, I was nineteen and going to college at the University of Maine in Orono.

But that is only the roof of the thing. There was no doctor closer
than Casco, and no more than a dozen houses in what you would call
town. There were no neighborhoods (I’m not even sure we knew the
word, although we had a verb—neighboring—that described church
functions and barn dances), and open fields were the exception rather than the rule. Out of town the houses were farms that stood far apart from each other, and from December until middle March we mostly hunkered down in the little pockets of stovewarmth we called families We hunkered and listened to the wind in the chimney and
hoped no one would get sick or break a leg or get a headful of bad
ideas, like the farmer over in Castle Rock who had chopped up his wife and kids three winters before and then said in court that the ghosts made him do it. In those days before the Great War, most of Motton was woods and bog, dark long places full of moose and mosquitoes, snakes and secrets. In those days there were ghosts everywhere.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

The Man in the Black Suit (1)

I am now a very old man and this is something which happened to me
when I was very young—only nine years old. It was 1914, the summer after my brother Dan died in the west field and three years before America got into World War I. I’ve never told anyone about what happened at the fork in the stream that day, and I never will . . . at least not with my mouth. I’ve decided to write it down, though, in this book which I will leave on the table beside my bed. I can’t write long, because my hands shake so these days and I have next to no strength, but I don’t think it will take long.

Later, someone may find what I have written. That seems likely to
me, as it is pretty much human nature to look in a book marked DIARY after its owner has passed along. So yes—my words will probably be read. A better question is whether or not anyone will believe them. Almost certainly not, but that doesn’t matter. It’s not belief I’m interested in but freedom. Writing can give that, I’ve found. For twenty years I wrote a column called “Long Ago and Far Away” for the Castle Rock Call, and I know that sometimes it works that way—what you write down sometimes leaves you forever, like old photographs left in the bright sun, fading to nothing but white.

I pray for that sort of release.
A man in his nineties should be well past the terrors of childhood,
but as my infirmities slowly creep up on me, like waves licking closer and closer to some indifferently built castle of sand, that terrible face grows clearer and clearer in my mind’s eye. It glows like a dark star in the constellations of my childhood. What I might have done yesterday, who I might have seen here in my room at the nurs- 45
ing home, what I might have said to them or they to me . . . those
things are gone, but the face of the man in the black suit grows ever
clearer, ever closer, and I remember every word he said. I don’t want
to think of him but I can’t help it, and sometimes at night my old heart beats so hard and so fast I think it will tear itself right clear of
my chest. So I uncap my fountain pen and force my trembling old
hand to write this pointless anecdote in the diary one of my greatgrandchildren— I can’t remember her name for sure, at least not right now, but I know it starts with an S—gave to me last Christmas, and which I have never written in until now. Now I will write in it. I will write the story of how I met the man in the black suit on the bank of Castle Stream one afternoon in the summer of 1914.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

AFTERNOTE (2)

There was a snake for every cage in Kerr’s basement menagerie,
except for one. The empty cage was unmarked, and the snake that
popped out of my golf-bag (the ambulance orderlies had packed it
in with my “corpse” and had been practicing chip-shots out in the
ambulance parking area) was never found. The toxin in my bloodstream— the same toxin found to a far lesser degree in orderly Mike Hopper’s bloodstream—was documented but never identified. I
have looked at a great many pictures of snakes in the last year, and
have found at least one which has reportedly caused cases of fullbody paralysis in humans. This is the Peruvian boomslang, a nasty
viper which has supposedly been extinct since the 1920s. Dupont
Street is less than half a mile from the Derry Municipal Golf Course.
Most of the intervening land consists of scrub woods and vacant
lots.

One final note. Katie Arlen and I dated for four months, Novem- ber 1994 through February of 1995. We broke it off by mutual consent,
due to sexual incompatibility.
I was impotent unless she was wearing rubber gloves.

At some point I think every writer of scary stories has to tackle the
subject of premature burial, if only because it seems to be such a
pervasive fear. When I was a kid of seven or so, the scariest TV
program going was Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and the scariest AHP—my friends and I were in total agreement on this— was the one starring Joseph Cotten as a man who has been injured in a car accident. Injured so badly, in fact, that the doctors think he’s dead. They can’t even find a heartbeat. They are on the verge of doing a postmortem on him—cutting him up while he’s still alive and screaming inside, in other words—when he produces one single tear to let them know he’s still alive. That was touching, but touching isn’t in my usual repertoire. When my own thoughts turned to this subject, a more—shall we say modern?— method of communicating liveliness occurred to me, and this story was the result. One final note, regarding the snake: I doubt like hell if there’s any such reptile as a Peruvian boomslang, but in one of her Miss Marple capers, Dame Agatha Christie does mention an African boomslang. I just liked the word so much (boomslang, not African) I had to put it in this story.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

AFTERNOTE (1)

It’s been a year since my experience in Autopsy Room Four, and I have made a complete recovery, although the paralysis was both stubborn and scary; it was a full month before I began to get back the finer motions of my fingers and toes. I still can’t play the piano, but then, of course, I never could. That is a joke, and I make no apologies for it. I think that in the first three months after my misadventure, my ability to joke provided a slim but vital margin between sanity and some sort of nervous breakdown. Unless you’ve actually felt the tip of a pair of postmortem shears poking into your stomach, you don’t know what I mean.

Two weeks or so after my close call, a woman on Dupont Street
called the Derry Police to complain of a “foul stink” coming from the
house next door. That house belonged to a bachelor bank clerk
named Walter Kerr. Police found the house empty . . . of human life,
that is. In the basement they found over sixty snakes of different varieties. About half of them were dead—starvation and dehydration— but many were extremely lively . . . and extremely dangerous. Several were very rare, and one was of a species believed to have been extinct since midcentury, according to consulting herpetologists.

Kerr failed to show up for work at Derry Community Bank on August 22nd, two days after I was bitten, one day after the story(PARALYZED MAN ESCAPES DEADLY AUTOPSY, the headline read; at one point I was quoted as saying I had been “scared stiff ”) broke in the press.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

Autopsy Room Four (28)

The door bursts open. Pete cries out in surprise. Dr. Arlen doesn’t,
but her hand tightens involuntarily, she’s gripping me again and it’s
all at once like a hellish variation of the old Naughty Nurse fantasy.

“Don’t cut im up!” someone screams, and his voice is so high and
wavery with fright that I barely recognize Rusty. “Don’t cut im up,
there was a snake in his golf-bag and it bit Mike!”

They turn to him, eyes wide, jaws dropped; her hand is still gripping
me, but she’s no more aware of that, at least for the time being,
than Petie-Boy is aware that he’s got one hand clutching the left
breast of his scrub-gown. He looks like he’s the one with the clapped-out fuel pump.

“What . . . what are you . . .” Pete begins.
“Knocked him flat!” Rusty was saying—babbling. “He’s gonna be
okay, I guess, but he can hardly talk! Little brown snake, I never saw
one like it in my life, it went under the loadin bay, it’s under there
right now, but that’s not the important part! I think it already bit
that guy we brought in. I think . . . holy shit, doc, whatja tryin to do? Stroke im back to life?”

She looks around, dazed, at first not sure of what he’s talking about
. . . until she realizes that she’s now holding a mostly erect penis. And as she screams—screams and snatches the shears out of Pete’s limp gloved hand—I find myself thinking again of that old Alfred Hitchcock TV show.

Poor old Joseph Cotten, I think.
He only got to cry.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

Autopsy Room Four (27)

“And look,” she says. Her finger strokes a light, tickly line down the side of my right testicle. “Look at these hairline scars. His testes must have swollen up to damned near the size of grapefruits.”

“Lucky he didn’t lose one or both.”
“You bet your . . . you bet your you-knows,” she says, and laughs
that mildly suggestive laugh again. Her gloved hand loosens, moves,
then pushes down firmly, trying to clear the viewing area. She is
doing by accident what you might pay twenty-five or thirty bucks to
have done on purpose . . . under other circumstances, of course. “This is a war-wound, I think. Hand me that magnifier, Pete.”

“But shouldn’t I—”
“In a few seconds,” she says. “He’s not going anywhere.” She’s
totally absorbed by what she’s found. Her hand is still on me, still
pressing down, and what was happening feels like it’s still happening,
but maybe I’m wrong. I must be wrong, or he would see it, she would
feel it—

She bends down and now I can see only her green-clad back, with
the ties from her cap trailing down it like odd pigtails. Now, oh my,
I can feel her breath on me down there.
“Notice the outward radiation,” she says. “It was a blast-wound
of some sort, probably ten years ago at least, we could check his military rec—”

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

Autopsy Room Four (26)

“Thanks,” he says. Then he takes a deep breath and lifts the scissors.
“Commencing pericardial cut.”
He slowly brings them down. I see them . . . see them . . . then
they’re gone from my field of vision. A long moment later, I feel cold
steel nestle against my naked upper belly.

He looks doubtfully at the doctor.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
“Do you want to make this your field or not, Peter?” she asks him
with some asperity.
“You know I do, but—”
“Then cut.”

He nods, lips firming. I would close my eyes if I could, but of course
I cannot even do that; I can only steel myself against the pain that’s
only a second or two away now—steel myself for the steel.
“Cutting,” he says, bending forward.
“Wait a sec!” she cries.

The dimple of pressure just below my solar plexus eases a little. He
looks around at her, surprised, upset, maybe relieved that the crucial
moment has been put off—
I feel her rubber-gloved hand slide around my penis as if she meant to give me some bizarre handjob, Safe Sex with the Dead, and then she says, “You missed this one, Pete.”

He leans over, looking at what she’s found—the scar in my groin,
at the very top of my right thigh, a glassy, no-pore bowl in the flesh.
Her hand is still holding my cock, holding it out of the way, that’s all she’s doing; as far as she’s concerned she might as well be holding up a sofa cushion so someone else can see the treasure she’s found beneath it—coins, a lost wallet, maybe the catnip mouse you haven’t been able to find—but something is happening.
Dear wheelchair Jesus on a chariot-driven crutch, something is happening.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual

Autopsy Room Four (25)

Yes! Yes! But a twitch is all, and the second time I try, nothing
happens.
As Pete picks up the scissors, the Rolling Stones move on to
“Hang Fire.”
Hold a mirror in front of my nose! I scream at them. Watch it fog up!
Can’t you at least do that?

Snick, snick, snickety-snick.
Pete turns the scissors at an angle so the light runs down the blade,
and for the first time I’m certain, really certain, that this mad charade
is going to go all the way through to the end. The director isn’t going
to freeze the frame. The ref isn’t going to stop the fight in the tenth
round. We’re not going to pause for a word from our sponsors.

Petie-Boy’s going to slide those scissors into my gut while I lie here
helpless, and then he’s going to open me up like a mail-order package
from the Horchow Collection.

He looks hesitantly at Dr. Arlen.
No! I howl, my voice reverberating off the dark walls of my skull but emerging from my mouth not at all. No, please no!
She nods. “Go ahead. You’ll be fine.”
“Uh . . . you want to turn off the music?”
Yes! Yes, turn it off!
“Is it bothering you?”
Yes! It’s bothering him! It’s fucked him up so completely he thinks his
patient is dead!

“Well . . .”
“Sure,” she says, and disappears from my field of vision. A moment
later Mick and Keith are finally gone. I try to make the humming
noise and discover a horrible thing: now I can’t even do that. I’m too
scared. Fright has locked down my vocal cords. I can only stare up as she rejoins him, the two of them gazing down at me like pallbearers looking into an open grave.

Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual