The man in the black suit (27)
I looked down and saw I was holding our lumpy old family Bible straight out in front of me with both thumbs pressing so hard on the
cover that they were white. It was the way Mama Sweet’s husband
Norville held a willow-fork when he was trying to dowse somebody
a well.
“Stay here,” my father said at last, and skidded sideways down the
bank, digging his shoes into the rich soft soil and holding his arms out
for balance. I stood where I was, holding the Bible stiffly out at the
ends of my arms like a willow-fork, my heart thumping wildly. I don’t
know if I had a sense of being watched that time or not; I was too
scared to have a sense of anything, except for a sense of wanting to be far away from that place and those woods.
My Dad bent down, sniffed at where the grass was dead, and grimaced. I knew what he was smelling: something like burnt matches. Then he grabbed my creel and came on back up the bank, hurrying. He snagged one fast look over his shoulder to make sure nothing was coming along behind. Nothing was. When he handed me the creel, the lid was still hanging back on its cunning little leather hinges. I looked inside and saw nothing but two handfuls of grass.
“Thought you said you caught a rainbow,” my father said, “but maybe you dreamed that, too.”Something in his voice stung me. “No, sir,” I said. “I caught one.” “Well, it sure as hell didn’t flop out, not if it was gutted and cleaned. And you wouldn’t put a catch into your fisherbox without doing that, would you, Gary? I taught you better than that.”
Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual
