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aining wings of his shoulder blades； and the muscles writhed beneath the skin like ropes。 He was a man taken over； possessed； and Mark saw without knowing （or having to know） that the possession was not in the least Christian； the good was more elemental； less refined。 It was ore； like something coughed up out of the ground in naked chunks。 There was nothing finished about it。 It was Force； it was Power； it was whatever moved the greatest wheels of the universe。
The door to Eva Miller's root cellar could not stand before it。 The ax began to move at a nearly blinding speed； it became a ripple； a descending arc； a rainbow from over Ben's shoulder to the splintered wood of the final door。
He dealt it a final blow and slung the ax away。 He held his hands up before his eyes。 They blazed。
He held them out to Mark； and the boy flinched。 'I love you；' Ben said。
They clasped hands。
49
The root cellar was small and cell…like； empty except for a few dusty bottles； some crates； and a dusty bushel basket of very old potatoes that were sprouting eyes in every direction…and the bodies。 Barlow's coffin stood at the far end； propped up against the wall like a mummy's sarcophagus； and the crest on it blazed coldly in the light they carried with them like St Elmo's fire。
In front of the coffin； leading up to it like railroad ties； were the bodies of the people Ben had lived with and broken bread with： Eva Miller； and Weasel Craig beside her； Mabe Mullican from the room at the end of the second…floor hall； John Snow； who had been on the county and could barely walk down to the breakfast table with his arthritis； Vinnie Upshaw； Grover Verrill。
They stepped over them and stood by the coffin。 Ben glanced down at his watch； it was 6：40。
'We're going to take it out there；' he said。 'By Jimmy。'
'It must weigh a ton；' Mark said。
'We can do it。' He reached out； almost tentatively； and then grasped the upper right corner of the coffin。 The crest glittered like an impassioned eye。 The wood was crawlingly unpleasant to the touch； smooth and stone…like with years。 There seemed to be no pores in the wood； no small imperfections for the fingers to recognize and mold to。 Yet it rocked easily。 One hand did it。
He tipped it forward with a small push； feeling the great weight held in check as if by invisible counterweights。 Something thumped inside。 Ben took the weight of the coffin on one hand。
'Now；' he said。 'Your end。'
Mark lifted and the end of the coffin came up easily。 The boy's face filled with pleased amazement。 'I think I could do it with one finger。'
'You probably could。 Things are finally running our way。 But we have to be quick。'
They carried the coffin through the shattered door。 It threatened to stick at its widest point； and Mark lowered his head and shoved。 It went through with a wooden scream。
They carried it across to where Jimmy lay； covered with Eva Miller's drapes。
'Here he is； Jimmy；' Ben said。 'Here the bastard is。 Set it down； Mark。'
He glanced at his watch again。 6：45。 Now the light ing through the kitchen door above them was an ashy gray。
'Now？' Mark asked。
They looked at each other over the coffin。
'Yes；' Ben said。
Mark came around and they stood together in front of the coffin's locks and seals。 They bent together； and the locks split as they touched them； making a sound like thin； snapping clapboards。 They lifted。
Barlow lay before them； his eyes glaring upward。
He was a young man now； his black hair vibrant and lustrous； flowing over the satin pillow at the head of his narrow apartment。 His skin glowed with life。 The cheeks were as ruddy as wine。 His teeth curved out over his full lips； white with strong streaks of yellow； like ivory。
'He…' Mark began； and never finished。
Barlow's red eyes rolled in their sockets； filling with a hideous life and mocking triumph。 They locked with Mark's eyes and Mark gaped down into them； his own eyes growing blank and far away。
'Don't look at him！' Ben cried； but it was too late。
He knocked Mark away。 The boy whined deep in his throat and suddenly attacked Ben。 Taken by surprise； Ben staggered backward。 A moment later the boy's hands were in his coat pocket； digging for Homer McCaslin's pistol。
'Mark！ Don't…'
But the boy didn't hear。 His face was as blank as a washed blackboard。 The whining went on and on in his throat； the sound of a very small trapped animal。 He had I！ both hands around the pistol。 They struggled for it； Ben trying to rip it from the boy's grasp and keep it pointed away from both of them。
'Mark！' he bellowed。 'Mark； wake up！ For Christ's sake…'
The muzzle jerked down toward his head and the gun went off。 He felt the slug pass by his temple。 He wrapped his hands around Mark's and kicked out with one foot。 Mark staggered backward； and the gun clattered on the floor between them。 The boy leaped at it； whining； and Ben punched him in the mouth with all the stren2th he had。 He felt the boy's lips mash back against his teeth and cried out as if he himself had been hit。 Mark slipped to his knees； and Ben kicked the gun away。 Mark tried to go after it crawling； and Ben hit him again。
With a tired sigh； the boy collapsed。
The strength had left him now； and the sureness。 He was only Ben Mears again； and he was afraid。
The square of light in the kitchen doorway had faded to thin purple； his watch said 6：51。
A huge force seemed to be dragging at his head； manding him to look at the rosy； gorged parasite in the coffin beside him。
Look and see me； puny man。 Look upon Barlow； who has passed the centuries as you have passed hours before a fireplace with a book。 Look and see the great creature of the night whom you would slay with your miserable little stick。 Look upon me； scribbler。 I have written in human lives； and blood has been my ink。 Look upon me and despair！
Jimmy； I can't do it。 It's too late； he's too strong for me …
LOOK AT ME！
It was 6：53。
Mark groaned on the floor。 'Mom？ Momma； where are you？ My head hurts 。 。 。 it's dark 。 。 。'
He shall enter my service castratum 。 。 。
Ben fumbled one of the stakes from his belt and dropped it。 He cried out miserably； in utter despair。 Outside； the sun had deserted Jerusalem's Lot。 Its last rays lingered on the roof of the Marsten House。
He snatched the stake up。 But where was the hammer？ Where was the fucking hammer？
By the root cellar door。 He had swung at the padlock with it。
He scrambled across the cellar and picked it up where it lay。
Mark was half sitting； his mouth a bloody gash。 He wiped a hand across it and looked dazedly at the blood。 'Momma！' he cried。 'Where's my mother？'
6：55 now。 Light and darkness hung perfectly balanced。
Ben ran back across the darkening cellar； the stake clutched in his left hand； the hammer in his right。
There was a booming； triumphant laugh。 Barlow was sitting up in his coffin； those red eyes flashing with hellish triumph。 They locked with Ben's； and he felt the will draining away from him。
With a mad； convulsive yell； he raised the stake over his head