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Some of the other people that the state police would like to locate or at least hear from include John Groggins； pastor of the Jerusalem's Lot Methodist Church； Father Donald Callahan； Parish priest of St Andrew's； Mabel Werts； a local widow who was prominent in 'salem's Lot church and social functions； Lester and Harriet Durham； a local couple who both worked at Gates Mill and Weaving； Eva Miller； who ran a local boardinghouse。 。 。 。
4
Two months after the newspaper article； the boy was taken into the church。 He made his first confession…and confessed everything。
5
The village priest was an old man with white hair and a face seamed into a net of wrinkles。 His eyes peered out of his sun…beaten face with surprising life and avidity。 They were blue eyes； very Irish。 When the tall man arrived at his house； he was sitting on the porch and drinking tea。 A man in a city suit stood beside him。 The man's hair was parted in the middle and greased in a manner that reminded the tall man of photograph portraits from the 1890s。
The man said stiffly； 'I am Jesús de la rey Mu？oz。 Father Gracon has asked me to interpret； as he has no English。 Father Gracon has done my family a great service which I may not mention。 My lips are likewise sealed in the matter he wishes to discuss。 Is it agreeable to you？'
'Yes。' He shook Mu？oz's hand and then Gracon's。 Gracon replied in Spanish and smiled。 He had only five teeth left in his jaw； but the smile was sunny and glad。
'He asks； Would you like a cup of tea？ It is green tea。
Very cooling。'
'That would be lovely。'
When the amenities had passed among them； the priest said； 'The boy is not your son。'
'No。'
'He made a strange confession In fact I have never heard a stranger confession in all my days of the priesthood。'
'That does not surprise me。'
'He wept；' Father Gracon said； sipping his tea。 'It was a deep and terrible weeping。 It came from the cellar of his soul。 Must I ask the question this confession raises in my heart？'
'No；' the tall man said evenly。 'You don't。 He is telling the truth。'
Gracon was nodding even before Mu？oz translated； and his face had grown grave。 He leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees and spoke for a long time。 Mu？oz listened intently； his face carefully expressionless。 When the priest finished； Mu？oz said：
'He says there are strange things in the world。 Forty years ago a peasant from El Graniones brought him a lizard that screamed as though it were a woman。 He has seen a man with stigmata； the marks of Our Lord's passion； and this man bled from his hands and feet on Good Friday。 He says this is an awful thing； a dark thing。 It is serious for you and the boy。 Particularly for the boy。 It is eating him up。 He says 。 。 。 '
Gracon spoke again； briefly。
'He asks if you understand what you have done in this New Jerusalem。'
'Jerusalem's Lot；' the tall man said。 'Yes。 I understand。'
Gracon spoke again。
'He asks what you intend to do about it。'
The tall man shook his head Very slowly。 'I don't know。'
Gracon spoke again。
'He says he will pray for you。'
6
A week later he awoke sweating from a nightmare and called out the boy's name。
'I'm going back；' he said。
The boy paled beneath his tan。
'Can you e with me？' the man asked。
'Do you love me？'
'Yes。 God； yes。'
The boy began to weep； and the tall man held him。
7
Still； there was no sleep for him。 Faces lurked in the shadows； swirling up at him like faces obscured in snow； and when the wind blew an overhanging tree limb against the roof； he jumped。
Jerusalem's Lot。
He closed his eyes and put his arm across them and it all began to e back。 He could almost see the glass paperweight； the kind that will make a tiny blizzard when you shake it。
'Salem's Lot 。 。 。
Part One
THE MARSTEN HOUSE
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality； even larks and katydids are supposed； by some； to dream。 Hill House； not sane； stood by itself against its hills holding darkness within； it had stood for eighty years and might stand for eighty more。 Within； walls continued upright； bricks met neatly； floors were firm； and doors were sensibly shut； silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House； and whatever walked there； walked alone。
Shirley Jackson
The Haunting of Hill House
Chapter One
BEN （I）
1
By the time he had passed Portland going north on the turnpike； Ben Mears had begun to feel a not unpleasurable tingle of excitement in his belly。 It was September 5； 1975； and summer was enjoying her final grand fling。 The trees were bursting with green； the sky was a high； soft blue； and just over the Falmouth town line he saw two boys walking a road parallel to the expressway with fishing rods settled on their shoulders like carbines。
He switched to the travel lane； stowed to the minimum turnpike speed； and began to look for anything that would jog his memory。 There was nothing at first； and he tried to caution himself against almost sure disappointment。 You were seven then。 That's twenty…five years of water under the bridge。 Places change。 Like people。
In those days the four…lane 295 hadn't existed。 If you wanted to go to Portland from the Lot； you went out Route 12 to Falmouth and then got on Number 1。 Time had marched on。
Stop that shit。
But it was hard to stop。 It was hard to stop when …
A big BSA cycle with jacked handlebars suddenly roared past him in the passing lane； a kid in a T…shirt driving； a girl in a red cloth jacket and huge mirror…lensed sunglasses riding pillion behind him。 They cut in a little too quickly and he overreacted； jamming on his brakes and laying both hands on the horn。 The BSA sped up； belching blue smoke from its exhaust； and the girl jabbed her middle finger back at him。
He resumed speed； wishing for a cigarette。 His hands were trembling slightly。 The BSA was almost out of sight now； moving fast。 The kids。 The goddamned kids。 Memories tried to crowd in on him； memories of a more recent vintage。 He pushed them away。 He hadn't been on a motorcycle in two years。 He planned never to ride on one again。
A flash of red caught his eye off to the left； and when； he glanced that way； he felt a burst of pleasure and recognition。 A large red barn stood on a hill far across a rising field of timothy and clover； a barn with a cupola painted white … even at this distance he could see the sungleam on the weather vane atop that cupola。 It had been there then； and was still here now。 It looked exactly the same。 Maybe it was going to be all right after all。 Then the trees blotted it out。
As the turnpike entered Cumberland； more and more things began to seem familiar。 He passed over the Royal River； where they had fished for steelies and pickerel as boys。 Past a brief； flickering view of Cumberland Village through the trees。 In the distance the Cumberland water tower with its huge slogan painted across the side： 'Keep Main