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system。'
'Christ；' Matt said。
'He has 。 。 。 a certain theory about the Marsten House。 It springs partly from his own experience and partly from some rather amazing research he's done on Hubert Marsten…'
'His penchant for devil worship？'
She started。 'How did you know that。'
He smiled a trifle grimly。 'Not all the gossip in a small town is open gossip。 There are secrets。 Some of the secret gossip in 'salem's Lot has to do with Hubie Marsten。 It's shared among perhaps only a dozen or so of the older people now…Mabel Werts is one of them。 It was a long time ago； Susan。 But even so； there is no statute of limitations on some stories。 It's strange； you know。 Even Mabel won't talk about Hubert Marsten with anyone but her own circle。 They'll talk about his death； of course。 About the murder。 But if you ask about the ten years he and his wife spent up there in their house； doing God knows what； a sort of governor es into play…perhaps the closest thing to a taboo our Western civilization knows。 There have even been whispers that Hubert Marsten kidnapped and sacrificed small children to his infernal gods。 I'm surprised Ben found out as much as he did。 The secrecy concerning that aspect of Hubie and his wife and his house is almost tribal。'
'He didn't e by it in the Lot。'
'That explains it； then。 I suspect his theory is a rather old parapsychological wheeze…that humans manufacture evil just as they manufacture snot or excrement or fingernail parings。 That it doesn't go away。 Specifically； that the Marsten House may have bee a kind of evil dry…cell； a malign storage battery。'
'Yes。 He expressed it in exactly those terms。' She looked at him wonderingly。
He gave a dry chuckle。 'We've read the same books。 And what do you think； Susan？ Is there more than heaven and earth in your philosophy？'
'No；' she said with quiet firmness。 'Houses are only houses。 Evil dies with the perpetration of evil acts。'
'You're suggesting that Ben's instability may enable me to lead him down the path to insanity that I am already traversing？'
'No； of course not。 I don't think you're insane。 But Mr Burke； you must realize…'
'Be quiet。'
He had cocked his head forward。 She stopped talking and listened。 Nothing 。 。 。 except perhaps a creaky board。 She looked at him questioningly； and he shook his head。 'You were saying？'
'Only that coincidence has made this a poor time for him to exorcise the demons of his youth。 There's been a lot of cheap talk going around town since the Marsten House reoccupied and that store was opened 。 。 。 there's been talk about Ben himself； for that matter。 Rites of exorcism have been known to get out of hand and turn on the exorcist。 I think Ben needs to get out of this town and I think maybe you could use a vacation from it； Mr Burke。'
Exorcism made her think of Ben's request to mention the Catholic priest to Matt。 On impulse； she decided not to。 The reason he had asked was now clear enough； but it would only be adding fuel to a fire that was； in her opinion； already dangerously high。 When Ben asked her…if he ever did…she would say she had forgotten。
'I know how mad it must sound；' Matt said。 'Even to me； who heard the window go up； and that laugh； and saw the screen lying beside the driveway this morning。 But if it will allay your fears any； I must say that Ben's reaction to the whole thing was very sensible。 He suggested we put the thing on the basis of a theory to be proved or disproved； and begin by…' He ceased again； listening。
This time the silence spun out； and when he spoke again； the soft certainty in his voice frightened her。 'There's someone upstairs。'
She listened。 Nothing。
'You're imagining things。'
'I know my house；' he said softly。 'Someone is in the guest bedroom 。 。 。 there； you hear？'
And this time she did hear。 The audible creak of a board； creaking the way boards in old houses do； for no good reason at all。 But to Susan's ears there seemed to be something more…something unutterably sly…in that sound。
'I'm going upstairs；' he said。
'No！'
The word came out with no thought。 She told herself： Now who's sitting in the chimney corner； believing the wind in the eaves is a banshee？
'I was frightened last night and did nothing and things grew worse。 Now I am going upstairs。'
'Mr Burke…'
They had both begun to speak in undertones。 Tension into her veins； making her muscles stiff。 Maybe there was someone upstairs。 A prowler。
'Talk；' he said。 'After I go； continue speaking。 On any subject。'
And before she could argue； he was out of his seat and moving toward the hall； moving with a grace that was nearly astounding。 He looked back once； but she couldn't read his eyes。 He began to go up the stairs。
Her mind felt dazed into unreality by the swift turnaround things had taken。 Less than two minutes ago they had been discussing this business calmly； under the rational light of electric bulbs。 And now she was afraid。 Question： If you put a psychologist in a room with a man who thinks he's Napoleon and leave them there for a year （or ten or twenty）； will you end up with two Skinner men or two guys with their hands in their shirts？ Answer： Insufficient data。
She opened her mouth and said； 'Ben and I were going to drive up Route 1 to Camden on Sunday…you know； the town where they filmed Peyton Place…but now I guess we'll have to wait。 They have the most darling little church 。 。 。 '
She found herself droning along with great facility； even though her hands were clenched together in her lap tightly enough to whiten the knuckles。 Her mind was clear； still unimpressed with this talk of bloodsuckers and the undead。 It was from her spinal cord； a much older network of nerves and ganglia； that the black dread emanated in waves。
6
Going up the stairs was the hardest thing Matt Burke had ever done in his life。 That was all； that was it。 Nothing else even came close。 Except perhaps one thing。
As a boy of eight； he had been in a Cub Scout pack。 The den mother's house was a mile up the road and going was fine； yes； excellent； because you walked in the late afternoon daylight。 But ing home twilight had begun to fall； freeing the shadows to yawn across the road in long； twisty patterns…or； if the meeting was particularly enthusiastic and ran late； you had to walk home in the dark。 Alone。
Alone。 Yes； that's the key word； the most awful word in the English tongue。 Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym。 。 。 。
There was a ruined church along the way； an old Methodist meeting house； which reared its shambles at the far end of a frost…heaved and hummocked lawn； and when you walked past the view of its glaring； senseless windows your footsteps became very loud in your ears and whatever you had been whistling died on your lips and you thought about how it must be inside…the overturned pews； the rotting hymnals； the crumbling altar where only mice now kept the sabbath； and you wondered what might be in there besides mice…what madmen； what monsters。 Maybe they were peering out at you with yellow reptilian eyes。 And maybe one night watching wo