按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
e out。 Mark pulled harder； to no avail。 With a half groan； he began to hammer at Straker's clutching hand with the bed leg。 Once； twice； three times； four。 There was the awful pencil sound of snapping fingers。 The hand loosened； and he pulled free with a yank that sent him stumbling out through the doorway and into the hall。
Straker's head had dropped to the floor again； but his mangled hand opened and closed on the air with tenebrous vitality； like the jerking of a dog's paws in dreams of cat…chasing。
The bed leg fell from his nerveless fingers and he backed away； trembling。 Then panic took him and he turned and fled down the stairs； leaping two or three at a time on his numb legs； his hand skimming the splintered banister。
The front hall was shadow…struck； horribly dark。
He went into the kitchen； casting lunatic； shying glances at the open cellar door。 The sun was going down in a blazing mullion of reds and yellows and purples。 In a funeral parlor sixteen miles distant； Ben Mears was watching the clock as the hands hesitated between 7：01 and 7：02。
Mark knew nothing of that； but he knew the vampire's time was imminent。 To stay longer meant confrontation on top of confrontation； to go back down into that cellar and try to save Susan meant induction into the ranks of the Undead。
Yet he went to the cellar door and actually walked down the first three steps before his fear wrapped him in almost physical bonds and would allow him to go no further。 He was weeping； and his body was trembling wildly； as if with ague。
'Susan！' he screamed。 'Run！'
'M … Mark？' Her voice； sounding weak and dazed。 'I can't see。 It's dark…'
There was a sudden booming noise； like a hollow gunshot； followed by a profound and soulless chuckle。
Susan screamed 。 。 。 a sound that trailed away to a moan and then to silence。
Still he paused； on feather…feet that trembled to blow him away。
And from below came a friendly voice； amazingly like his father's： 'e down； my boy。 I admire you' '
The power in the voice alone was so great that he felt the fear ebbing from him； the feathers in his feet turning to lead。 He actually began to grope down another step before he caught hold of himself…and the catching hold took all the ragged discipline he had left。
'e down；' the voice said； closer now。 It held； beneath the friendly fatherliness； the smooth steel of mand。
Mark shouted down： 'I know your name！ It's Barlow！'
And fled。
By the time he reached the front hall the fear had e on him full again； and if the door had not been unlocked he might have burst straight through the center of it； leaving a cartoon cutout of himself behind。
He fled down the driveway （much like that long…ago boy Benjaman Mears） and then straight down the center of the Brooks Road toward town and dubious safety。 Yet might not the king vampire e after him； even now？
He swerved off the road and made his way blunderingly through the woods； splashi ' ng through Taggart Stream and failing in a tangle of burdocks on the other side； and finally out into his own back yard。
He walked through the kitchen door and looked through the arch into the living room to where his mother； with worry written across her face in large letters； was talking into the telephone with the directory open on her lap。
She looked up and saw him； and relief spread across her face in a physical wave。
'…here he is…'
She set the phone into its cradle without waiting for a response and walked toward him。 He saw with greater sorrow than she would have believed that she had been crying。
'Oh； Mark 。 。 。 where have you been？'
'He's home？' His father called from the den。 His face； unseen； was filling with thunder。
'Where have you been？' She caught his shoulders and shook them。
'Out；' he said wanly。 'I fell down running home。'
There was nothing else to say。 The essential and defining characteristic of childhood is not the effortless merging of dream and reality； but only alienation。 There are no words for childhood's dark turns and exhalations。 A wise child recognizes it and submits to the necessary consequences。 A child who counts the cost is a child no longer。
He added： 'The time got away from me。 It…'
Then his father； descending upon him。
5
Some time in the darkness before Monday's dawn。
Scratching at the window。
He came up from sleep with no pause； no intervening period of drowsiness or orientation。 The insanities of sleep and waking had bee remarkably similar。
The white face in the darkness outside the glass was Susan's。
'Mark 。 。 。 let me in。'
He got out of bed。 The floor was cold under his bare feet。 He was shivering。
'Go away；' he said tonelessly。 He could see that she was still wearing the same blouse； the same slacks。 I wonder if her folks are worried； he thought。 If they've called the police。
'It's not so bad； Mark；' she said； and her eyes were flat and obsidian。 She smiled； showing her teeth； which shone in sharp relief below her pale gums。 'It's ever so nice。 Let me in； I'll show you。 I'll kiss you； Mark。 I'll kiss you all over like your mother never did。'
'Go away；' he repeated。
'One of us will get you sooner or later；' she said。 'There are lots more of us now。 Let it be me； Mark。 I'm 。 。 。 I'm hungry。' She tried to smile； but it turned into a nightshade grimace that made his bones cold。
He held up his cross and pressed it against the window。
She hissed； as if scalded； and let go of the window frame。 For a moment she hung suspended in air； her body being misty and indistinct。 Then； gone。 But not before he saw （or thought he saw） a look of desperate unhappiness on her face。
The night was still and silent again。
There are lots more of us now。
His thoughts turned to his parents； sleeping in thoughtless peril below him； and dread gripped his bowels。
Some men knew； she had said； or suspected。
Who？
The writer； of course。 The one she dated。 Mears； his name was。 He lived at Eva's boardinghouse。 Writers knew a lot。 It would be him。 And he would have to get to Mears before she did…
He stopped on his way back to bed。
If she hadn't already。
Chapter Thirteen
FATHER CALLAHAN
1
On that same Sunday evening； Father Callahan stepped hesitantly into Matt Burke's hospital room at quarter to seven by Matt's watch。 The bedside table and the counterpane itself were littered with books； some of them dusty with age。 Matt had called Loretta Starcher at her spinster's apartment and had not only gotten her to open the library on Sunday； but had gotten her to deliver the books in person。 She had e in at the head of a procession made up of three hospital orderlies； each loaded down。 She had left in something of a huff because he refused to answer questions about the strange conglomeration。
Father Callahan regarded the schoolteacher curiously。 He looked worn； but not so worn or wearily shocked as most of the parishioners he visited in similar circumstances。 Callahan found that the mon first reaction to news of cancer； strokes； heart attacks； or the failure of some major