Salem's Lot

11

Cody came at the Marsten House from the Brooks Road, on the village’s blind side, and Donald Callahan, looking at it from this new angle, thought: Why, it actually looms over the town. Strange I never saw it before. It must have perfect elevation there, perched on its hill high above the crossroads of Jointner Avenue and Brock Street. Perfect elevation and a very nearly 360° view of the township itself. It was a huge and rambling place, and with the shutters closed it took on an uncomfortable, overlarge configuration in the mind; it became a sarcophagus-like monolith, an evocation of doom.

And it was the site of both suicide and murder, which meant it stood on unhallowed ground.

He opened his mouth to say so, and then thought better of it.

Cody turned off onto the Brooks Road, and for a moment the house was blotted out by trees. Then they thinned, and Cody was turning into the driveway. The Packard was parked just outside the garage, and when Jimmy turned off the car, he drew McCaslin’s revolver.

Callahan felt the atmosphere of the place seize him at once. He took a crucifix-his mother’s-from his pocket and slipped it around his neck with his own. No bird sang in these fall-denuded trees. The long and ragged grass seemed even drier and more dehydrated than the end of the season warranted; the ground itself seemed gray and used up.

The steps leading up to the porch were warped crazily, and there was a brighter square of paint on one of the porch posts where a no-trespassing sign had recently been taken down. A new Yale lock glittered brassily below the old rusted bolt on the front door.

‘A window, maybe, like Mark-’ Jimmy began hesitantly.

‘No,’ Ben said. ‘Right through the front door. We’ll break it down if we have to.’

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Callahan said, and his voice did not seem to be his own. When they got out, he led them without stopping to think about it. An eagerness-the old eagerness he was sure had gone forever seemed to seize him as he approached the door. The house seemed to lean around them, to almost ooze its evil from the cracked pores of its paint. Yet he did not hesitate. Any thought of temporizing was gone. In the last moments he did not lead them so much as he was impelled.

‘In the name of God the Father!’ he cried, and his voice took on a hoarse, commanding note that made them all draw closer to him. ‘I command the evil to be gone from this house! Spirits, depart!’ And without being aware he was going to do it, he smote the door with the crucifix in his hand.

There was a flash of light-afterward they all agreed there had been-a pungent whiff of ozone, and a crackling sound, as if the boards themselves had screamed. The curved fanlight above the door suddenly exploded outward, and the large bay window to the left that overlooked the lawn coughed its glass onto the grass at the same instant. Jimmy cried out. The new Yale lock lay on the boards at their feet, welded into an almost unrecognizable mass. Mark bent to poke it and then yelped.

‘Hot,’ he said.

Callahan withdrew from the door, trembling. He looked down at the cross in his hand. ‘This is, without a doubt, the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me in my life,’ he said. He glanced up at the sky, as if to see the very face of God, but the sky was indifferent.

Ben pushed at the door and it swung open easily. But he waited for Callahan to go in first. In the hall Callahan looked at Mark.

‘The cellar,’ he said. ‘You get to it through the kitchen. Straker’s upstairs. But-’ He paused, frowning. ‘Something’s different. I don’t know what. Something’s not the same as it was.’

They went upstairs first, and even though Ben was not in the lead, he felt a prickle of very old terror as they approached the door at the end of the hall. Here, almost a month to the day after he had come back to ‘salem’s Lot, he was to get his second look into that room. When Callahan pushed the door open, he glanced upward… and felt the scream well up in his throat and out of his mouth before he could stop it. It was high, womanish, hysterical.

But it was not Hubert Marsten hanging from the overhead beam, or his spirit.

It was Straker, and he had been hung upside down like a pig in a slaughtering pen, his throat ripped wide open. His glazed eyes stared at them, through them, past them.

He had been bled white.