Salem's Lot

2

Every window on the lower floor of Matt’s house was lit up, and when Ben’s headlights splashed across the front as he turned into the driveway, Matt opened the door and waited for him.

He came up the walk ready for almost anything, but Matt’s face was still a shock. It was deadly pale, and the mouth was trembling. His eyes were wide, and they didn’t seem to blink.

‘Let’s go in the kitchen,’ he said.

Ben came in, and as he stepped inside, the half light caught the cross lying against his chest.

‘You brought one.’

‘It belongs to Eva Miller. What’s the matter?’

Matt repeated: ‘In the kitchen.’ As they passed the stairs leading to the second floor, he glanced upward and seemed to flinch away at the same time.

The kitchen table where they had eaten spaghetti was bare now except for three items, two of them peculiar: a cup of coffee, an old-fashioned clasp Bible, and a.38 revolver.

‘Now, what’s up, Matt? You look awful.’

‘And maybe I dreamed the whole thing, but thank God you’re here.’ He had picked up the revolver and was turning it over restively in his hands.

‘Tell me. And stop playing with that thing. Is it loaded?’ Matt put the pistol down and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Yes, it’s loaded. Although I don’t think it would do any good… unless I used it on myself.’ He laughed, a jagged, unhealthy sound like grinding glass.

‘Stop that.’

The harshness in his voice broke the queer, fixed look in his eyes. He shook his head, not like a man propounding a negative, but the way some animals will shake themselves coming out of cold water.

‘There’s a dead man upstairs,’ he said.

‘Who?’

‘Mike Ryerson. He works for the town. He’s a grounds keeper.’

‘Are you sure he’s dead?’

‘I am in my guts, even though I haven’t looked in on him. I haven’t dared. Because, in another way, he may not be dead at all.’

‘Matt, you’re not talking good sense.’

‘Don’t you think I know that? I’m talking nonsense and I’m thinking madness. But there was no one to call but you. In all of ‘salem’s Lot, you’re the only person that might… might…’ He shook his head and began again. ‘We talked about Danny Glick.’

‘Yes.’

‘And how he might have died of pernicious anemia… what our grandfathers would have called "just wasting away."‘

‘Yes.’

‘Mike buried him. And Mike found Win Purinton’s dog impaled on the Harmony Hill Cemetery gates. I met Mike Ryerson in Dell’s last night, and-’