Bag of Bones by Stephen King

I was halfway under the pine when I heard another tree go over, this one much closer. The sound was followed by a scream — not pain or fear but surprised anger. Then, even over the hiss of the rain and the wind, I could hear Rogette’s voice: ‘Come back! Don’t go out there, it’s dangerous!’

I squirmed the rest of the way under the tree, barely feeling the stump of a branch which tore a groove in my lower back, got to my feet, and sprinted along the path. If the fallen trees I came to were small, I hurdled them without slowing down. If they were bigger, I scrabbled over with no thought to where they might claw or dig in. Thunder whacked. There was a brilliant stroke of lightning, and in its glare I saw gray barnboard through the trees. On the day I’d first seen Rogette I’d only been able to catch glimpses of Warrington’s lodge, but now the forest had been torn open like an old garment — this area would be years recovering. The lodge’s rear half had been pretty well demolished by a pair of huge trees that seemed to have fallen together. They had crossed like a knife and fork on a diner’s plate and lay on the ruins in a shaggy X.

Ki’s voice, rising over the storm only because it was shrill with terror: ‘Go away! I don’t want you, white nana! Go away!’ It was horrible to hear the terror in her voice, but wonderful to hear her voice at all.

About forty feet from where Rogette’s shout had frozen me in place, one more tree lay across the path. Rogette herself stood on the far side of it, holding a hand out to Ki. The hand was dripping blood, but I hardly noticed. It was Kyra I noticed. The dock running between The Street and The Sunset Bar was a long one — seventy feet at least, perhaps a hundred. Long enough so that on a pretty summer evening you could stroll it hand-in-hand with your date or your lover and make a memory. The storm hadn’t torn it away — not yet — but the wind had twisted it like a ribbon. I remember newsreel footage at some childhood Saturday matinee, film of a suspension bridge dancing in a hurricane, and that was what the dock between Warring-ton’s and The Sunset Bar looked like. It jounced up and down in the surging water, groaning in all its slatted joints like a wooden accordion. There had been a rail — presumably to guide those who’d made a heavy night of it safely back to shore — but it was gone now. Kyra was halfway out along this swaying, dipping length of wood. I could see at least three rectangles of blackness between the shore and where she stood, places where boards had snapped off. From beneath the dock came the disturbed clung-clung-clung of the empty steel drums that were holding it up. Several of these drums had come unanchored and were floating away. Ki had her arms stretched out for balance like a

tightrope walker in the circus. The black Harley-Davidson tee-shirt flapped around her knees and sunburned shoulders.

‘Come back!’ Rogette cried. Her lank hair flew around her head; the shiny black raincoat she was wearing rippled. She was holding both hands out now, one bloody and one not. I had an idea Ki might have bitten her.

‘No, white nana!’ Ki shook her head in wild negation and I wanted to tell her don’t do that, Ki-bird, don’t shake your head like that, very bad idea. She tottered, one arm pointed up at the sky and one down at the water so she looked for a moment like an airplane in a steep bank. If the dock had picked that moment to take a hard buck beneath her, Ki would have spilled off the side. She regained some precarious balance instead, although I thought I saw her bare feet slide a little on the slick boards. ‘Go away, white nana, I don’t want you! Go . . . go take a nap, you look tired!’

Ki didn’t see me; all her attention was fixed on the white nana. The white nana didn’t see me, either. I dropped to my belly and squirmed under the tree, pulling myself along with my clawed hands. Thunder rolled across the lake like a big mahogany ball, the sound echoing off the mountains. When I got to my knees again, I saw that Rogette was advancing slowly toward the shore end of the dock. For every step she took forward, Kyra took a shaky, dangerous step backward. Rogette was holding her good hand out, though for a moment I thought this one had begun to bleed as well. The stuff running through her bunchy fingers was too dark for blood, however, and when she began to talk, speaking in a hideous coaxing voice that made my skin crawl, I realized it was melting chocolate.

‘Let’s play the game, Ki-bird,’ Rogette cooed. ‘Do you want to start?’ She took a step. Ki took a compensatory step backward, tottered, caught her balance. My heart stopped, then resumed racing.

I closed the distance between myself and the woman as rapidly as I could, but I didn’t run; I didn’t want her to know a thing until she woke up. If she woke up. I didn’t care if she did or not. Hell, if I could fracture the back of George Footman’s skull with a hammer, I could certainly put a hurt on this horror. As I walked, I laced my hands together into one large fist.

‘No? Don’t want to start? Too shy?’ Rogette spoke in a sugary Romper Room voice that made me want to grind my teeth together. ‘All right, I’ll start. Happy! What rhymes with happy, Ki-bird?

Pappy . . . and nappy . . . you were taking a nappy, weren’t you, when I came and woke you up.

And lappy . . . would you want to come and sit on my lappy, Ki-bird? We’ll feed each other chocolate, just like we used to . . . I’ll tell you a new knock-knock joke . . . ‘

Another step. She had come to the edge of the dock. If she’d thought of it, she could simply have thrown rocks at Kyra as she had at me, thrown until she connected with one and knocked Ki into the lake. But I don’t think she got even close to such a notion. Once crazy goes past a certain point, you’re on a turnpike with no exit ramps. Rogette had other plans for Kyra.

‘Come on, Ki-Ki, play the game with white nana.’ She held out the chocolate again, gooey Hershey’s Kisses dripping through crumpled foil. Kyra’s eyes shifted, and at last she saw me. I shook my head, trying to tell her to be quiet, but it was no good — an expression of joyous relief crossed her face. She cried out my name, and I saw Rogette’s shoulders go up in surprise.

I ran the last dozen feet, raising my joined hands like a club, but I slipped a little on the wet ground at the crucial moment and Rogette made a kind of ducking cringe. Instead of striking her at the back of the neck as I’d meant to, my joined hands only glanced off her shoulder. She staggered, went to one knee, and was up again almost at once. Her eyes were like little blue arc-lamps, spitting rage instead of electricity. ‘You!’ she said, hissing the word over the top of her tongue, turning it into the sound of some ancient curse: Heeyuuuu! Behind us Kyra screamed my name, stagger-

dancing on the wet wood and waving her arms in an effort to keep from falling in the lake. Water slopped onto the deck and ran over her small bare feet.

‘Hold on, Ki!’ I called back. Rogette saw my attention shift and took her chance — she spun and ran out onto the dock. I sprang after her, grabbed her by the hair, and it came off in my hand. All of it. I stood there at the edge of the surging lake with her mat of white hair dangling from my fist like a scalp.

Rogette looked over her shoulder, snarling, an ancient bald gnome in the rain, and I thought It’s him, it’s Devore, he never died at all, somehow he and the woman swapped identities, she was the one who committed suicide, it was her body that went back to California on the jet —

Even as she turned the other way again and began to run toward Ki, I knew better. It was Rogette, all right, but she’d come by that hideous resemblance honestly. Whatever was wrong with her had done more than make her hair fall out; it had aged her as well. Seventy, I’d thought, but that had to be at least ten years beyond the actual mark.

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