Hatlen held the door a little way open. I paid out the clothesline, keeping as much slack in it as I could, mindful of the man’s promise to chuck the rope if it bound him up.
There was still not a sound. Billy stood beside me, motionless but seeming to thrum with his own inner current.
Again there was that weird feeling that the five of them did not so much disappear into the fog as become invisible. For a moment their clothes seemed to stand alone, and then they were gone. You were not really impressed with the unnatural density of the mist until you saw people swallowed up in a space of seconds.
I paid the line out. A quarter of it went, then a half. it stopped going out for a moment. It went from a live thing to a dead one in my hands. I held my breath. Then it started to go out again. I paid it through my fingers, and suddenly remembered my father taking me to see the Gregory Peck film of Moby Dick at the Brookside. I think I smiled a little.
Three-quarters of the line was gone now. I could see the end of it lying beside one of Billy’s feet. Then the rope stopped moving through my hands again. It lay motionless for perhaps five seconds, and then another five feet jerked out. Then it suddenly whipsawed violently to the left, twanging off the edge of the OUT door.
Twenty feet of rope suddenly paid out, making a thin heat across my left palm.
And from out of the mist there came a high, wavering scream. It was impossible to tell the sex of the screamer.
The rope whipsawed in my hands again. And again. It skated across the space in the doorway to the right, then back to the left. A few more feet paid out, and then there was a ululating howl from out there that brought an answering moan from my son. Hatlen stood aghast. His eyes were huge. One corner of his mouth turned down, trembling.
The howl was abruptly cut off. There was no sound at all for what seemed to be forever. Then the old lady cried out-this time there could be no doubt about who it was.
Git it offa me! ” she screamed. ” Oh my Lord my Lord get it—” Then her voice was cut off, too.
Almost all of the rope abruptly ran out through my loosely closed fist, giving me a hotter burn this time. Then it went completely slack, and a sound came out of the mist—a thick, loud grunt-that made all the spit in my mouth dry up.
It was like no sound I’ve ever heard, but the closest approximation might be a movie set in the African veld or a South American swamp. It was the sound of a big animal. It came again, low and tearing and savage. Once more… and then it subsided to a series of low mutterings. Then it was completely gone.
“Close the door,” Amanda Dumfries said in a trembling voice. “Please.”
“In a minute,” I said, and began to yank the line back in.
It came out of the mist and piled up around my feet in untidy loops and snarls.
About three feet from the end, the new white clothesline went barn-red.
“Death!” Carmody screamed. “Death to go out there! Now do you see?” The end of the clothesline was a chewed and frayed tangle of fiber and little puffs of cotton. The little puffs were dewed with minute drops of blood.
No one contradicted Carmody.
Mike Hatlen let the door swing shut.
VII. The First Night.
McVey had worked in Bridgton cutting meat ever since I was twelve or thirteen, and I had no idea what his first name was or his age might be. He had set up a gas grill under one of the small exhaust fans-the fans were still now, but presumably they still gave some ventilation-and by 6.30 P.m. the smell of cooking chicken filled the market. Bud Brown didn’t object. It might have been stock, but more likely he had recognized the fact that his fresh meat and poultry wasn’t getting any fresher. The chicken smelled good, but not many people wanted to eat. McVey, small and spare and neat in his whites, cooked the chicken nevertheless and laid the pieces two by two on paper plates and lined them up cafeteria-style on top of the meat counter.
Turman brought Billy and me each a plate, garnished with helpings of deli potato salad. I ate as best I could, but Billy would not even pick at his.
“You got to eat, big guy,” I said.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, putting the plate aside.
“You can’t get big and strong if you don’t—”
Turman, sitting slightly behind Billy, shook her head at me.
“Okay,” I said. “Go get a peach and eat it, at least. ‘Kay?”
“What if Brown says something?”
“If he says something, you come back and tell me.”
“Okay, Dad.” He walked away slowly. He seemed to have shrunk somehow. It hurt my heart to see him walk that way. McVey went on cooking chicken, apparently not minding that only a few people were eating it, happy in the act of cooking. As I think I have said, there are all ways of handling a thing like this. You wouldn’t think it would be so, but it is. The mind is a monkey.
Turman and I sat halfway up the patent- medicines aisle. People were sitting in little groups all over the store. No one except Carmody was sitting alone; even Myron and his buddy Jim were together-they were both passed out by the beer cooler.
Six new men were watching the loopholes. One of them was Ollie, gnawing a leg of chicken and drinking a beer. The mop-handle torches leaned beside each of the watchposts, a can of charcoal lighter fluid next to each… but I don’t think anyone really believed in the torches the way they had before. Not after that low and terribly vital grunting sound, not after the chewed and blood-soaked clothesline. If whatever was out there decided it wanted us, it was going to have us. It, or they.
“How bad will it be tonight?” Turman asked. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were sick and scared.
“Hattie, I just don’t know.”
“You let me keep Billy as much as you can. I’m… Davey, I think I’m in mortal terror.” She uttered a dry laugh. “Yes, I believe that’s what it is. But if I have Billy, I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right for him.” Her eyes were glistening. I leaned over and patted her shoulder.
“I’m so worried about Alan,” she said. “He’s dead, Davey. In my heart I’m sure he’s dead.”
“No, Hattie. You don’t know any such thing.”
“But I feel it’s true. Don’t you feel anything about Stephanie? Don’t you at least have a… a feeling?”
“No,” I said, lying through my teeth.
A strangled sound came from her throat and she clapped a hand to her mouth. Her glasses reflected back the dim, murky light.
“Billy’s coming back,” I murmured.
He was eating a peach. Hattie Turman patted the floor beside her and said that when he was done she would show him how to make a little man out of the peach pit and some thread. Billy smiled at her wanly, and Turman smiled back.
At 8:00 P.m. six new men went on at the loopholes and Ollie came over to where I was sitting. “Where’s Billy?”
“With Turman, up back,” I said. “They’re doing crafts. They’ve run through peach-pit men and shoppingbag masks and apple dolls and now McVey is showing him how to make pipe-cleaner men.” Ollie took a long drink of beer and said, “Things are moving around out there.” I looked at him sharply. He looked back levelly.
“I’m not drunk,” he said. “I’ve been trying but haven’t been able to make it. I wish I could, David.”
“What do you mean, things are moving around out there?”
“I can’t say for sure. I asked Walter, and he said he had the same feeling, that parts of the mist would go darker for a minute—sometimes just a little smudge, sometimes a big dark place, like a bruise. Then it would fade back to gray. And the stuff is swirling around. Even Arnie Simms said he felt like something was going on out there, and Arnie’s almost as blind as a bat.”
“What about the others?”
“They’re all out-of-staters, strangers to me,” Ollie said. “I didn’t ask any of them.”
“How sure are you that you weren’t just seeing things?”
“Sure,” he said. He nodded toward Carmody, who was sitting by herself at the end of the aisle. None of it had hurt her appetite any; there was a graveyard of chicken bones on her plate. She was drinking either blood or V-8 juice. “I think she was right about one thing,” Ollie said. “We’ll find out. When it gets dark, we’ll find out.” But we didn’t have to wait until dark. When it came, Billy saw very little of it, because Turman kept him up back. Ollie was still sitting with me when one of the men up front gave out a shriek and staggered back from his post, pinwheeling his arms. It was approaching eight-thirty; outside the pearl-white mist had darkened to the dull slaty color of a November twilight.