before Mrs Frawley’s death, and belladonna is definitely not indigenous to the area.’
‘Graveyard dirt?’
‘What do you think?’
‘It would have to be a hell of a coincidence,’ Hunton said.
‘Nearest cemetery is Pleasant Hill, and that’s five miles from the Blue Ribbon.’
‘Okay,’ Jackson said. ‘I got the computer operator-who thought I was getting ready for Halloween – to
run a positive breakdown of all the primary and secondary elements on the list. Every possible
combination. I threw out some two dozen which were completely meaningless. The others fall into
fairly clear-cut categories. The elements we’ve isolated are in one of those.’
‘What is it?’
Jackson grinned. ‘An easy one. The mythos centres in South America with branches in the Caribbean.
Related to voodoo. The literature I’ve got looks on the deities as strictly bush league, compared to some
of the real heavies, like Saddath or He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named. The thing in that machine is going to
slink away like the neighbourhood bully’
‘How do we do it?’
‘Holy water and a smidgen of the Holy Eucharist ought to do it. And we can read some of the Leviticus
to it. Strictly Christian white magic.’
‘You’re sure it’s not worse?’
‘Don’t see how it can be,’ Jackson said pensively. ‘I don’t mind telling you I was worried about that
hand of glory. That’s very black juju. Strong magic.’
‘Holy water wouldn’t stop it?’
‘A demon called up in conjunction with the hand of glory could eat a stack of Bibles for breakfast. We
would be in bad trouble messing with something like that at all. Better to pull the goddamn thing apart.’
‘Well, are you completely sure
‘No, but fairly sure. It all fits too well.’
‘When?’
‘The sooner, the better,’ Jackson said. ‘How do we get in? Break a window?’
Hunton smiled, reached into his pocket, and dangled a key in front of Jackson’s nose.
‘Where’d you get that? Gartley?’
‘No,’ Hunton said. ‘From a state inspector named Martin.’
‘He knows what we’re doing?’
‘I think he suspects. He told me a funny story a couple of weeks ago.’
‘About the mangler?’
‘No,’ Hunton said. ‘About a refrigerator. Come on.’
Adelle Frawley was dead; sewed together by a patient undertaker, she lay in her coffin. Yet something
of her spirit perhaps remained in the machine, and if it did, it cried out. She would have known, could
have warned them. She had been prone to indigestion, and for this common ailment she had taken a
common stomach tablet called E-Z Gel, purchasable over the counter of any drugstore for seventy-nine
cents. The side panel holds a printed warning:
People with glaucoma must not take E-Z Gel, because the active ingredient causes an aggravation of
that condition. Unfortunately, Adelle Frawley did not have that condition.
She might have remembered the day, shortly before Sherry Ouelette cut her hand, that she had dropped
a full box of E-Z Gel tablets into the mangler by accident. But she was dead, unaware that the active
ingredient which soothed her heartburn was a chemical derivative of belladonna, known quaintly in
some European countries as the hand of glory.
There was a sudden ghastly burping noise in the spectral silence of the Blue Ribbon Laundry – a bat
fluttered madly for its hole in the insulation above the dryers where it had roosted, wrapping wings
around its blind face.
It was a noise almost like a chuckle.
The mangler began to run with a sudden, lurching grind -belts hurrying through the darkness, cogs
meeting and meshing and grinding, heavy pulverizing rollers rotating on and on.
It was ready for them.
When Hunton pulled into the parking lot it was shortly after midnight and the moon was hidden behind
a raft of moving clouds. He jammed on the brakes and switched off the lights in the same motion;
Jackson’s forehead almost slammed against the padded dash.
He switched off the ignition and the steady thump-hiss-thump became louder. ‘It’s the mangler,’ he said
slowly. ‘It’s the mangler. Running by itself. In the middle of the night.’
They sat for a moment in silence, feeling the fear crawl up their legs.
Hunton said, ‘All right. Let’s do it.’
They got out and walked to the building, the sound of the mangler growing louder. As Hunton put the key into the lock of the service door, he thought that the machine did sound alive – as if it were breathing in great hot gasps and speaking to itself in hissing, sardonic whispers.