June 29, 1995
Woke up this morning around 3 a.m. and the other half of the bed was empty. The bathroom, too. I went downstairs, scared. No one in the living room, den, or kitchen. I went out to the garage amp; found Herb sitting at his workbench, wearing nothing but the Jockeys he sleeps in, amp; crying. He put in hi-intensity lighting out there two years ago-metal-hooded lamps that look like the kinds you see in pool-parlors- amp; in their glow I could see how much weight he’s lost. He looks horrible. Like he has anorexia nervosa. I took him in my arms amp; he wept like a baby. Kept saying he was tired, so tired all the time. I said something about taking him to see Dr Evers first thing in the morning. He just laughed, said I knew what was wrong with him.
I do, of course.
July 1, 1995
Another ambulance at the Hobart house late this afternoon. As soon as I saw it I raced upstairs to check on Seth, who was supposedly napping. No Seth. Window open-second-floor window- amp; no Seth. When I went outside, I saw him across the street, holding old Tom Billingsley’s hand. I ran across amp; grabbed him.
“No fear, he’s all right, Aud,” Tom said. “Just went wanderin” a little, didn’t you, Sethieboy?”
“Don’t you ever cross the street on your own!” I told him. “Don’t you ever\” Shook him again in spite of myself. Stupid; might as well shake a lump of wax.
This time when the EMTs came out, they were using their stretcher. Wm. Hobart was on it. “Seems like just lately if it wasn’t for bad luck, those Hobarts wouldn’t have any luck at all,” Tom said.
This is supposed to be Mr Hobart’s vacation week, but he will be spending at least some of it in County General. He fell downstairs, broke his leg amp; hip. Kim told me later that he drinks, church deacon at Zion’s Covenant or not. Maybe he does drink, but I don’t think that’s why he fell downstairs.
July 3, 1995
There’s no Stalky Little Boy. Never was. There’s a thirty inside of Seth-not an id, not another manifestation of his personality, not a hitchhiker, but something lik e a tapeworm. It can think. And talk. It talked to me today.
It calls itself Tak.
July 6, 1995
Someone shot the Hobarts” pet Angora cat last night. Apparently nothing left but blood amp; fur. Kim says Irene H. is hysterical, thinks everyone on the street is out to get them because they know the Hobarts are going to heaven amp; the rest of us are going to hell. “So they are making this hell on earth for us” is what she told Kim. She begged Kim to tell her who did it, said
Hugh was devastated, wouldn’t come out of his room, just lay there on his bed, crying amp; saying it was all his fault cause he was a sinner. When Kim said she didn’t know and didn’t think anyone on Poplar Street would shoot the Hobarts” cat, Mrs Hobart said Kim was just like the rest amp; told her they weren’t friends anymore. Kim very upset, but not as upset as I am.
What in God’s name should I do? It hasn’t hurt anyone too badly yet, but-July 8, 1995
Oh God, thank you. A Mayflower van turned on to the street at just past nine this morning amp; stopped in front of the Hobarts”. They are moving out.
July 16, 1995
Oh you fucking little bastard you shit. Oh how could you. Oh you bastard if I could get at you. If you let Seth go amp; I could get at you. Oh God God God. My fault? Yes. HOW MUCH my fault is the question. Dear Jesus how can I live without him? How go on with this? I didn’t know there could be this much pain in the whole wide world amp; how much my fault HOW MUCH? You bastard Tak you bastard. I’m done writing in this book. What good did I ever think it could do anyway?
Oh Herb, I’m so sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.
October 19, 1995
Got an answer to my letter today, ages after I’d given up expecting one. My respondent was a mining engineer named Allen Symes. He works at a place called the China Pit, in the town of Desperation, Nevada. Says he saw Bill and his family, but nothing happened, he just showed them the mine and they went on, nothing happened.
He’s lying. I’ll probably never know why, or what happened out there, but I know that much. He’s lying.
God help me.
Chapter Ten
1
It all happened fast, but Johnny’s half-wonderful, half-terrible ability to see and sequence kept up.
Entragian, dying but too badly hurt to know it, was crawling toward one of the primitive cacti at the left side of the path, his head hanging so low it left a swath of blood on the ground-growth. His skull gleamed between hanging flaps of hair like a bleary pearl. He looked scalped.
In the middle of the path, a bizarre waltz was going on. The creature from the ravine-a sinister Picasso mountain lion with jutting orange teeth-was up on its hind legs, paws on Steve Ames’s shoulders. If Steve had dropped his arms when the cat clawed the puny.22 away from him, he would have been dead already. He had crossed them over his chest instead, however, and now his elbows and forearms were against the cat’s chest.
“Shoot it!” he screamed. “For Christ’s sake, shoot it!”
Neither twin made a move for the dropped pistol. They were not identical twins, but their faces now wore identical expressions of anguish.
The mountain lion (it hurt Johnny’s eyes just to look at it) uttered a womanish shrieking cry and darted its triangular head forward. Steve snapped his own head back and tried to throw the creature off to one side. It held on with its claws and the two of them tangoed drunkenly, the cat’s claws digging deeper into Steve’s shoulders, and now Johnny could see blood-blossoms spreading on his shirt where the claws-as wildly exaggerated as its teeth, only black instead of orange-were dug in. Its tail lashed madly back and forth.
They did another half-turn, and Steve’s feet tangled in each other. For a moment he tottered on the edge of balance, still holding off the lunging mountain lion with his crossed arms. Beyond them, Entragian had reached the cactus. He butted the top of his bleeding and horribly distended head into its spines, then collapsed and rolled over on his side. To Johnny he looked like a machine that has finally run down. Coyotes wailed, still out of sight but closer now; the air was tangy with smoke from the burning house.
“Shoot this fucking thing!” Steve yelled. He had managed to catch his balance, but before long would be all out of backing-up room; he was at the edge of the path. One step into the thorny under-brush, two at most, and he would go over. Then the nightmare would rip his throat out. “Shoot it, please, it’s tearin me apart!”
Johnny had never been so terrified in his life, but he nonetheless discovered that only the first step was actually hard; once the lock on his body was broken, the terror didn’t seem to matter much. After all, the worst thing the creature could do to him was kill him, and dying would at least stop the feeling that an earthquake was going on inside his mind.
He scooped up Entragian’s rifle-considerably larger than the one the cat had ripped out of the longhair’s hands-saw the safety was on, and flicked it the other way with his thumb.
Then he socked the.30-.06’s muzzle aga inst the side of the mountain lion’s bulging head.
“Push!” he bellowed, and Steve pushed. The cat’s head rocked up and away from his throat. Its bristle of teeth shone like poison coral. The sunset light was in its green eyes, making them look as if they were on fire. Johnny had time to wonder if Entragian had chambered a round-he was probably never going to write another Pat the Kitty-Cat book if Entragian hadn’t-then turned his head slightly away and pulled the trigger. There was a satisfying whipcrack sound, a lick of fire from the barrel, and then Johnny could smell frying hair as well as burning house. The mountain lion fell sideways, its head mostly gone, the fur on the back of its neck smoldering. What was inside its lifted skull was not blood, bone, and tissue but fibrous pink stuff that reminded Johnny of the blown-in insulation he’d gotten for the second floor and attic of his new house the year after he’d moved in.
Steve tottered, waving his arms for balance. Marinville reached out a hand, but he was dazed and it was only a token effort. Steve went sprawling in the bushes at the side of the path, beside the mountain lion’s twitching rear paws. Johnny bent down, grabbed his wrist, and hauled. Black spots flocked in front of his eyes, and for one awful second he thought he was going to pass out. Then Steve was on his feet and Johnny’s vision was clearing again.