The Talisman by Stephen King

He was rounding the last curve in the road, going downhill

past the final warehouses. The Talisman called and called, as vocal as the giant’s singing harp in “Jack and the Beanstalk.”

At last Jack came around the curve, and the rest of Point

Venuti lay beneath him.

His Jason-side kept him going. Point Venuti might once

have been a pleasant little resort town, but those days had passed long ago. Now Point Venuti itself was the Oatley tunnel, and he would have to walk through all of it. The cracked, broken surface of the road dipped toward an area of burned-out houses surrounded by Territories trees—the workers in

the empty factories and warehouses would have lived in these small frame houses. Enough was left of one or two of them to show what they had been. The twisted hulks of burned cars

lay here and there about the houses, entwined with thick

weeds. Through the wasted foundations of the little houses, the roots of the Territories trees slowly prowled. Blackened bricks and boards, upended and smashed bathtubs, twisted

pipes littered the burned-out lots. A flash of white caught Jack’s eye, but he looked away as soon as he saw that it was the white bone of a disarranged skeleton hooked beneath the tangle of roots. Once children had piloted bikes through these streets, housewives had gathered in kitchens to complain

about wages and unemployment, men had waxed their cars in

their driveways—all gone, now. A tipped-over swingset, pow-

dery with rust, poked its limbs through rubble and weeds.

Reddish little flares winked on and off in the murky sky.

Below the two-block-square area of burned houses and

feeding trees, a dead stoplight hung over an empty intersection. Across the intersection, the side of a charred building still showed letters reading UH OH! BETTER GET MAA over a

pocked, blistered picture of the front end of a car protruding

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through a plate-glass window. The fire had gone no farther, but Jack wished that it had. Point Venuti was a blighted town; and fire was better than rot. The building with the half-destroyed advertisement for Maaco paint stood first in a row of shops. The Dangerous Planet Bookstore, Tea & Sympathy, Ferdy’s Wholefood Healthstore, Neon Village: Jack could

read only a few of the names of the shops, for above most of them the paint had long ago flaked and curdled off the facades. These shops appeared to be closed, as abandoned as

the factories and warehouses up the hill. Even from where he stood, Jack could see that the plate-glass windows had been broken so long ago they were like empty eyeglass frames,

blank idiot eyes. Smears of paint decorated the fronts of the shops, red and black and yellow, oddly bright and scarlike in the dull gray air. A naked woman, so starved Jack could have counted her ribs, twisted slowly and ceremoniously as a

weathervane in the littered street before the shops. Above her pale body with its drooping breasts and mop of pubic hair,

her face had been painted blazing orange. Orange, too, was

her hair. Jack stopped moving and watched the insane woman

with the painted face and dyed hair raise her arms, twist her upper body as deliberately as one doing a Tai Chi movement, kick her left foot out over the flyblown corpse of a dog, and freeze into position like a statue. An emblem of all Point

Venuti, the madwoman held her posture. Slowly the foot

came down, and the skinny body revolved.

Past the woman, past the row of empty shops, Main Street

turned residential—at least Jack supposed that it had once

been residential. Here, too, bright scars of paint defaced the buildings, tiny two-story houses once bright white, now covered with the slashes of paint and graffiti. One slogan jumped out at him: YOU’RE DEAD NOW, scrawled up the side of an isolated peeling building that had surely once been a boarding house. The words had been there a long time.

JASON, I NEED YOU, the Talisman boomed out at him in

a language both above and beneath speech.

“I can’t,” Richard whispered beside him. “Jack, I know I

can’t.”

After the row of peeling, hopeless-looking houses, the

road dipped again, and Jack could see only the backs of a pair of black Cadillac limousines, one on either side of Main

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Street, parked with their noses pointed downhill, motors running. Like a trick photograph, looking impossibly large, impossibly sinister, the top—half? third?—of the black hotel

reared up over the back ends of the Cadillacs and the despairing little houses. It seemed to float, cut off by the curve of the final hill. “I can’t go in there,” Richard repeated.

“I’m not even sure we can get past those trees,” Jack said.

“Hold your water, Richie.”

Richard uttered an odd, snuffling noise which it took Jack

a second to recognize as the sound of crying. He put his arm over Richard’s shoulder. The hotel owned the landscape—that much was obvious. The black hotel owned Point Venuti, the

air above it, the ground beneath. Looking at it, Jack saw the weathervanes spin in contradictory directions, the turrets and gambrels rise like warts into the gray air. The Agincourt did look as if it were made of stone—thousand-year-old stone,

black as tar. In one of the upper windows, a light suddenly flashed—to Jack, it was as if the hotel had winked at him, secretly amused to find him at last so near. A dim figure seemed to glide away from the window: a second later the reflection of a cloud swam across the glass.

From somewhere inside, the Talisman trilled out its song

only Jack could hear.

3

“I think it grew,” Richard breathed. He had forgotten to

scratch since he had seen the hotel floating past the final hill.

Tears ran over and through the raised red bumps on his

cheeks, and Jack saw that his eyes were now completely en-

cased by the raised rash—Richard didn’t have to squint to

squint anymore. “It’s impossible, but the hotel used to be

smaller, Jack. I’m sure of it.”

“Right now, nothing’s impossible,” Jack said, almost

unnecessarily—they had long ago passed into the realm of the impossible. And the Agincourt was so large, so dominating,

that it was wildly out of scale with the rest of the town.

The architectural extravagance of the black hotel, all the

turrets and brass weathervanes attached to fluted towers, the cupolas and gambrels which should have made it a playful

fantasy, instead made it menacing, nightmarish. It looked as

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though it belonged in some kind of anti-Disneyland where

Donald Duck had strangled Huey, Dewey, and Louie and

Mickey shot Minnie Mouse full of heroin.

“I’m afraid,” Richard said; and JASON COME NOW, sang

out the Talisman.

“Just stick close to me, pal, and we’ll go through that place like grease through a goose.”

JASON COME NOW!

The clump of Territories trees just ahead rustled as Jack

stepped forward.

Richard, frightened, hung back—it might have been, Jack

realized, that Richard was nearly blind by now, deprived of his glasses and with his eyes gradually being squeezed shut. He reached behind him and pulled Richard forward, feeling as he did so how thin Richard’s hand and wrist had become.

Richard came stumbling along. His skinny wrist burned in

Jack’s hand. “Whatever you do, don’t slow down,” Jack said.

“All we have to do is get by them.”

“I can’t,” Richard sobbed.

“Do you want me to carry you? I’m being serious,

Richard. I mean, this could be a lot worse. I bet if we hadn’t blown so many of his troops away back there, he’d have

guards every fifty feet.”

“You couldn’t move fast enough if you carried me. I’d slow

you down.”

What in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing now? went through Jack’s mind, but he said, “Stay on my far side and go like hell, Richie. When I say three. Got it? One . . . two . . .

three!”

He jerked Richard’s arm and began sprinting past the trees.

Richard stumbled, gasped, then managed to right himself and keep on moving without falling down. Geysers of dust appeared at the base of the trees, a commotion of shredding

earth and scrambling things that looked like enormous bee-

tles, shiny as shoe polish. A small brown bird took off out of the weeds near the clump of conspiring trees, and a limber

root like an elephant’s trunk whipped out of the dust and

snatched it from the air.

Another root snaked toward Jack’s left ankle, but fell short.

The mouths in the coarse bark howled and screamed.

(LOVERRR? LOVER BOYYY?)

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Jack clenched his teeth together and tried to force Richard Sloat to fly. The heads of the complicated trees had begun to sway and bow. Whole nests and families of roots were slithering toward the white line, moving as though they had inde-