sk.everythingseventual-第9章

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rs　poking　into　your　stomach；　you　don't　know　what　I　mean。
　　Two　weeks　or　so　after　my　close　call；　a　woman　on　Dupont　Street　called　the　Derry　Police　to　plain　of　a　'foul　stink'　ing　from　the　house　next　door。　That　house　belonged　to　a　bachelor　bank　clerk　named　Walter　Kerr。　Police　found　the　house　empty　。　。　。　of　human　life；　that　is。　They　found　over　sixty　snakes　of　different　varieties。　About　half　of　them　were　dead…starvation　and　dehydration…but　many　were　extremely　lively　。　。　。　and　extremely　dangerous。　Several　were　very　rare；　and　one　was　of　a　species　believed　to　have　been　extinct　since　mid…century；　according　to　consulting　herpetologists。
　　Kerr　failed　to　show　up　for　work　at　Derry　munity　Bank　on　August　22nd；　two　days　after　I　was　bitten；　one　day　after　the　story　（PARALYZED　MAN　ESCAPES　DEADLY　AUTOPSY；　the　headline　read；　at　one　point　I　was　quoted　as　saying　I　had　been　'scared　stiff'）　broke　in　the　press。
　　There　was　a　snake　for　every　cage　in　Kerr's　basement　menagerie；　except　for　one。　The　empty　cage　was　unmarked；　and　the　snake　that　popped　out　of　my　golf　bag　（the　ambulance　orderlies　had　packed　it　in　with　my　'corpse'　and　had　been　practicing　chip　shots　out　in　the　ambulance　parking　area）　was　never　found。　The　toxin　in　my　bloodstream…the　same　toxin　found　to　a　far　lesser　degree　in　orderly　Mike　Hopper's　bloodstream…was　documented　but　never　identified。　I　have　looked　at　a　great　many　pictures　of　snakes　in　the　last　year；　and　have　found　at　least　one　that　has　reportedly　caused　cases　of　full…body　paralysis　in　humans。　This　is　the　Peruvian　boomslang；　a　nasty　viper　that　has　supposedly　been　extinct　since　the　1920s。　Dupont　Street　is　less　than　half　a　mile　from　the　Derry　Municipal　Golf　Course。　Most　of　the　intervening　land　consists　of　scrub　woods　and　vacant　lots。
　　One　final　note。　Katie　Arlen　and　I　dated　for　four　months；　November　1994　through　February　of　1995。　We　broke　it　off　by　mutual　consent；　due　to　sexual　inpatibility。
　　I　was　impotent　unless　she　was　wearing　rubber　gloves。
　　
　　
　　At　some　point　I　think　every　writer　of　scary　stories　has　to　tackle　the　subject　of　premature　burial；　if　only　because　it　seems　to　be　such　a　pervasive　fear。　When　I　was　a　kid　of　seven　or　so；　the　scariest　TV　program　going　was　Alfred　Hitchcock　Presents；　and　the　scariest　AHP…my　friends　and　I　were　in　total　agreement　on　this…was　the　one　starring　Joseph　Gotten　as　a　man　who　has　been　injured　in　a　car　accident。　Injured　so　badly；　in　fact；　that　the　doctors　think　he's　dead。　They　can't　even　find　a　heartbeat。　They　are　on　the　verge　of　doing　a　postmortem　on　him…cutting　him　up　while　he's　still　alive　and　screaming　inside；　in　other　words…when　he　produces　one　single　tear　to　let　them　know　he's　still　alive。　That　was　touching；　but　touching　isn't　in　my　usual　repertoire。　When　my　own　thoughts　turned　to　this　subject；　a　more…shall　we　say　modern？…method　of　municating　liveliness　occurred　to　me；　and　this　story　was　the　result。　One　final　note；　regarding　the　snake：　I　doubt　like　hell　if　there's　any　such　reptile　as　a　Peruvian　boomslang；　but　in　one　of　her　Miss　Marple　capers；　Dame　Agatha　Christie　does　mention　an　African　boomslang。　I　just　liked　the　word　so　much　（boomslang；　not　African；）　I　had　to　put　it　in　this　story。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　MAN　IN　THE　BLACK　SUIT
　　
　　
　　I　am　now　a　very　old　man　and　this　is　something　which　happened　to　me　when　I　was　very　young…only　nine　years　old。　It　was　1914；　the　summer　after　my　brother　Dan　died　in　the　west　field　and　three　years　before　America　got　into　World　War　I。　I've　never　told　anyone　about　what　happened　at　the　fork　in　the　stream　that　day；　and　I　never　will　。　。　。　at　least　not　with　my　mouth。　I've　decided　to　write　it　down；　though；　in　this　book　which　I　will　leave　on　the　table　beside　my　bed。　I　can't　write　long；　because　my　hands　shake　so　these　days　and　I　have　next　to　no　strength；　but　I　don't　think　it　will　take　long。
　　Later；　someone　may　find　what　I　have　written。　That　seems　likely　to　me；　as　it　is　pretty　much　human　nature　to　look　in　a　book　marked　DIARY　after　its　owner　has　passed　along。　So　yes…my　words　will　probably　be　read。　A　better　question　is　whether　or　not　anyone　will　believe　them。　Almost　certainly　not；　but　that　doesn't　matter。　It's　not　belief　I'm　interested　in　but　freedom。　Writing　can　give　that；　I've　found。　For　twenty　years　I　wrote　a　column　called　'Long　Ago　and　Far　Away'　for　the　Castle　Rock　Call；　and　I　know　that　sometimes　it　works　that　way…what　you　write　down　sometimes　leaves　you　forever；　like　old　photographs　left　in　the　bright　sun；　fading　to　nothing　but　white。
　　I　pray　for　that　sort　of　release。
　　A　man　in　his　nineties　should　be　well　past　the　terrors　of　childhood；　but　as　my　infirmities　slowly　creep　up　on　me；　like　waves　licking　closer　and　closer　to　some　indifferently　built　castle　of　sand；　that　terrible　face　grows　clearer　and　clearer　in　my　mind's　eye。　It　glows　like　a　dark　star　in　the　constellations　of　my　childhood。　What　I　might　have　done　yesterday；　who　I　might　have　seen　here　in　my　room　at　the　nursing　home；　what　I　might　have　said　to　them　or　they　to　me　。　。　。　those　things　are　gone；　but　the　face　of　the　man　in　the　black　suit　grows　ever　clearer；　ever　closer；　and　I　remember　every　word　he　said。　I　don't　want　to　think　of　him　but　I　can't　help　it；　and　sometimes　at　night　my　old　heart　beats　so　hard　and　so　fast　I　think　it　will　tear　itself　right　clear　of　my　chest。　So　I　uncap　my　fountain　pen　and　force　my　trembling　old　hand　to　write　this　pointless　anecdote　in　the　diary　one　of　my　great…grandchildren…I　can't　remember　her　name　for　sure；　at　least　not　right　now；　but　I　know　it　starts　with　an　S…gave　to　me　last　Christmas；　and　which　I　have　never　written　in　until　now。　Now　I　will　write　in　it。　I　will　write　the　story　of　how　I　met　the　man　in　the　black　suit　on　the　bank　of　Castle　Stream　one　afternoon　in　the　summer　of　1914。
　　
　　The　town　of　Motton　was　a　different　world　in　those　days…more　different　than　I　could　ever　tell　you。　That　was　a　world　without　airplanes　droning　overhead；　a　world　almost　without　cars　and　trucks；　a　world　where　the　skies　were　not　cut　into　lanes　and　slices　by　overhead　power　lines。
　　There　was　not　a　single　paved　road　in　the　whole　town；　and　the　business　district　consisted　of　nothing　but　Corson's　General　Store；　Thut's　Livery　&　Hardware；　the　Methodist　Church　at　Christ's　Corner；　the　school；　the　town　hall；　and　Harry's　Restaurant　half　a　mile　down　from　there；　which　my　mother　called；　with　unfailing　disdain；　'the　liquor　house。'
　　Mostly；　though；　the　difference　was　in　how　people　lived…how　apart　they　were。　I'm　not　sure　people　born　after　the　middle　of　the　twentieth　century　could　quite　credit　that；　although　they　might　say　they　could；　to　be　polite　to　old　folks　like　me。　There　were　no　phones　in　western　Maine　back　then；　for　one　thing。　The　first　one　wouldn't　be　installed　for　another　five　years；　and　by　the　time　there　was　one　in　our　house；　I　was　nineteen　and　going　to　college　at　the　University　of　Maine　in　Orono。
　　But　that　is　only　the　roof　of　the　thing。　There　was　no　doctor　closer　than　Casco；　and　no　more　than　a　dozen　houses　in　what　you　would　call　town。　There　were　no　neighborhoods　（I'm　not　even　sure　we　knew　the　word；　although　we　had　a　verb…neighboring…that　described　church　functions　and　barn　dances）；　and　open　fields　were　the　exception　rather　than　the　rule。　Out　of　town　the　houses　were　farms　that　stood　far　apart　from　each　other；　and　from　December　until　middle　March　we　mostly　hunkered　down　in　the　little　pockets　of　stovewarmth　we　called　families。　We　hunkered　and　listened　to　the　wind　in　the　chimney　and　hoped　no　one　would　get　sick　or　break　a　leg　or　get　a　headful　of　bad　ideas；　like　the　farmer　over　in　Castle　Rock　who　had　chopped　up　his　wife　and　kids　three　winters　before　and　then　said　in　court　that　the　ghosts　made　him　do　it。　In　those　days　before　the　Great　War；　most　of　Motton　was　woods　and　bog；　dark　long　places　full　of　moose　and　mosquitoes；　snakes　and　secrets。　In　those　days　there　were　ghosts　everywhere。
　　
　　This　thing　I'm　telling　about　happened　on　a　Saturday。　My　father　gave　me　a　whole　list　of　chores　to　do；　including　some　that　would　have　been　Dan's；　if　he'd　still　been　alive。　He　was　my　only　brother；　and　he'd　died　of　being　stung　by　a　bee。　A　year　had　gone　by；　and　still　my　mother　wouldn't　hear　that。　She　said　it　was　something　else；　had　to　have　been；　that　no　one　ever　died　of　being　stung　by　a　bee。　When　Mama