The Talisman

by Stephen King

  Jack pushed the door open and went in. The heat was soggy and thick. His clothes were soaked at once from sweat and the hot, foggy moisture. The tile-lined room roared and drummed with water. All twenty of the showers had been turned on, and the driving needle-spray from all twenty had been focused on a pile of sports equipment in the middle of the tiled room. The water was able to drain through this crazy pile, but only slowly, and the room was awash. Jack took off his shoes and circled the room, sliding under the showers to keep himself as dry as possible, and also to keep himself from being scalded--whoever had turned on the showers hadn't bothered with the cold faucets, apparently. He turned all of them off, one by one. There was no reason for him to do this, no reason at all, and he scolded himself for wasting time in such a way, when he should be trying to think of a way for them to get out of here--out of Nelson House and off the Thayer School grounds--before the axe fell.

  No reason for it, except that maybe Richard wasn't the only one with a need to create order out of chaos . . . to create order and to maintain it.

  He went back into the hall and Richard was gone.

  "Richard?" He could feel his heartbeat picking up in his chest.

  There was no answer. "Richard!"

  Spilled cologne hung on the air, noxiously heavy.

  "Richard, where the hell are you!"

  Richard's hand fell on Jack's shoulder, and Jack shrieked.

  8

  "I don't know why you had to yell like that," Richard said later. "It was only me."

  "I'm just nervous," Jack said wanly.

  They were sitting in the third-floor room of a boy with the strangely harmonious name of Albert Humbert. Richard told him that Albert Humbert, whose nickname was Albert the Blob, was the fattest boy in school, and Jack could believe it; his room contained an amazing variety of junk food--it was the stash of a kid whose worst nightmare isn't getting cut from the basketball team or flunking a trig test but rather waking up in the night and not being able to find a Ring-Ding or a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. A lot of the stuff had been thrown around. The glass jar containing the Marshmallow Fluff had been broken, but Jack had never been very wild about Marshmallow Fluff, anyway. He also passed on the licorice whips--Albert the Blob had a whole carton of them stashed on the upper shelf of his closet. Written across one of the carton-flaps was Happy birthday, dear, from Your Loving Mom.

  Some Loving Moms send cartons of licorice whips, and some Loving Dads send blazers from Brooks Brothers, Jack thought wearily, and if there's any difference, Jason alone knows what it is.

  They found enough food in the room of Albert the Blob to make a crazy sort of meal--Slim Jims, pepperoni slices, Salt 'n Vinegar potato chips. Now they were finishing up with a package of cookies. Jack had retrieved Albert's chair from the hall and was sitting by the window. Richard was sitting on Albert's bed.

  "Well, you sure are nervous," Richard agreed, shaking his head in refusal when Jack offered him the last cookie. "Paranoid, actually. It comes from spending the last couple of months on the road. You'll be okay once you get home to your mother, Jack."

  "Richard," Jack said, tossing away the empty Famous Amos bag, "let's cut the shit. Do you see what's going on outside on your campus?"

  Richard wet his lips. "I explained that," he said. "I have a fever. Probably none of this is happening at all, and if it is, then perfectly ordinary things are going on and my mind is twisting them, heightening them. That's one possibility. The other is . . . well . . . drug-pushers."

  Richard sat forward on Albert the Blob's bed.

  "You haven't been experimenting with drugs, have you, Jack? While you were on the road?" The old intelligent, incisive light had suddenly rekindled in Richard's eyes. Here's a possible explanation, a possible way out of this madness, his eyes said. Jack has gotten involved in some crazy drug-scam, and all these people have followed him here.

  "No," Jack said wearily. "I always used to think of you as the master of reality, Richard," Jack said. "I never thought I'd live to see you--you!--using your brains to twist the facts."

  "Jack, that's just a . . . a crock, and you know it!"

  "Drug-wars in Springfield, Illinois?" Jack asked. "Who's talking Seabrook Island stuff now?"

  And that was when a rock suddenly crashed in through Albert Humbert's window, spraying glass across the floor.

  33

  Richard in the Dark

  1

  Richard screamed and threw an arm up to shield his face. Glass flew.

  "Send him out, Sloat!"

  Jack got up. Dull fury filled him.

  Richard grabbed his arm. "Jack, no! Stay away from the window!"

  "Fuck that," Jack almost snarled. "I'm tired of being talked about like I was a pizza."

  The Etheridge-thing stood across the road. It was on the sidewalk at the edge of the quad, looking up at them.

  "Get out of here!" Jack shouted at it. A sudden inspiration burst in his head like a sunflare. He hesitated, then bellowed: "I order you out of here! All of you! I order you to leave in the name of my mother, the Queen!"

  The Etheridge-thing flinched as if someone had used a whip to lay a stripe across its face.

  Then the look of pained surprise passed and the Etheridge-thing began to grin. "She's dead, Sawyer!" it shouted up--but Jack's eyes had grown sharper, somehow, in his time on the road, and he saw the expression of twitchy unease under the manufactured triumph. "Queen Laura's dead and your mother's dead, too . . . dead back in New Hampshire . . . dead and stinking."

  "Begone!" Jack bellowed, and he thought that the Etheridge-thing flinched back in baffled fury again.

  Richard had joined him at the window, pallid and distracted. "What are you two yelling about?" he asked. He looked fixedly at the grinning travesty below them and across the way. "How does Etheridge know your mother's in New Hampshire?"

  "Sloat!" the Etheridge-thing yelled up. "Where's your tie?"

  A spasm of guilt contracted Richard's face; his hands jerked toward the open neck of his shirt.

  "We'll let it go this time, if you send out your passenger, Sloat!" the Etheridge-thing yelled up. "If you send him out, everything can go back to the way it was! You want that, don't you?"

  Richard was staring down at the Etheridge-thing, nodding--Jack was sure of it--quite unconsciously. His face was a knotted rag of misery, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been, oh yes.

  "Don't you love this school, Sloat?" the Etheridge-thing bellowed up at Albert's window.

  "Yes," Richard muttered, and gulped down a sob. "Yes, of course I love it."

  "You know what we do to little punks who don't love this school? Give him to us! It'll be like he was never here!"

  Richard turned slowly and looked at Jack with dreadfully blank eyes.

  "You decide, Richie-boy," Jack said softly.

  "He's carrying drugs, Richard!" the Etheridge-thing called up. "Four or five different kinds! Coke, hash, angel-dust! He's been selling all of that stuff to finance his trip west! Where do you think he got that nice coat he was wearing when he showed up on your doorstep?"

  "Drugs," Richard said with great, shuddery relief. "I knew it."

  "But you don't believe it," Jack said. "Drugs didn't change your school, Richard. And the dogs--"

  "Send him out, Sl . . ." the Etheridge-thing's voice was fading, fading.

  When the two boys looked down again, it was gone.

  "Where did your father go, do you think?" Jack asked softly. "Where do you think he went when he didn't come out of the closet, Richard?"

  Richard turned slowly to look at him, and Richard's face, usually so calm and intelligent and serene, now began to shiver into pieces. His chest began to hitch irregularly. Richard suddenly fell into Jack's arms, clutching at him with a blind, panicky urgency. "It t-t-touched muh-me-eeee!" he screamed at Jack. His body trembled under Jack's hands like a winchwire under a near-breaking strain. "It touched me, it t-touched m-me,
something in there t-t-touched me AND I DON'T NUH-NUH-KNOW WHAT IT WAS!"

  2

  With his burning forehead pressed against Jack's shoulder, Richard coughed out the story he had held inside him all these years. It came in hard little chunks, like deformed bullets. As he listened, Jack found himself remembering the time his own father had gone into the garage . . . and had come back two hours later, from around the block. That had been bad, but what had happened to Richard had been a lot worse. It explained Richard's iron, no-compromise insistence on reality, the whole reality, and nothing but the reality. It explained his rejection of any sort of fantasy, even science fiction . . . and, Jack knew from his own school experience, techies like Richard usually ate and drank sf . . . as long as it was the hard stuff, that was, your basic Heinlein, Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Larry Niven--spare us the metaphysical bullshit of the Robert Silverbergs and Barry Malzbergs, please, but we'll read the stuff where they get all the stellar quadrants and logarithms right until it's running out of our ears. Not Richard, though. Richard's dislike of fantasy ran so deep that he would not pick up any novel unless it was an assignment--as a kid, he had let Jack pick out the books he read for free-choice book reports, not caring what they were, chewing them up as if they were cereal. It became a challenge to Jack to find a story--any story--which would please Richard, divert Richard, carry Richard away as good novels and stories sometimes carried Jack away . . . the good ones, he thought, were almost as good as the Daydreams, and each mapped out its own version of the Territories. But he was never able to produce any frisson, any spark, any reaction at all. Whether it was The Red Pony, Dragstrip Demon, The Catcher in the Rye, or I Am Legend, the reaction was always the same--frowning, dull-eyed concentration, followed by a frowning, dull-eyed book report that would earn either a hook or, if his English teacher was feeling particularly generous that day, a B-. Richard's Cs in English were what kept him off the honor roll during the few marking periods when he missed it.

  Jack had finished William Golding's Lord of the Flies, feeling hot and cold and trembly all over--both exalted and frightened, most of all wishing what he always wished when the story was most particularly good--that it didn't have to stop, that it could just roll on and on, the way that life did (only life was always so much more boring and so much more pointless than stories). He knew Richard had a book report due and so he had given him the lap-eared paperback, thinking that this must surely do it, this would turn the trick, Richard must react to the story of these lost boys and their descent into savagery. But Richard had plodded through Lord of the Flies as he had plodded through all the other novels before it, and wrote another book report which contained all the zeal and fire of a hungover pathologist's post-mortem on a traffic accident victim. What is it with you? Jack had burst out, exasperated. What in God's name have you got against a good story, Richard? And Richard had looked at him, flabbergasted, apparently really not understanding Jack's anger. Well, there's really no such thing as a good made-up story, is there? Richard had responded.

  Jack had gone away that day sorely puzzled by Richard's total rejection of make-believe, but he thought he understood better now--better than he really wanted to, perhaps. Perhaps to Richard each opening storybook cover had looked a little like an opening closet door; perhaps each bright paperback cover, illustrating people who never were as if they were perfectly real, reminded Richard of the morning when he had Had Enough, Forever.

  3

  Richard sees his father go into the closet in the big front bedroom, pulling the folding door shut behind him. He is five, maybe . . . or six . . . surely not as old as seven. He waits five minutes, then ten, and when his father still hasn't come out of the closet he begins to be a little frightened. He calls. He calls

  (for his pipe he calls for his bowl he calls for his)

  father and when his father doesn't answer he calls in a louder and louder voice and he goes closer and closer to the closet as he calls and finally, when fifteen minutes have gone by and his father still hasn't come out, Richard pulls the folding door open and goes in. He goes into darkness like a cave.

  And something happens.

  After pushing through the rough tweeds and the smooth cottons and the occasional slick silks of his father's coats and suits and sport jackets, the smell of cloth and mothballs and closed-up dark closet air begins to give way to another smell--a hot, fiery smell. Richard begins to blunder forward, screaming his father's name, he thinking there must be a fire back here and his father may be burning in it, because it smells like a fire . . . and suddenly he realizes that the boards are gone under his feet, and he is standing in black dirt. Weird black insects with clustered eyes on the ends of long stalks are hopping all around his fuzzy slippers. Daddy! he screams. The coats and suits are gone, the floor is gone, but it isn't crisp white snow underfoot; it's stinking black dirt which is apparently the birthing ground for these unpleasant black jumping insects; this place is by no stretch of the imagination Narnia. Other screams answer Richard's scream--screams and mad, demented laughter. Smoke drifts around him on a dark idiot wind and Richard turns, stumbling back the way he came, hands outstretched like the hands of a blind man, feeling frantically for the coats, smelling for the faint, acrid reek of mothballs--

  And suddenly a hand slithers around his wrist.

  Daddy? he asks, but when he looks down he sees not a human hand but a scaly green thing covered with writhing suckers, a green thing attached to a long, rubbery arm which stretches off into the darkness and toward a pair of yellow, upslanted eyes that stare at him with flat hunger.

  Screeching, he tears free and flings himself blindly into the black . . . and just as his groping fingers find his father's sport coats and suits again, as he hears the blessed, rational sound of jangling coathangers, that green, sucker-lined hand waltzes dryly across the back of his neck again . . . and is gone.

  He waits, trembling, as pallid as day-old ashes in a cold stove, for three hours outside that damned closet, afraid to go back in, afraid of the green hand and the yellow eyes, more and more sure that his father must be dead. And when his father comes back into the room near the end of the fourth hour, not from the closet but from the door which communicates between the bedroom and the upstairs hall--the door BEHIND Richard--when that happens, Richard rejects fantasy for good and all; Richard negates fantasy; Richard refuses to deal with fantasy, or treat with it, or compromise with it. He has, quite simply, Had Enough, Forever. He jumps up, runs to his father, to the beloved Morgan Sloat, and hugs him so tightly that his arms will be sore all that week. Morgan lifts him up, laughs, and asks him why he looks so pale. Richard smiles, and tells him that it was probably something he ate for breakfast, but he feels better now, and he kisses his father's cheek, and smells the beloved smell of mingled sweat and Raj cologne. And later that day, he takes all of his storybooks--the Little Golden Books, the pop-up books, the I-Can-Read books, the Dr. Seuss books, the Green Fairy Book for Young Folks, and he puts them in a carton, and he puts the carton down in the basement, and he thinks: "I would not care if an earthquake came now and opened a crack in the floor and swallowed up every one of those books. In fact, it would be a relief. In fact, it would be such a relief that I would probably laugh all day and most of the weekend." This does not happen, but Richard feels a great relief when the books are shut in double darkness--the darkness of the carton and the darkness of the cellar. He never looks at them again, just as he never goes in his father's closet with the folding door again, and although he sometimes dreams that there is something under his bed or in his closet, something with flat yellow eyes, he never thinks about that green, sucker-covered hand again until the strange time comes to Thayer School and he bursts into unaccustomed tears in his friend Jack Sawyer's arms.

  He has Had Enough, Forever.

  4

  Jack had hoped that with the telling of his story and the passing of his tears, Richard would return--more or less--to his normal, sharply rational self. Jack didn't re
ally care if Richard bought the whole nine yards or not; if Richard could just reconcile himself to accepting the leading edge of this craziness, he could turn his formidable mind to helping Jack find a way out . . . a way off the Thayer campus, anyway, and out of Richard's life before Richard went totally bananas.

  But it didn't work that way. When Jack tried to talk to him--to tell Richard about the time his own father, Phil, had gone into the garage and hadn't come out--Richard refused to listen. The old secret of what had happened that day in the closet was out (sort of; Richard still clung stubbornly to the idea that it had been a hallucination), but Richard had still Had Enough, Forever.

  The next morning, Jack went downstairs. He got all of his own things and those things he thought Richard might want--toothbrush, textbooks, notebooks, a fresh change of clothes. They would spend that day in Albert the Blob's room, he decided. They could keep an eye on the quad and the gate from up there. When night fell again, maybe they could get away.

  5

  Jack hunted through Albert's desk and found a bottle of baby aspirin. He looked at this for a moment, thinking that these little orange pills said almost as much about the departed Albert's Loving Mom as the carton of licorice whips on the closet shelf. Jack shook out half a dozen pills. He gave them to Richard and Richard took them absently. "Come on over here and lie down," Jack said.

  "No," Richard answered--his tone was cross and restless and terribly unhappy. He returned to the window. "I ought to keep a watch. So a full report can be made to . . . to . . . to the trustees. Later."

  Jack touched Richard's brow lightly. And although it was cool--almost chilly--he said: "Your fever's worse, Richard. Better lie down until that aspirin goes to work."

  "Worse?" Richard looked at him with pathetic gratitude. "Is it?"

  "It is," Jack said gravely. "Come on and lie down."

  Richard was asleep five minutes after he lay down. Jack sat in Albert the Blob's easy chair, its seat nearly as sprung as the middle of Albert's mattress. Richard's pale face glowed waxily in the growing daylight.