Nightmares and Dreamscapes

by Stephen King

  "Nope," Trent said. They looked at him hopefully but dubiously. Lew had, after all, promised spankings; even Trent was not to be spared this painful indignity.

  "But, Trent--" Lissa began.

  "Listen to me," Trent said, pulling a chair out from the table and sitting on it backward in front of the two little ones. "Listen carefully, and don't you miss a single word. It's important, and none of us can screw up."

  They stared at him silently with their big green-blue eyes.

  "As soon as school is out, I want you two to come right home. . . but only as far as the corner. The corner of Maple and Walnut. Have you got that?"

  "Ye-ess," Lissa said hesitantly. "But why, Trent?"

  "Never mind," Trent said. His own eyes--also green-blue--were sparkling, but Laurie thought it wasn't a good-humored sparkle; she thought, in fact, that there was something dangerous about it. "Just be there. Stand by the mailbox. You have to be there by three o'clock, three-fifteen at the latest. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," Brian said, speaking for both of them. "We got it."

  "Laurie and I will already be there, or we'll be there right after you get there."

  "How are we going to do that, Trent?" Laurie asked. "We don't even get out of school until three o'clock, and I have band practice, and the bus takes--"

  "We're not going to school today," Trent said.

  "No?" Laurie was nonplussed.

  Lissa was horrified. "Trent!" she said. "You can't do that! That's . . . that's . . . hookey!"

  "And about time, too," Trent said grimly. "Now you two get ready for school. Just remember, the corner of Maple and Walnut at three o'clock, three-fifteen at the absolute latest. And whatever you do, don't come all the way home." He stared at Brian and Lissa so fiercely that they looked back with frightened dismay, drawing together for mutual comfort once again. Even Laurie was frightened. "Wait for us, but don't you dare come back into this house," he said. "Not for anything."

  *

  When the little kids were gone, Laurie seized his shirt and demanded to know what was going on.

  "It has something to do with what's growing in the house, I know it does, and if you want me to play hookey and help you, you better tell me what it is, Trent Bradbury!"

  "Mellow out, I'll tell you," Trent said. He carefully removed his shirt from Laurie's tight grip. "And quiet down. I don't want you to wake up Mom. She'll make us go to school, and that's no good."

  "Well, what is it? Tell me!"

  "Come on downstairs," Trent said. "I want to show you something."

  He led her downstairs to the wine-cellar.

  *

  Trent wasn't completely sure Laurie would ride along with what he had in mind--it seemed awfully . . . well, final . . . even to him--but she did. If it had just been a matter of enduring a spanking from "Daddy Lew," he didn't think she would have, but Laurie had been as deeply affected by the sight of her mother lying senseless on the living-room floor as Trent had been by his stepfather's unfeeling reaction to it.

  "Yeah," Laurie said bleakly. "I think we have to." She was looking at the blinking numbers on the arm of the chair. They now read

  07:49:21.

  The wine-cellar was no longer a wine-cellar at all. It stank of wine, true enough, and there were the piles of shattered green glass on the floor amid the twisted ruins of their father's wine-racks, but it now looked like a madman's version of the control-bridge on the Starship Enterprise. Dials whirled. Digital read-outs flickered, changed, flickered again. Lights blinked and flashed.

  "Yeah," Trent said. "I think so, too. That son of a bitch, shouting at her like that!"

  "Trent, don't."

  "He's a jerk! A bastard! A dickhead!"

  But this was just a foul-mouthed version of whistling past the graveyard, and both of them knew it. Looking at the strange agglomeration of instruments and controls made Trent feel almost sick with doubt and unease. He was reminded of a book his dad had read him when he was a child, a Mercer Mayer story where a creature called a Stamp-Eating Trollusk had popped a little girl into an envelope and mailed her To Whom It May Concern. Wasn't that pretty much what he was proposing they do to Lew Evans?

  "If we don't do something, he'll kill her," Laurie said in a low voice.

  "Huh?" Trent whipped his head around so fast it hurt his neck, but Laurie wasn't looking at him. She was looking at the red numbers of the countdown. They reflected backward off the lenses of the spectacles she wore on schooldays. She seemed almost hypnotized, unaware Trent was looking at her, perhaps even unaware that he was there.

  "Not on purpose," she said. "He might even be sad. For awhile, anyway. Because I think he does love her, sort of, and she loves him. You know--sort of. But he'll make her worse and worse. She'll get sick all the time, and then . . . one day . . ."

  She broke off and looked at him, and something in her face scared Trent worse than anything in their strange, changing, sneaking house had been able to do.

  "Tell me, Trent," she said. Her hand grasped his arm. It was very cold. "Tell me how we're going to do it."

  *

  They went up to Lew's study together. Trent was prepared to ransack the place if that was what it took, but they found the key in the top drawer, tucked neatly into an envelope with the word STUDY printed on it in Lew's small, neat, somehow hemorrhoidal printing. Trent pocketed it. They left the house together just as the shower on the second floor went on, meaning their mom was up.

  They spent the day in the park. Although neither of them spoke of it, it was the longest day either of them had ever lived through. Twice they saw the beat-cop and hid in the public toilets until he was gone. This was no time to be caught playing truant and bundled off to school.

  At two-thirty, Trent gave Laurie a quarter and walked her to the phone booth on the east side of the park.

  "Do I have to?" she asked. "I hate to scare her, especially after last night."

  "Do you want her in the house when whatever happens, happens?" Trent asked. Laurie dropped the quarter into the telephone with no further protest.

  It rang so many times that she became sure their mother had gone out. That might be good, but it might also be bad. It was certainly worrisome. If she was out it was entirely possible that she might come back before--

  "Trent I don't think she's h--"

  "Hello?" Mrs. Evans said in a sleepy voice.

  "Oh, hi, Mom," Laurie said. "I didn't think you were there."

  "I went back to bed," she said with an embarrassed little laugh. "I can't seem to get enough sleep, all of a sudden. I suppose if I'm asleep I can't think about how horrible I was last night--"

  "Oh, Mom, you weren't horrible. When a person faints, it isn't because she wants to--"

  "Laurie, why are you calling? Is everything okay?"

  "Sure, Mom . . . well . . ."

  Trent poked her in the ribs. Hard.

  Laurie, who had been slumping (growing smaller, it almost seemed), straightened up in a hurry. "I hurt myself in gym. Just. . . you know, a little. It's not bad."

  "What did you do? Jesus, you're not calling from the hospital, are you?"

  "Gosh, no," Laurie said hastily. "It's just a sprained knee. Mrs. Kitt asked if you could come and bring me home early. I don't know if I can walk on it. It really hurts."

  "I'll come right away. Try not to move it at all, honey. You could have torn a ligament. Is the nurse there?"

  "Not right now. Don't worry, Mom, I'll be careful."

  "Will you be in the nurse's office?"

  "Yes," Laurie said. Her face was as red as the side of Brian's Radio Flyer wagon.

  "I'll be right there."

  "Thanks, Mom. Bye."

  She hung up and looked at Trent. She drew in a deep breath and then let it out in a long, trembly sigh.

  "That was fun," she said in a voice which was close to tears.

  He hugged her tight. "You did great," he said. "Lots better than I could have, Spr--Laurie. I'm not sure she would h
ave believed me."

  "I wonder if she'll ever believe me again?" Laurie asked bitterly.

  "She will," Trent said. "Come on."

  They went over to the west side of the park, where they could watch Walnut Street. The day had turned cold and dim. Thunderheads were forming overhead, and a chilly wind was blowing. They waited for five endless minutes and then their mother's Subaru passed them, heading rapidly toward Greendowne Middle School, where Trent and Laurie went . . . where we go when we're not playing hookey, that is, Laurie thought.

  "She's really humming," Trent said. "I hope she doesn't get into an accident, or something."

  "Too late to worry about that now. Come on." Laurie had Trent's hand and was pulling him back to the telephone kiosk again. "You get to call Lew, you lucky devil."

  He put in another quarter and punched the number of the History Department office, referring to a card he had taken from his wallet. He had barely slept a wink the night before, but now that things were set in motion, he found himself cool and calm. . . so cool, in fact, that he was almost refrigerated. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to three. Less than an hour to go. Thunder rumbled faintly in the west.

  "History Department," a woman's voice said.

  "Hi. This is Trent Bradbury. I need to speak with my stepfather, Lewis Evans, please."

  "Professor Evans is in class," the secretary said, "but he'll be out at--"

  "I know, he's got Modern British History until three-thirty. But you better get him, just the same. It's an emergency. It concerns his wife." A pointed, calculated pause, and then he added: "My mom."

  There was a long pause, and Trent felt a moment of faint alarm. It was as if she were thinking of refusing or dismissing him, emergency or no emergency, and that was most definitely not in the plan.

  "He's in Oglethorpe, right next door," she said finally. "I'll get him myself. I'll have him call home as soon as--"

  "No, I have to hold on," Trent said.

  "But--"

  "Please, will you just stop goofing with me and go get him?" he asked, allowing a ragged, harried note into his voice. It wasn't hard.

  "All right," the secretary said. It was impossible to tell if she was more disgruntled or worried. "If you could tell me the nature of the--"

  "No," Trent said.

  There was an offended sniff, and then he was on hold.

  "Well?" Laurie asked. She was dancing from foot to foot like someone who needs to go to the bathroom.

  "I'm on hold. They're getting him."

  "What if he doesn't come?"

  Trent shrugged. "Then we're sunk. But he'll come. You wait and see." He wished he could be as confident as he sounded, but he did still believe this would work. It had to work.

  "We left it until awful late."

  Trent nodded. They had left it until awful late, and Laurie knew why. The study door was solid oak, plenty strong, but neither of them knew anything about the lock. Trent wanted to make sure Lew had only the shortest time possible to test it.

  "What if he sees Brian and Lissie on the corner when he comes home?"

  "If he gets as hot under the collar as I think he will, he wouldn't notice them if they were on stilts and wearing Day-Glo duncecaps," Trent said.

  "Why doesn't he answer the darn phone?" Laurie asked, looking at her watch.

  "He will," Trent said, and then their stepfather did.

  "Hello?"

  "It's Trent, Lew. Mom's in your study. Her headache must have come back, because she fainted. I can't wake her up. You better come home right away."

  Trent was not surprised at his stepfather's first stated object of concern--it was, in fact, an integral part of his plan--but it still made him so angry his fingers turned white on the telephone.

  "My study? My study? What the hell was she doing in there?"

  In spite of his anger, Trent's voice came out calmly. "Cleaning, I think." And then tossed the ultimate bait to a man who cared a great deal more for work than wife: "There are papers all over the floor."

  "I'll be right there," Lew rapped, and then added: "If there are any windows open in there, shut them, for God's sake. There's a storm coming." He hung up without saying goodbye.

  "Well?" Laurie asked as Trent hung up.

  "He's on his way," Trent said, and laughed grimly. "The son of a bitch was so stirred up he didn't even ask what I was doing home from school. Come on."

  They ran back to the intersection of Maple and Walnut. The sky had grown very dark now, and the sound of thunder had become almost constant. As they reached the blue U.S. mailbox on the corner, the streetlights along Maple Street began to come on two by two, marching away from them up the hill.

  Lissa and Brian hadn't arrived yet.

  "I want to come with you, Trent," Laurie said, but her face proclaimed her a liar. It was very pale, and her eyes were too large, swimming with unshed tears.

  "No way," Trent said. "Wait here for Brian and Lissa."

  At their names, Laurie turned and looked down Walnut Street. She saw two kids coming, hurrying along with lunchboxes bouncing in their hands. Although they were too far away to make out faces, she was pretty sure it was them, and she told Trent.

  "Good. The three of you go behind Mrs. Redland's hedge there and wait for Lew to pass. Then you can come up the street, but don't go in the house and don't let them, either. Wait for me outside."

  "I'm afraid, Trent." The tears had begun to spill down her cheeks now.

  "Me too, Sprat," he said, and kissed her swiftly on the forehead. "But it'll all be over soon."

  Before she could say anything else, Trent went running up the street toward the Bradburys' house on Maple Street. He glanced at his watch as he ran. It was twelve past three.

  *

  The house had a still, hot air that scared him. It was as if gunpowder had been spilled in every corner, and people he could not see were standing by to light unseen fuses. He imagined the clock in the wine-cellar ticking relentlessly away, now reading

  00:19:06.

  What if Lew was late?

  No time to worry about that now.

  Trent raced up to the third floor through the still, combustible air. He imagined he could feel the house stirring now, coming alive as the countdown neared its conclusion. He tried to tell himself that imagination was all it was, but part of him knew better.

  He went into Lew's study, opened two or three file-cabinets and desk drawers at random, and threw the papers he found all over the floor. This took only a few moments, but he was just finishing when he heard the Porsche coming up the street. Its engine wasn't snarling today; Lew had wound it up to a scream.

  Trent stepped out of the office and into the shadows of the third-floor hallway, where they had drilled the first holes what seemed like a century ago. He rammed his hand into his pocket for the key, and his pocket was empty except for an old, crumpled lunch-ticket.

  I must have lost it running up the street. It must have bounced right out of my pocket.

  He stood there, sweating and frozen, as the Porsche squealed into the driveway. Its engine cut out. The driver's door opened and slammed shut. Lew's footsteps ran for the back door. Thunder crumped like an artillery shell in the sky, a stroke of bright lightning forked through the gloom, and, somewhere deep in the house, a powerful motor turned over, uttered a low, muffled bark, and then began to hum.

  Jesus, oh dear Jesus, what do I do? What CAN I do? He's bigger than me! If I try to hit him over the head, he'll--

  He had slipped his left hand into his other pocket, and his thoughts broke off as it touched the old-fashioned metal teeth of the key. At some point during the long afternoon in the park, he must have transferred it from one pocket to the other without even being aware of it.

  Gasping, heart galloping in his stomach and throat as well as in his chest, Trent faded back down the hall to the luggage-closet, stepped inside, and pulled the accordion-style doors most of the way shut in front of him.

  Lew was galumphin
g up the stairs, bawling his wife's name over and over at the top of his voice. Trent saw him appear, hair standing up in spikes (he must have been running a hand through it as he drove), his tie askew, big drops of sweat standing out on his broad, intelligent forehead, eyes squinted down to furious little slits.

  "Catherine!" he bawled, and ran down the hall into the office.

  Before he could even get all the way in, Trent was out of the luggage-closet and running soundlessly back down the hall. He would have just one chance. If he missed the keyhole . . . if the tumblers failed to turn at the first twist of the key . . .

  If either of those things happens, I'll fight with him, he had time to think. If I can't send him alone, I'll make damn sure to take him with me.

  He grabbed the door and banged it shut so hard that a little film of dust shot out of the cracks between the hinges. He caught one glimpse of Lew's startled face. Then the key was in the lock. He twisted it, and the bolt shot across an instant before Lew struck the door.

  "Hey!" Lew shouted. "Hey, you little bastard, what are you doing? Where's Catherine? Let me out of here!"

  The knob twisted fruitlessly back and forth. Then it stopped, and Lew rained a fusillade of blows on the door.

  "Let me out of here right now Trent Bradbury before you get the worst beating of your goddamned life!"

  Trent backed slowly across the hall. When his shoulders struck the far wall, he gasped. The key to the study, which he had removed from the keyhole without even thinking about it, dropped from his fingers and thumped to the faded hall-runner between his feet. Now that it was done, reaction set in. The world began to look wavery, as if he were under water, and he had to fight to keep from fainting himself. Only now, with Lew locked in, his mother sent off on a wild-goose chase, and the other kids safely tucked away behind Mrs. Redland's overgrown yew hedge, did he realize that he had never really expected it would work at all. If "Daddy Lew" was surprised to find himself locked in, Trent Bradbury was absolutely amazed.

  The doorknob of the study twisted back and forth in short sharp half-circles.

  "LET ME OUT, GODDAMMIT!"

  "I'll let you out at quarter of four, Lew," Trent said in an uneven, trembling voice, and then a little giggle escaped him. "If you're still here at quarter of four, that is."