by Stephen King
"Come here, boy," Gramma called in a dead buzzing voice. "Come in here -- Gramma wants to hug you."
George tried to scream and no sound came out. No sound at all. But there were sounds in the other room. Sounds that he heard when Mom was in there, giving Gramma her bed-bath, lifting her bulk, dropping it, turning it, dropping it again.
Only those sounds now seemed to have a slightly different and yet utterly specific meaning -- it sounded as though Gramma was trying to... to get out of bed.
' 'Boy! Come in here, boy! Right NOW! Step to it!'' With horror he saw that his feet were answering that command. He told them to stop and they just went on, left foot, right foot, hay foot, straw foot, over the linoleum; his brain was a terrified prisoner inside his body -- a hostage in a tower. She IS a witch, she's a witch and she's having one of her "bad spells," oh yeah, it's a "spell" all right, and it's bad, it's REALLY bad, oh God oh Jesus help me help me help me --
George walked across the kitchen and through the entryway
and into Gramma's room and yes, she hadn't just tried to get
out of bed, she was out, she was sitting in the white vinyl
chair where she hadn't sat for four years, since she got too
heavy to walk and too senile to know where she was, anyway.
But Gramma didn't look senile now.
Her face was sagging and doughy, but the senility was
gone -- if it had ever really been there at all, and not just a
mask she wore to lull small boys and tired husbandless women.
Now Gramma's face gleamed with fell intelligence -- it gleamed like an old, stinking wax candle. Her eyes drooped in her face, lackluster and dead. Her chest was not moving. Her nightie had pulled up, exposing elephantine thighs. The coverlet of her deathbed was thrown back.
Gramma held her huge arms out to him.
"I want to hug you, Georgie," that flat and buzzing deadvoice said. "Don't be a scared old crybaby. Let your Gramma hug you."
George cringed back, trying to resist that almost insurmountable pull. Outside, the wind shrieked and roared. George's face was long and twisted with the extremity of his fright; the face of a woodcut caught and shut up in an ancient book.
George began to walk toward her. He couldn't help himself. Step by dragging step toward those outstretched arms. He would show Buddy that he wasn't scared of Gramma, either. He would go to Gramma and be hugged because he wasn't a crybaby fraidycat. He would go to Gramma now.
He was almost within the circle of her arms when the window to his left crashed inward and suddenly a wind-blown branch was in the room with them, autumn leaves still clinging to it. The river of wind flooded the room, blowing over Gramma's pictures, whipping her nightgown and her hair.
Now George could scream. He stumbled backward out of her grip and Gramma made a cheated hissing sound, her lips pulling back over smooth old gums; her thick, wrinkled hands clapped uselessly together on moving air.
George's feet tangled together and he fell down. Gramma began to rise from the white vinyl chair, a tottering pile of flesh; she began to stagger toward him. George found he couldn't get up; the strength had deserted his legs. He began to crawl backward, whimpering. Gramma came on, slowly but relentlessly, dead and yet alive, and suddenly George understood what the hug would mean; the puzzle was complete in his mind and somehow he found his feet just as Gramma's hand closed on his shirt. It ripped up the side, and for one moment he felt her cold flesh against his skin before fleeing into the kitchen again.
He would run into the night. Anything other than being hugged by the witch, his Gramma. Because when his mother came back she would find Gramma dead and George alive, oh yes... but George would have developed a sudden taste for herbal tea.
He looked back over his shoulder and saw Gramma's grotesque, misshapen shadow rising on the wall as she came through the entry way.
And at that moment the telephone rang, shrilly and stridently.
George seized it without even thinking and screamed into it; screamed for someone to come, to please come. He screamed these things silently; not a sound escaped his locked throat.
Gramma tottered into the kitchen in her pink nightie. Her whitish-yellow hair blew wildly around her face, and one of her hom combs hung askew against her wrinkled neck.
Gramma was grinning.
"Ruth?" It was Aunt Flo's voice, almost lost in the whistling windtunnel of a bad long-distance connection. "Ruth, are you there?" It was Aunt Flo in Minnesota, over two thousand miles away.
"Help me.'" George screamed into the phone, and what came out was a tiny, hissing whistle, as if he had blown into a harmonica full of dead reeds.
Gramma tottered across the linoleum, holding her arms out for him. Her hands snapped shut and then open and then shut again. Gramma wanted her hug; she had been waiting for that hug for five years.
"Ruth, can you hear me? It's been storming here, it just started, and I... I got scared. Ruth, I can't hear you -- "
"Gramma," George moaned into the telephone. Now she was almost upon him.
"George?" Aunt Flo's voice suddenly sharpened; became almost a shriek. "George, is that you?"
He began to back away from Gramma, and suddenly realized that he had stupidly backed away from the door and into the corner formed by the kitchen cabinets and the sink. The horror was complete. As her shadow fell over him, the paralysis broke and he screamed into the phone, screamed it over and over again: ' 'Gramma! Gramma! Gramma!''
Gramma's cold hands touched his throat. Her muddy, ancient eyes locked on his, draining his will.
Faintly, dimly, as if across many years as well as many miles, he heard Aunt Flo say: "Tell her to lie down, George, tell her to lie down and be still. Tell her she must do it in your name and the name of her father. The name of her taken father is Hastur. His name is power in her ear, George -- tell her Lie down in the Name of Hastur -- tell her -- ''
The old, wrinkled hand tore the telephone from George's nerveless grip. There was a taut pop as the cord pulled out of the phone. George collapsed in the corner and Gramma bent down, a huge heap of flesh above him, blotting out the light.
George screamed: "Lie down! Be still! Hastur's name! Hastur! Lie down! Be still!''
Her hands closed around his neck --
"You gotta do it! Aunt Flo said~you did! In my name! In your Father's name! Lie down! Be sti -- "
-- and squeezed.
When the lights finally splashed into the driveway an hour later, George was sitting at the table in front of his unread history book. He got up and walked to the back door and opened it. To his left, the Princess phone hung in its cradle, its useless cord looped around it.
His mother came in, a leaf clinging to the collar of her coat. "Such a wind," she said. "Was everything all -- George? George, what happened?"
The blood fell from Mom's face in a single, shocked rush, turning her a horrible clown-white.
"Gramma," he said. "Gramma died. Gramma died. Mommy." And he began to cry.
She swept him into her arms and then staggered back against the wall, as if this act of hugging had robbed the last of her strength. "Did... did anything happen?" she asked. "George, did anything else happen?"
"The wind knocked a tree branch through her window," George said.
She pushed him away, looked at his shocked, slack face for a moment, and then stumbled into Gramma's room. She was in there for perhaps four minutes. When she came back, she was holding a red tatter of cloth. It was a bit of George's shirt.
"I took this out of her hand," Mom whispered.
"I don't want to talk about it," George said. "Call Aunt Flo, if you want. I'm tired. I want to go to bed."
She made as if to stop him, but didn't. He went up to the room he shared with Buddy and opened the hot-air register so he could hear what his mother did next. She wasn't going to talk to Aunt Flo, not tonight, because the telephone cord had pulled out; not tomorrow, because shortly before Mom had come home, George had
spoken a short series of words, some of them bastardized Latin, some only pre-Druidic grunts, and over two thousand miles away Aunt Flo had dropped dead of a massive brain hemorrhage. It was amazing how those words came back. How everything came back.
George undressed and lay down naked on his bed. He put his hands behind his head and looked up into the darkness. Slowly, slowly, a sunken and rather horrible grin surfaced on his face.
Things were going to be different around here from now on.
Very different.
Buddy, for instance. George could hardly wait until Buddy came home from the hospital and started in with the Spoon Torture of the Heathen Chinee or an Indian Rope Burn or something like that. George supposed he would have to let Buddy get away with it -- at least in the daytime, when people could see -- but when night came and they were alone in this room, in the dark, with the door closed...
George began to laugh soundlessly.
As Buddy always said, it was going to be a Classic.
FB2 document info
Document ID: accf0e7c-b779-4466-90c6-3f1280a1d723
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 20.3.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Stephen King
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