Uncollected Stories 2003 (21 page)
Read Uncollected Stories 2003 Online
Authors: Stephen King
Kirby never touched the rails. I couldn't blame him after the train
event, maybe something happened to him when he was younger, or
something. Kirby told me a lot of things best left confidential, but he
never told me anything about it either. He may not have wanted to
climb, but to me he was no pussy. A lot of songs go through your mind
when you're 45 feet off the ground climbing rail by rail on a ladder
without rungs. One hundred feet of sheer pole climbing with occasional
crosspieces to hang on to isn't much, and you begin to wonder, What if
Dewey slips and falls into me? What if I lose my grip and sail to the
bottom? How will I get down once I'm up there? Can drunk Dragons
fly? And then you look at the bottom, and all of your fears are summed
up in one phrase:
Don't look down.
Hand over hand, pull over pull, I made my way upward, trusting that
the pace of those above me wasn't too slow. I never really looked up to
where Brant and his friends were while I was climbing. Even to this day
I remember the blackness of the night sky mixing well with my own
blackout as I shut my eyes tightly to the things around me. I was
climbing to the top, and I just couldn't stop. Hand over hand. That's
when the screaming started, loud and forceful, over and over, with an
occasional splashing behind it as if someone below were enjoying a late
night swim and horseplay in the murky pond. Ignoring my own rule, I
shot a glance down.
God, how weird it looked. If you've ever been on a roller coaster right
as it goes down the steepest slope, you can understand the feeling; the
depth, the rails shooting together as they plummet below right as you
drop over the top. Imagine yourself frozen in that position. Below, the
rails meet and your stomach assumes a new position in your throat. And
standing on those gleaming rails, still holding Eddie's flashlight and
stained with the dark was Kirby, gazing back up at me, a look of
confusion, horror and what to do next? written across his face. He
scared the hell out of me the way he just stood there, arms at his side,
staring at me but saying nothing.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" I shouted down with extra
force. No answer. "Kirby, what's wrong?" By then I knew damn well
what was wrong. The tracks had begun to drum under my hands, and the
frame of the SkyCoaster itself had begun to sway rhythmically from
side to side. Then the awful sound of the roar of a coaster car spinning
around some distant bend, fading out, then coming back in, fading out
again – and coming back with thunderous racket that sent my stomach
and my heart both jumping on top of my tonsils.
Then Brant screamed. It was like the scream of a woman's that I
described earlier, but louder, blending in with the steady
clack-clackclack of a chain-dragged coaster car on an electrified
track. I didn't ask any questions, but simply locked both hands
together, swung both feet together and slid down the rail to the
bottom.
If you've ever been on a roller car as it plummets the final hill – the
Grandaddy drop – you'll probably know the feeling of fear that builds
up in you. There's always a chance that you may fly from the car to the
steel tracks below as the force presses your spine against the back cover
and shakes you with head-splitting strength to the bottom. There was no
car for me to ride in that night – no seat, no belt, no safety bar to pull
against my slumped torso. And as I sailed to the bottom, my mind made
a different rule that I was forced to follow –
Don't look
.
The wind stopped suddenly in my hair, and I realized that I was down
on the bottom rails of the coaster, hanging dreadfully close to the murky
waters of Skybar Pond. And as I hung there momentarily I could picture
Randy Stayner waiting below, a mossy green hand beginning to emerge
to the surface, and as I imagined this, I also visualized others like him in
a sea of arms, reaching for my dangling shirt tail as I hung there, all of
them coming up to the surface to get me, or desperately reaching out as
they were dragged down. A splurge of violent bubbling water popped to
the surface, jolting me back to Skybar and, getting to my feet, I pulled
myself to the shore and somehow managed to pull Kirby with me. He
was still standing in a daze, eyes fixed on the tracks where the coaster
car was falling toward us. And as we ran through the depot station past
the empty coaster cars, I could hear the steady thud-thud-thud of the one
car advancing on us. I shot a glance over my shoulder as we both ran on,
my feet and eyes growing with every step. Then I let go of Kirby. I can't
clearly remember when, but I remember all that ran through my mind
was
Run Like Hell!
I flew up the chain link fence behind Pop Dupree's,
cutting my hands severely on the barbed wire. After jumping to the safe
ground on the other side, I didn't stop running until I was almost a mile
away on Granges Point, where I could still hear the soft screaming
laughter of the seabreeze through the Funhouse clown, and could see the
vague form of the SkyCoaster winding through the trees. Somewhere
behind one of the tents – I can still swear it was the freak tent – a light
glowed softly. I sat there, staring at it, wondering if it was Kirby trying
to find his way out of the dark. Then I heard the cracking grass of
footsteps behind me and whirled to find Kirby standing in front of me.
My legs were shaking, and my teeth began to chatter softly, and he
walked up to me and put his arm around me.
"It's okay. We made it. We're pretty brave, huh? Right up and right
down those rails. We're far away from it now, though. We're not there
now"
I stared at him and wondered how the hell he got there. I couldn't
recall dragging him with me. I couldn't believe how calm he stood there
– how he acted like it was all a scary movie at Starboard Cinema and
we were walking home in the dark trying to calm ourselves down. Then
he turned me toward the park and started to walk away.
"Coming?"
"Kirb, you're headin' the wrong way."
I turned toward home and started to run again. After a while. Kirby
came running up to me, and we didn't stop until we were five miles
away from Skybar and on my front porch. I can still see the horror in
poor Kirby's eyes as he saw his best friends and the Dragons drop to
death before him. Even after seeing that smiling, rotting freak
clambering from behind the safety bar of the coaster car that had rolled
over Brant and the others, he stuck with me at the bottom and didn't run.
The only ones who acted as bravely as Kirby were the drunk Dragons
who jumped at the first sight of the coaster car coming toward them.
Maybe it was bravery, maybe it was the liquor, but it doesn't matter
because the 100 foot dive to the pond was a mistake either way. Brant
and the rest may have tried to slide, but they never made it to safety and
the authorities still haven't pulled their bodies from the murky pond
waters to this day.
And still, in my dreams, I feel Kirby taking my hand and telling me
it was okay; we were safe, we were home free. And then I heard the
thudthud-thud of a single SkyCoaster car rolling toward us. I want to
tell Kirby not to look – "Don't look, man!" I scream, but the words
won't come out. He does look. And as the car rolls up to the deserted
station, we see Randy Stayner lolling behind the safety bar, his head
driven almost into his chest. The fun-house clown begins to scream
laughter somewhere behind us, and Kirby begins to scream with it. I try
to run, but my feet tangle in each other and I fall, sprawling. Behind
me I can see Randy's corpse pushing the safety bar back and he begins
to stumble toward me, his dead, shredded fingers hooked into seeking
claws. I see these things in my dreams, and in the moments before I
wake, screaming, in my wife's arms, I know what the grown-ups must have
seen that summer in the freak tent that was for Adults Only. I see
these things in my dreams, yes, but when I visit Kirby in that place
where he still lives, that place where all the windows are
cross-hatched with heavy mesh, I see them in his eyes. I take his hand
and his hand is cold, but I sit with him and sometimes I think: These
things happened to me
when I was young.
Incomplete novel King was writing for his son Owen in 1983, just as he had
written
The Eyes of the Dragon
older siblings Joe and Naomi. King had written
several pages of the story in longhand in a notebook and then transcribed them.
While on a trip to California, he wrote about 30 more pages of the story in the
same notebook, which was lost off the back of his motorcycle (somewhere in
coastal New Hampshire) on a trip from Boston to Bangor. He mentioned that he
could reconstruct what was lost, but had not gotten around to it (as of June,
1983). The only part that still exists today is the 5 typescript pages that had been
transcribed. The 5 pages, plus a 3-page cover letter to a senior editor at Viking
are now owned by a King collector.
named Owen was playing outside his big red house. He was pretty
bored because his big brother and big sister, who could always think of
things to do, were in school. His daddy was working, and his mom was
sleeping upstairs. She asked him if he would like a nap, but Owen didn't
really like naps. He thought they were boring.
He played with his G.I. Joe men for awhile, and then he went around
to the back and swung on the swing for awhile. He gave the tetherball a
big hit with his fist –
ka-bamp!
– and watched the rope wind up as the
ball went around and around the pole. He saw his big sister's softball bat
lying in the grass and wished Chris, the big boy who sometimes came to
play with him, was there to throw him a few pitches. But Chris was in
school too. Owen walked around the house again. He thought he would
pick some flowers for his mother. She liked flowers pretty well.
He got around to the front of the house and that was when he saw
Springsteen in the grass. Springsteen was his big sister's new cat. Owen
liked most cats, but he didn't like Springsteen much. He was big and
black, with deep green eyes that seemed to see everything. Every day
Owen had to make sure that Springsteen wasn't trying to eat Butler.
Butler was Owen's guinea pig. When Springsteen thought no one was
around, he would jump up on the shelf' where Butler's big glass cage
was and stare in through the screen on top with his hungry green eyes.
Springsteen would sit there, all crouched down, and hardly move at all.
Springsteen's tail would wag back and forth a little, and sometimes one
of his ears would flick a bit, but that was all.
I'll get in there pretty soon,
you cruddy little guinea pig,
Springsteen seemed to say.
And when I get
you, I'll eat you! Better believe it! If guinea pigs say prayers, you better
say yours!
Whenever Owen saw Springsteen the cat up on Butler's shelf,
he would make him get down. Sometimes Springsteen put his claws out
(although he knew better than to try to put them in Owen) and Owen
imagined the black cat saying,
You caught me this time, but so what?
Big deal! Someday you won't! And then, yum! yum! dinner is served!
Owen tried to tell people that Springsteen wanted to eat Butler, but
nobody believed him.
"Don't worry, Owen," Daddy said, and went off to work on a novel –
that's what he did for work.
"Don't worry, Owen," Mommy said, and went off to work on a novel
– because that was what she did for work, too.
"Don't worry, Owen" Big Brother said, and went off to watch
The
Tomorrow People
on TV.
"You just hate my cat!" Big Sister said, and went off to play
The
Entertainer
on the piano.
But no matter what they said, Owen knew he'd better keep a good old
eye on Springsteen, because Springsteen certainly did like to kill things.
Worse, he liked to play with them before he killed them. Sometimes
Owen would open the door in the morning and there would be a dead
bird on the doorstep. Then he would look further, and there would be
Springsteen crouched on the porch rail, the tip of his tail switching
slightly and his big green eyes looking at Owen, as if to say:
Ha! I got
another one...and you couldn't stop me, could you?
Then Owen would
ask permission to bury the dead bird. Sometimes his mommy or daddy
would help him. So when Owen saw Springsteen on the grass of the
front lawn, all crouched down with his tail twitching, he thought right
away that the cat might be playing with some poor, hurt little animal.
Owen forgot about picking flowers for his mom and ran over to see
what Springsteen had caught.
At first he thought Springsteen didn't have anything at all. Then the
cat leaped, and Owen heard a very tiny scream from the grass. He saw
something green and blue Springsteen had was shrieking and trying to
get away. And now Owen saw something else – little spots of blood on
the grass.
"No!" Owen shouted. "Get away, Springsteen!" The cat flattened his
ears back and turned towards the sound of Owen's voice. His big green
eyes glared. The green and blue thing between Springsteen’s paws
squiggled and wiggled and got away. It started to run and Owen saw it
was a person, a little tiny man wearing a green hat made out of a leaf.
The little man looked back over his shoulder, and Owen saw how scared
the little guy was. He was no bigger than the mice Springsteen
sometimes killed in their big dark cellar. The little man had a cut down
one of his cheeks from one of Springsteen's claws.
Springsteen hissed at Owen and Owen could almost hear him say:
"Leave me alone, he's mine and I'm going to have him!"
Then Springsteen jumped for the little man again, just as quick as a cat
can jump – and if you have a cat of your own, you'll know that is very
fast. The little man in the grass tried to dodge away, but he didn't quite
make it, Owen saw the back of the little man's shirt tear open as
Springsteen's claws ripped it apart. And, I am sorry to say, he saw more
blood and heard the little man cry out in pain. He went tumbling in the
grass. His little leaf hat went flying.
Springsteen got ready to jump again.
"No, Springsteen, no!" Owen cried. "Bad cat!"
He grabbed Springsteen. Springsteen hissed again, and his needlesharp
teeth sank into one of Owen's hands. It hurt worse than a doctor's
shot. "Ow!" Owen yelled, tears coming to his eyes. But he didn't let go
of Springsteen. Now Springsteen started clawing at Owen, but Owen would
not let go. He ran all the way to the driveway with Springsteen in his
hands. Then he put Springsteen down. "Leave him alone, Springsteen!"
Owen said, and, trying to think of the very worst thing he could, he
added: "Leave him alone or I'll put you in the oven and bake you like a
pizza!"
Springsteen hissed, showing his teeth. His tail switched back and forth
– not just the tip now but the whole thing.
"I don't care if you are mad!" Owen yelled at him. He was still crying
a little, because his hands hurt as if he had put them in the fire. They
were both bleeding, one from Springsteen biting him and one from
Springsteen clawing him. "You can't kill people on our lawn even if
they are little!"
Springsteen hised again and backed away.
Okay
, his mean green eyes
seemed to say.
Okay for this time. Next time...we'll see
! Then he turned
and ran away. Owen hurried back to see it the little man was all right. At
first he thought the little man was gone. Then he saw the blood on the
grass, and the little leaf hat. The little man was nearby, lying on his side.
The reason Owen hadn't been able to see him at first was the little man's
shirt was the exact color of the grass. Owen touched him gently with his
finger. He was terribly afraid the little man was dead. But when Owen
touched him, the little man groaned and sat up.
"Are you all right?" Owen asked.
The fellow in the grass made a face and clapped his hands to his ears.
For a moment Owen thought Springsteen must have hurt the little guy's
head as well as his back, and then he realized that his voice must sound
like thunder to such a small person. The little man in the grass was not
much longer than Owen's thumb. This was Owen's first good look at the
little fellow he had rescued, and he saw right away why the little man
had been so hard to find again. His green shirt was not just the color of
grass; it was grass. Carefully woven blades of green grass. Owen
wondered how come they didn't turn brown.
