In the Tall Grass

by Stephen King

Cal and Becky DeMuth, born nineteen months apart. Their parents called them the Irish Twins.

Cal wanted to see the Kaskaskia Dragon in Vandalia, Illinois; Becky wanted to make her manners to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine in Cawker City, Kansas (both missions accomplished); the pair of them felt they needed to hit Roswell and see some groovy extraterrestrial shit.

On their side of the highway there were a few houses, a boarded-up church called the Black Rock of the Redeemer

On the other side of 400 there was nothing but high green grass. It stretched all the way to a horizon that was both illimitable and unremarkable.

And there was the steady, gentle susurration of the wind.

This time the look they exchanged was full of alarmed understanding. The grass was incredibly tall. (For such an expanse of grass to be over six feet high this early in the season was an anomaly that wouldn’t occur to them until later.)

A scattering of dust-filmed cars was parked here, windshields beetle bright in the glare of the sun. That all but one of these cars appeared to have been there for days—even weeks—was another anomaly that would not strike them until later.

“Don’t!” shouted the woman. “Don’t! Please! Stay away! Tobin, stop calling! Stop making noise, honey! He’ll hear you!”

Nor did she connect the way she felt then with the dreams that had been bothering her for close to two months now, dreams she had not discussed even with Cal—the ones about driving at night. A child shouted in those dreams, too.

The wall of grass surged and retreated in a soft shushing tide.

“There once was a guy named McSweeney, who spilled some gin on his weenie. Just to be couth he added vermouth, then slipped his girl a martini.”

Becky thought she had walked twenty steps into the grass. Maybe thirty at most. The road should’ve been close enough to hit with a Frisbee. It was, instead, as if she had walked the length of a football field and then some.

You didn’t see what you think you saw.

Becky suddenly remembered one of the things Weirdo Mom had shouted: Stop calling, honey! He’ll hear you!

“Be careful!” the boy shouted. “Don’t you get lost too!” This was followed by another brief burst of laughter—a giddy, nervous sob of hilarity. It wasn’t Cal, and it wasn’t the kid, not this time. It wasn’t the woman, either. This laughter came from somewhere to her left, then died out, swallowed by bug song. It was male and had a quality of drunkenness to it. Becky suddenly remembered one of the things Weirdo Mom had shouted: Stop calling, honey! He’ll hear you!

Ike and Mike, they think alike,

Frick and Frack, got two heads but just one back,

you could say he was already losing it a little to even think he needed to try such an experiment.

Cal had a brief period, about five minutes later, when he lost it a little. It happened after he tried an experiment. He jumped and looked at the road and landed and waited and then after he had counted to thirty, he jumped and looked again. If you wanted to be a stickler for accuracy, you could say he was already losing it a little to even think he needed to try such an experiment. But by then reality was starting to feel much like the ground underfoot: liquid and treacherous. He could not manage the simple trick of walking toward his sister’s voice, which came from the right when he was walking left, and from the left when he was walking right. Sometimes from ahead and sometimes from behind. And no matter which direction he walked in, he seemed to move farther from the road.

He was trying not to dwell on what he had glimpsed in the passenger seat . . . a bad-dream detail that he wasn’t ready to examine just yet.

Cal thought: A new player. Terrific. Maybe William Shatner’s in here, too. Also Mike Huckabee . . . Kim Kardashian . . . the guy who plays Opie on Sons of Anarchy and the entire cast of The Walking Dead.

Directions melted in the tall grass, and time melted as well: a Dalí world with Kansas stereo.

There is no morning or night here, Cal thought, only eternal afternoon.

“Blood is nice, tears are better,” Ross said. “For a thirsty old rock like that. And when I fuck you on the stone, it’ll have some of both. Has to be quick, though. Don’t want to do it in front of the kid. We’re Baptists.” His breath stank.

Dusk was glorious. The sky was a deep, austere blue, darkening almost to black, and in the west, behind the church, the horizon was lit with the infernal glow of dying coals.

Folk music wasn’t an area of expertise for Cal; he was more of a Rush fan. They had been surfing on Permanent Waves all the way across the country.

It hissed as he touched it to the grass and it went out. Hadn’t Jack London written a story about this?

He rose on sore legs, and yanked at the grass. It was tough old rope, tough and sharp, and it hurt his hands, but he wrenched some loose, and crushed it into a pile and knelt before it, a penitent at a private altar. He tore a match loose, put it against the strike strip, folded the cover against it to hold it in place, and yanked. Fire spurted. His face was close and he inhaled a burning whiff of sulfur. The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried, and dense with juice. His hand shook when he lit the next. Another. Another. Each match made a fat little puff of smoke as soon as it touched the wet green. One didn’t even make it into the grass, but was huffed out by the gentle breeze as soon as it was lit.

And when the occasional tourist heard cries for help and disappeared into the tall grass, determined to do the Good Samaritan bit, the locals visited the cars and took whatever there was worth taking.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” a small clear voice said.

“Not crazy, Captain Cal, just hungry. And the crows aren’t bad. I couldn’t eat any of Freddy. I loved him, see. Dad ate some, but I didn’t. Course, I hadn’t touched the rock then.

It’s easier to find things in here once they’re dead. The field doesn’t move dead things around.”

Close up, it was easy to see the rock wasn’t from Kansas. It had the black glassy quality of volcanic stone.

“A girl once hid in tall grass,” she crooned. “And ambushed any boy who walked past. As lions eat gazelles, so many men fell, and each tasted better than the last.”

Touch the rock, and you’ll see. You’ll understand. Touch the rock, and you’ll be—” He looked at the boy. “Redeemed!” Tobin shouted,

Printed on one side, amid a riot of red-and-orange psychedelia, was the word FURTHER, in honor of the 1939 International Harvester school bus in which Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters had visited Woodstock during the summer of 1969.

There were seven of them in an old RV held together by spit, baling wire, and—perhaps—the resin of all the dope that had been smoked inside its rusty walls. Printed on one side, amid a riot of red-and-orange psychedelia, was the word FURTHER, in honor of the 1939 International Harvester school bus in which Ken Kesey’s Merry Pranksters had visited Woodstock during the summer of 1969. Back then all but the two oldest of these latter-day hippies had yet to be born.

Just lately the twenty-first-century Pranksters had been in Cawker City, paying homage to the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.

It was Twista, the youngest of them, who spotted the Black Rock of the Redeemer, with its soaring white steeple and oh-so-convenient parking lot.

Jeepster and the Wiz were just setting up the grill when they heard the first faint voice.

The Pranksters (all wearing Ball of Twine souvenir T-shirts and all smelling of superbud) piled out. Pa and Ma, as the eldest, were the captain and first mate of the good ship FURTHER, and the other five—MaryKat, Jeepster, Eleanor Rigby, Frankie the Wiz, and Twista—were perfectly willing to follow orders, pulling out the barbecue, the cooler of meat, and—of course—the beer. Jeepster and the Wiz were just setting up the grill when they heard the first faint voice.

Pa looked at Ma. Ma looked at Pa. They were pushing sixty now and had been together a long time—long enough to have couples’ telepathy.

I bet all of Kansas looked that way before the people came and spoiled it all, she thought.

Ma Cool hadn’t owned a watch in years, but was good at telling time by the sun. She squinted at it now, measuring the distance between the reddening ball and the field of grass, which seemed to stretch to the horizon. I bet all of Kansas looked that way before the people came and spoiled it all, she thought.

In the end, all of them trooped across Route 400 and entered into the tall grass. FURTHER.