In the Tall Grass

by Stephen King

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

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.

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.

“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.”