In the Tall Grass

by Stephen King

IN THE TALL GRASS

He wanted quiet for a while instead of the radio, so you could say what happened was his fault. She wanted fresh air instead of the AC for a while, so you could say it was hers. But since they never would have heard the kid without both of those things, you’d really have to say it was a combination, which made it perfect Cal-and-Becky, because they had run in tandem all their lives. Cal and Becky DeMuth, born nineteen months apart.

“Help! Help! Somebody help me!”

Just when Cal was beginning to think they hadn’t, after all, heard anything—it wouldn’t be the first time they had imagined something together—the cry came again. “Help! Please help me!” And: “I’m lost!”

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

She dropped down the embankment in two long-legged steps. It was steeper than it looked, and when she reached the bottom, it was clear the grass was even higher than she thought, closer to seven feet than six.

Becky stopped to look at her phone and saw a single bar. While she was watching, it disappeared, to be replaced by NO SERVICE. When she looked up, her brother had been swallowed by the green.

Tough grass they had here in Kansas. Tough tall grass.

“Becky? Where the hell are you?”

As shaken as she was by the sight of the improbably distant highway, her brief glimpse of Cal was just as disorienting. Not because he was far away, but because he was really close. She had seen him spring up above the grass less than ten feet away, but the two of them had been screaming for all they were worth just to make themselves heard.

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

“What the fuck IS this?”

A part of him—a part he had been trying with all his will to ignore—already knew what he was going to see. This part had been providing an almost jovial running commentary: Everything will have moved, Cal, good buddy. The grass flows and you flow too. Think of it as becoming one with nature, bro.

He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume. “Fuck the kid, Becky! This is about us now!”

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

“Just sit where you are,” he said. “They’ll pass.” “Thanks, doc, I’ll—” Nothing. Then she began screaming. “Get away from me! Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!” Cal, now too tired to run, ran anyway.

Then for quite a while she thought nothing. Not until after moonrise.

The idea was in him that he had to hurt the grass, show it he wasn’t taking any more shit, and then it would let him—let them both—go. Every time a strand of grass brushed his cheek, he felt it was teasing him, having fun with him.

He kicked at the whole mess in a spasm of sick, ugly despair. It was the only way to keep from crying again.

Tobin stood beside it, then put out one hand and touched it. He shivered—not in fear, Cal thought, but in pleasure. “Boy, that feels good. Come on, Captain Cal. Try it.” He beckoned. Cal walked toward the rock.

Into the red-orange moonlight she raised the child of her body, thinking, It’s all right, women all over the world give birth in fields. It was Justine. “Hey, baby girl,” she croaked. “Oooh, you’re so small.” And so silent.

The stick men and the stick women held hands as they danced into curving waves of grass.

Four steps away from the rock, he could hear it. The rock emitted a discreet buzz, like the electrified filament in a tungsten lamp.

“If you touch the rock you won’t be lost anymore,” Tobin said. “You won’t ever be lost again. You’ll be redeemed. Isn’t that nice?” He absentmindedly removed the black feather that had been stuck to the corner of his mouth. “No,” Cal said. “I don’t think it is. I’d rather stay lost.” Maybe it was just his imagination, but the buzzing seemed to be getting louder.

In the last instant, he became aware that his flesh was burning, that his skin was boiling in the unnatural climate that existed in the immediate space right around the rock. He knew when he touched the stone, it would be like setting his palms on a heated frying pan, and he began to scream— —then stopped, the sound catching in his suddenly constricted throat. The stone wasn’t hot at all. It was cool. It was blessedly cool and he laid his face upon it, a weary pilgrim who has finally arrived at his destination, and can rest at last.

And Cal was there, in the ashy light of dawn, looking down at her. His own eyes were sharp and avid. “Don’t try to move,” he said. “Not for a while. Just rest. I’m here.”

“Touch it,” Cal whispered. “You’ll stop being sad. You’ll see the baby is all right. Little Justine. She’s better than all right. She’s elemental. Becky—she flows.” “Yeah,” Tobin said. “Touch the rock. You’ll see. You won’t be lost out here anymore. You’ll understand the grass then. You’ll be part of it. Like Justine is part of it.” They escorted her to the rock. It hummed busily. Happily. From inside there came the most wondrous glow. On the outside, tiny stick men and stick women danced with their stick hands held high. There was music. She thought: All flesh is grass. Becky DeMuth hugged the rock.

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

ISBN: 978-1-4767-1082-2 (eBook)