You Like It Darker

by Stephen King

I thought to myself, there’s time. We always think that, I guess. Then time runs out.

I guess she never heard about the twin brothers who won large sums of money in their respective state lotteries on the same day.”

besides, all I knew was that my father had always enjoyed stories. He read a lot, went nowhere without a paperback jammed in his back pocket. He told me wonderful tales at bedtime, and he sometimes wrote them down in spiral notebooks.

We’re a bunch of country bumpkins out here: pickup-driving, country-music-listening, coffee-brandy-drinking, Republican-leaning hicks from the sticks.

Robert Frost said home is the place that, when you go there, they have to take you in. It’s also the place you start from, and if you’re one of the lucky ones, it’s where you finish up.

this was around the time Pop’s last novel was published—and told Pop his net worth was just over ten million dollars. Not J.K. Rowling numbers (or even James Patterson’s), but considerable. Pop thought it over and then said, “I guess books do a lot more than furnish a room.”

“Give me a second. You’re putting me under pressure.” “True, but pressure creates diamonds from coal.”

Lightning lit the clouds, making them look like brains, or so he thought.

His left hip had snapped. There was no attributable cause; it just happened. Nor was it a mere break, the orthopedist told me. It had exploded.

He did, and never woke up. Sleep became a coma. He had signed a DNR years before. I was sitting at his bedside and holding his hand when his heart stopped at 9:19 the following evening. He didn’t even get the lead obituary in the New York Times, because an ex–Secretary of State died in a car accident that same night. Pop would have said it’s an old story: in death as in life, politics almost always trumps art.

the last leaf on the Carmody family tree, and now turning an autumnal brown. Sic transit gloria mundi.

“Hey, Pop—I’ve got the key you gave me. I’m going to respect your dying wish and open that drawer, but if there’s anything in there that explains anything, I’ll be… what did you always used to say?… a monkey’s testicle.”

I scanned it and learned that these days UFOs are actually called UAPs—unidentified aerial phenomena.

I settled down with a book—there’s nothing like an Agatha Christie when you’re out in the woods—and

No phones to ring and no fires—literal as well as metaphorical—to put out.

I remember thinking that the fading of hopes and ambitions was mostly painless. That was good, but it was also rather horrible. I wanted to be a writer, but I was beginning to think being a good one was beyond me. If it was, the world would continue to spin. You relaxed your hand… opened your fingers… and something flew away. I remember thinking maybe that’s all right.

“Did you see any deer?” Butch asked, licking frosting from his fingers. Well… those fruit pies aren’t exactly frosted, but they have a glaze that’s quite tasty. “Nope. Not today, not yesterday. But you know what the oldtimers say—the deer know when November comes, and they hide.”

He considered this, then looked out the window at the steady rain. Nothing is colder than cold November rain. It crossed my mind that someone should write a song about it… and eventually, someone did.

You want to go take another look?” I didn’t have to ask what he meant. “Might as well.” We went down to the clearing to look at the sky. There were no lights up there, but there was something on the bridge. Or rather, someone. A woman, lying facedown on the planks.

We rolled her. Even in the dark we could see she was young, pretty, and ghastly white. We could see something else, as well. It was the face of a department store mannequin, smooth and unlined. The eyes were shut. Only her lids had color; they looked bruised. This is not a human being, I thought.

I shoved them aside and opened it. There were two fold-out drawers. Three EpiPens in the top one. I took two of them and rammed the drawers shut, pinching my right index finger in the process. That nail turned black and fell off, but at the time I didn’t even feel it.

Butch took another picture. I leaned forward and put my hand on her neck. I thought she might pull away, but she didn’t. It looked like skin (unless you looked closely), but it didn’t quite feel like skin. I held my hand there for maybe twenty seconds, then took it away. “She has no pulse.”

“Souvenir,” I said. “Yes. It is my souvenir of this remarkable night. We visit yard sales.” “You’re joking,” I said. “They are called different things in different places. In Italy, vendita in cantiere. Samoan, fanua fa’tau. We take some of these things to remember, some to study. We have film of your Kennedy’s death from rifleshot. We have an autographed picture of Juhjudi.” “Wait.” Butch was frowning. “Are you talking about Judge Judy?”

“When intelligence outraces emotional stability, it’s always just a matter of time.”

“Because of the noise in your lives. Because of your thoughts. Thoughts are pointless. Worse, dangerous.”

“I’m sorry for you. Your world is a living breath in a universe that is mostly filled with deadlights.”

Well, I tell myself, we call it a gift and we call ourselves gifted, but gifts are never really earned, are they? Only given. Talent is grace made visible.

I sat back in Pop’s chair, staring at the amount tendered. I think I said holy fuck. Paying in advance at 2010 rates was probably a terrific deal, but to pay forty years in advance—in a town where most people were behind on their taxes—was unheard-of. According to this sheet, L&D Haulage—Laird Carmody and Dave LaVerdiere, in other words—had forked over 110,000 dollars. Of course by then they could afford it, but why?

Only one answer seemed to fit: they had wanted to protect their little hunting cabin from development. Why? Because that otherworldly glasses case was still out there?

What did seem likely—and now it was a little easier to believe—was that my father and his friend had decided to preserve the location where they had met beings from another world. I decided to go out there.

I came to a locked gate I didn’t remember. There was another sign on it, this one showing a frog over the words HIPPITY HOPPITY GET OFF MY PROPERTY.

It’s all right to want what you can’t have. You learn to live with it. I tell myself that, and mostly I believe it.

The man looked at the bill as if surprised to find it still in his hand, then put it back in the kangaroo pouch. He put his hands on his thighs and looked down at them instead of at Jamieson. “I’m an alcoholic. Four months sober. Four months and twelve days, to be exact.”

“I really want to stop drinking, and I can’t do a complete Fifth Step without admitting that I seem to really enjoy…” What felt like a streak of hot white light slid between Jamieson’s ribs, and when Jack pulled the dripping icepick away, once more tucking it into the pocket of his hoodie, Jamieson realized he couldn’t breathe. “… killing people. It’s a character defect, I know, and probably the chief of my wrongs.”

Willie’s face twisted in a silent laugh and he clutched himself. It was what he did when he was amused, and whenever Roxie observed that knotted face and self-hug, she knew he was weird.

Danny looks at this dream-made-real with a dismay so deep it’s almost fear. Hell, maybe it is fear. All he wanted was to make sure Hilltop Texaco (and the hand sticking out of the ground, don’t forget the hand) was just some bullshit his sleeping mind created, and now look at this. Just look at it.

Does he know for a fact that the hand belongs to a female? Yes, because of the charm bracelet. Does he know for a fact that she was murdered? Why else would someone have buried her behind a deserted gas station somewhere north of hoot and south of holler?

Walking around the station is like re-entering his dream; his legs seem to be moving on their own, with no directions from the control room. He kicks aside a deserted oil can. Havoline, of course. He wants to pause at the corner of the cinderblock building long enough to visualize seeing nothing, nothing at all, but his legs carry him around without a pause. They are relentless. The rusty trash barrel is there, overturned and spilling its crap. The dog is there, too. It’s standing at the edge of the corn, looking at him. Damn mutt was waiting for me, Danny thinks. It knew I was coming.

She’ll be identified soon enough, Danny thinks. The important thing is he hasn’t been ID’d. He is just “an anonymous tipster.” My good deed for the year, he thinks. And who says no good deed goes unpunished? But then, just to be safe, he knocks on wood.

He was starting to wish he’d left well enough alone. Except when he thought of that chewed hand and forearm sticking out of the ground, he knew there was nothing well enough about it. He snapped off the television and spoke to the empty trailer. “What I really wish is I’d never had that fucking dream.” He paused, then added: “And I hope I never have another one.”

They are waiting for him to say more. When Danny doesn’t, Davis rummages in her almost-a-satchel and brings out her electronic tablet. She shows him a photograph. It’s of a Tracfone in a plastic bag, which has been tagged with the date it was discovered and the name of the officer—G.S. Laing, KBI Forensics—who found it. “Did you buy this phone at a Dollar General store on the Byfield Road in the town of Thompson?” Davis asks.

“Spoiler alert, Inspectors, I’m mostly a real estate lawyer,” Ball says. “I do land, I work with a number of local banks, I coordinate buyers and sellers, I write contracts, I write the occasional will. I’m no Perry Mason or Saul Goodman. Just here to make sure you are respectful and open-minded.”

“Hey, you were arrested for stalking her, weren’t you?” Davis says, as if just passing the time.

And what about my name? They printed that, too. Is giving out the names of people who haven’t been charged with a crime part of KBI procedure?” More silence.

“Goodbye, Danny. Don’t call me again. Unless you’d like to confess, that is.” Shot in the dark time. “Has he been spouting random numbers? Not having to do with anything, just off the cuff?” Nothing. “Don’t want to talk about that? Okay. Wish the birthday girl—” he begins, but she’s gone.

She’s more troubled by the idea that Jalbert may have given Coughlin’s name to the only publication that would run it. She doesn’t want to believe he’d do that, and mostly she doesn’t, but there can be no doubt that Frank has homed in on Coughlin. He’s fixated.

“Hello, sir. I saw you parked here and—” “And you did your duty. Your due diligence. Twenty-six. Good for you. I’m going to reach into my pocket and show you some ID.”

On his way back to his hotel, Jalbert uses a burner phone to make a call. “There were no drugs in his truck,” Calten tells him. “Not under the seat, not anywhere.” “That’s all right,” Jalbert says, although it’s not. “He found them and got rid of them, that’s all. Like a wolf smelling a trap. As for you, Troop, you know nothing, right? You just stopped him because he was weaving.” “That’s right,” Calten says. “It might be smart to delete this call.” “Roger that, Inspector. Sorry it didn’t work out.” “I appreciate the effort.”

He counts. He adds. Occasionally he divides. The idea of killing Coughlin comes to him, and not for the first time; he’s sure he could get away with it if he was careful and it would save the girls who might suffer poor Miss Yvonne’s fate. But without hard evidence of Coughlin’s guilt—or a confession, even better—the son of a bitch would die an innocent man.

“It just makes me mad. They probably made up some stupid stuff on account of they couldn’t fire him because of that girl. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?”