Bag of Bones

by Stephen King

“I’ll take her, Jared,” one of the younger men—one of those who were really there—said. He looked at Devore with a kind of fawning eagerness that sickened me, mostly because I knew who he was: Bill Dean’s father. A man who had grown up to be one of the most respected elders in Castle County was all but licking Devore’s boots. Don’t think too badly of him, Jo whispered. Don’t think too badly of any of them. They were very young. “You don’t need to do nothing,” Devore said. His reedy voice was irritated; Fred Dean looked abashed. “He’s going to hand her over on his own. And if he don’t, we’ll take her together.” I looked at the man on the far left, the third of those that seemed totally real, totally there. Was this me? It didn’t look like me. There was something in the face that seemed familiar but— “Hand her over, Irish,” Devore said. “Last chance.” “No.” Devore nodded as if this was exactly what he had expected. “Then we’ll take her. This has got to end. Come on, boys.” They started toward me and as they did I realized who the one on the end—the one in the caulked tree-walker boots and flannel loggers’ pants—reminded me of: Kenny Auster, whose wolfhound would eat cake ’til it busted. Kenny Auster, whose baby brother had been drowned under the pump by Kenny’s father.