'Salem's Lot

by Stephen King

“That explains it, then. I suspect his theory is a rather old parapsychological wheeze—that humans manufacture evil just as they manufacture snot or excrement or fingernail parings. That it doesn’t go away. Specifically, that the Marsten House may have become a kind of evil dry-cell; a malign storage battery.”

The town cares for devil’s work no more than it cares for God’s

The Catholic Church began to cope with a new concept as it marched into the twentieth century: evil with a small ‘e.’ With a devil that was not a red-horned monster complete with spiked tail and cloven hooves, or a serpent crawling through the garden—although that is a remarkably apt psychological image. The devil, according to the Gospel According to Freud, would be a gigantic composite id, the subconscious of all of us.”

Going out, Ben said idly, “I wonder what the basis of garlic’s effectiveness against them is? Something in the Bible, or an ancient curse, or—” “I suspect it’s an allergy,” Jimmy said. “Allergy?”

Callahan took another step backward, and his buttocks bumped the kitchen table, which was set against the wall. “Nowhere left to go,” Barlow murmured sadly. His dark eyes bubbled with infernal mirth. “Sad to see a man’s faith fail. Ah, well…”

She flinched before those wooden eyes. “You live in Falmouth, don’t you, Miss Coogan?” “Yes—” “Have your own car?” “Yes, of course. I really have to ask you to wait for the bus outside—” “Drive home quickly tonight, Miss Coogan. Lock all your car doors and don’t stop for anybody. Anybody. Don’t even stop if it’s someone you know.” “I never pick up hitchhikers,” Miss Coogan said righteously. “And when you get home, stay away from Jerusalem’s Lot,” Callahan went on. He was looking at her fixedly. “Things have gone bad in the Lot now.”