Fiends Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: John Farris
tongue, his eyes going wide and blank.
His father hit him again but not as hard this time and Arne, who had been rigid as a fence post and white to the tips of his ears, folded up against him.
"Don't go off like that. I need you. Get hold of yourself, Arne."
A little later Arne crawled away from his father and sat up, arms wrapped around his knees. He rocked a while and stared at the fire. He was shaking. There was blood in his throat and on his lips from having bitten his tongue so savagely.
"I love you," his father whispered.
Arne nodded.
"Are you afraid to die, Arne?"
"Yes," the boy said.
Certainly he was afraid of death—but at the same time he wished for a mouthful of mushroom, the destroying angel, and a quick end to his torment. But that was crazy. Now he was going crazy too, he thought, and he was more afraid of that than dying.
Gradually his shaking stopped. His gaze was steady and sad.
"Tell me what happened," his father said.
Arne secretly bit his tongue again and again, betraying no emotion, no hint of pain, bit hard and deep so he would not be obliged to speak his thoughts, to share what he had seen and knew to be true.
August, 1970:
The Sunday Dinner Guest
1
Marjory Waller drove down to Nashville to pick up her sister Enid, who was, as usual, late in meeting her. Marjory passed by the main gate of Cumberland State Hospital, didn't see Enid waiting there or on the grounds where she often conducted her art classes on sultry summer days, and swung around into the visitors' parking lot. She drove the wrong way down a lane and, with a finely developed intuition for knowing what she could get away with, grabbed a slot in the deep shade of a pin oak, ignoring .mother driver, who honked at her.
"I was fixing to park there myself, little lady!" he yelled as Marjory got out. Because of the angle of her approach she hadn't parked well, but at least she had got there first and possession, when it came to parking places, was everything in Marjory's book of rules.
"I'm sorry, sir, can't you see my car's burning up?"
Some white vapor was coming from beneath the hood, which didn't ( lose all the way any more because of a crumpled left fender, the '62 baby-blue-with-rust Plymouth had been overheating for a month. Ought not to be driving it, Marjory thought, until she coerced Buddy or Lyle at the Esso to pull the radiator and do a little soldering for free, but Enid's Corvair was in the shop again and they were making do.
Marjory untied and yanked up the hood without blistering her hands and stood looking at the Plymouth's innards as if she were a consulting surgeon on a rare and tricky heart case. The other driver didn't go away; was he being a sore loser? He opened the door of his car and stood up, looking at her.
"Use a little help?"
She didn't like his know-it-all grin. He looked to be a lot older than Marjory, thirty at least, and pure-d country. Worked in town, maybe a sessions picker to judge from the length of his hair and his appaloosa vest (but musicians drove better cars than the unwashed 88 he'd stepped out of). He was the type to have a wife and kids stashed in the sticks, while he lucked everything that didn't fly or have webbed feet.
Marjory tugged the red bill of her St. Louis Cardinals cap a little lower, so he couldn't see her eyes, and said, "Know anything about the modulator fimbus?"
"Reckon I could locate your fimbus if I look for it long enough."
"No, thanks," Marjory said. He went on grinning and staring at her. She held up her driver's license. "I'm sixteen and a half," Marjory said. "Does that tell you anything?"
"Well," he said, "I could've swore you was older, hefty as you are."
Marjory shook her head wearily and gave him the peace sign, went over and slumped down under the pin oak, elbows on her knees, chin on her fists. After a few seconds he drove away and found another parking place.
Marjory took off her baseball cap, wiped her steaming brow with a
His father hit him again but not as hard this time and Arne, who had been rigid as a fence post and white to the tips of his ears, folded up against him.
"Don't go off like that. I need you. Get hold of yourself, Arne."
A little later Arne crawled away from his father and sat up, arms wrapped around his knees. He rocked a while and stared at the fire. He was shaking. There was blood in his throat and on his lips from having bitten his tongue so savagely.
"I love you," his father whispered.
Arne nodded.
"Are you afraid to die, Arne?"
"Yes," the boy said.
Certainly he was afraid of death—but at the same time he wished for a mouthful of mushroom, the destroying angel, and a quick end to his torment. But that was crazy. Now he was going crazy too, he thought, and he was more afraid of that than dying.
Gradually his shaking stopped. His gaze was steady and sad.
"Tell me what happened," his father said.
Arne secretly bit his tongue again and again, betraying no emotion, no hint of pain, bit hard and deep so he would not be obliged to speak his thoughts, to share what he had seen and knew to be true.
August, 1970:
The Sunday Dinner Guest
1
Marjory Waller drove down to Nashville to pick up her sister Enid, who was, as usual, late in meeting her. Marjory passed by the main gate of Cumberland State Hospital, didn't see Enid waiting there or on the grounds where she often conducted her art classes on sultry summer days, and swung around into the visitors' parking lot. She drove the wrong way down a lane and, with a finely developed intuition for knowing what she could get away with, grabbed a slot in the deep shade of a pin oak, ignoring .mother driver, who honked at her.
"I was fixing to park there myself, little lady!" he yelled as Marjory got out. Because of the angle of her approach she hadn't parked well, but at least she had got there first and possession, when it came to parking places, was everything in Marjory's book of rules.
"I'm sorry, sir, can't you see my car's burning up?"
Some white vapor was coming from beneath the hood, which didn't ( lose all the way any more because of a crumpled left fender, the '62 baby-blue-with-rust Plymouth had been overheating for a month. Ought not to be driving it, Marjory thought, until she coerced Buddy or Lyle at the Esso to pull the radiator and do a little soldering for free, but Enid's Corvair was in the shop again and they were making do.
Marjory untied and yanked up the hood without blistering her hands and stood looking at the Plymouth's innards as if she were a consulting surgeon on a rare and tricky heart case. The other driver didn't go away; was he being a sore loser? He opened the door of his car and stood up, looking at her.
"Use a little help?"
She didn't like his know-it-all grin. He looked to be a lot older than Marjory, thirty at least, and pure-d country. Worked in town, maybe a sessions picker to judge from the length of his hair and his appaloosa vest (but musicians drove better cars than the unwashed 88 he'd stepped out of). He was the type to have a wife and kids stashed in the sticks, while he lucked everything that didn't fly or have webbed feet.
Marjory tugged the red bill of her St. Louis Cardinals cap a little lower, so he couldn't see her eyes, and said, "Know anything about the modulator fimbus?"
"Reckon I could locate your fimbus if I look for it long enough."
"No, thanks," Marjory said. He went on grinning and staring at her. She held up her driver's license. "I'm sixteen and a half," Marjory said. "Does that tell you anything?"
"Well," he said, "I could've swore you was older, hefty as you are."
Marjory shook her head wearily and gave him the peace sign, went over and slumped down under the pin oak, elbows on her knees, chin on her fists. After a few seconds he drove away and found another parking place.
Marjory took off her baseball cap, wiped her steaming brow with a
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