Stephen King's N. Read Online Free PDF Page A

back on Route 117, with loud rock and roll on the radio. But I couldn’t just leave. Something deep inside me—as deep as the instinct that keeps us drawing in breaths and letting them out—insisted on that. I felt that if I left, something terrible would happen, and perhaps not just to me. That sense of thinness swept over me again, as if the world was fragile at this particular place, and one person would be enough to cause an unimaginable cataclysm. If he weren’t very, very careful.
    That’s when my OCD shit started. I went from stone to stone, touching each one, counting each one, and marking each in its place. I wanted to be gone—desperately wanted to be gone—but I did it and I didn’t skimp the job. Because I had to. I knew that the way I know I have to keep breathing if I want to stay alive. By the time I got back to where I’d started, I was trembling and wet with sweat as well as mist and dew. Because touching those stones…it wasn’t nice. It caused…ideas. And raised images. Ugly ones. One was of chopping up my ex-wife with an axe and laughing while she screamed and raised her bloody hands to ward off the blows.
    But there were eight. Eight stones in Ackerman’s Field. A good number. A safe number. I knew that. And it no longer mattered if I looked at them through the camera’s viewfinder or with my naked eyes; after touching them, they were fixed. It was getting darker, the sun was halfway over the horizon (I must have spent twenty minutes or more going around that rough circle, which was maybe forty yards across), but I could see well enough—the air was weirdly clear. I still felt afraid—there was something wrong there, everything screamed it, the very silence of the birds screamed it—but I felt relieved, too. The wrong had been put at least partly right by touching the stones…and looking at them again. Getting their places in the field set into my mind. That was as important as the touching.
    [A pause to think.]
    No, more important. Because it’s how we see the world that keeps the darkness beyond the world at bay. Keeps it from pouring through and drowning us. I think all of us might know that, way down deep. So I turned to go, and I was most of the way back to my car—I might even have been touching the doorhandle—when something turned me around again. And that was when I saw.
    [He is silent for a long time. I notice he is trembling. He has broken out in a sweat. It gleams on his forehead like dew.]
    There was something in the middle of the stones. In the middle of the circle they made, either by chance or design. It was black, like the sky in the east, and green like the hay. It was turning very slowly, but it never took its eyes off me. It did have eyes. Sick pink ones. I knew—my rational mind knew—that it was just light in the sky I was seeing, but at the same time I knew it was something more. That something was using that light. Something was using the sunset to see with, and what it was seeing was me.
    [He’s crying again. I don’t offer him the Kleenex, because I don’t want to break the spell. Although I’m not sure I could have offered them in any case, because he’s cast a spell over me, too. What he’s articulating is a delusion, and part of him knows it—“shadows that looked like faces,” etc.—but it’s very strong, and strong delusions travel like cold germs on a sneeze.]
    I must have kept backing up. I don’t remember doing it; I just remember thinking that I was looking at the head of some grotesque monster from the outer darkness. And thinking that where there was one, there would be more. Eight stones would keep them captive—barely—but if there were only seven, they’d come flooding through from the darkness on the other side of reality and overwhelm the world. For all I knew, I was looking at the least and smallest of them. For all I knew, that flattened snakehead with the pink eyes and what looked like great long quills growing out of its snout was only a baby.
    It saw me