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

know, robbed Peter to pay Paul. So I counted those, and that was all right: fifty-six. The numbers add to eleven, which is odd but not the worst odd, and fifty-six divides to twenty-eight—a good number. After that I could sleep. I think I had bad dreams, but I don’t remember them.
    Days went by, and my mind kept going back to Ackerman’s Field. It was like a shadow had fallen over my life. I was counting lots of things by then, and touching things—to make sure I understood their places in the world, the real world, my world—and I’d started to place things, too. Always even numbers of things, and usually in a circle or on a diagonal line. Because circles and diagonals keep things out.
    Usually, that is. And never permanently. One small accident and fourteen becomes thirteen, or eight becomes seven.
    In early September, my younger daughter visited and commented on how tired I looked. She wanted to know if I was overworking. She also noticed that all the living-room knickknacks—stuff her mom hadn’t taken after the divorce—had been placed in what she called “crop circles.” She said, “You’re getting a little wiggy in your old age, aren’t you, Dad?” And that was when I decided I had to go back to Ackerman’s Field, this time in full daylight. I thought if I saw it in daylight, saw just a few meaningless rocks standing around in an uncut hayfield, I’d realize how foolish the whole thing was, and my obsessions would blow away like a dandelion puff in a strong breeze. I wanted that. Because counting, touching, and placing—those things are a lot of work. A lot of responsibility.
    On my way, I stopped at the place where I got my pictures developed and saw the ones I’d taken that evening in Ackerman’s Field hadn’t come out. They were just gray squares, as if they’d been fogged by some strong radiation. That gave me pause, but it didn’t stop me. I borrowed a digital camera from one of the guys at the photo shop—that’s the one I fried—and drove out to Motton again, and fast. You want to hear something stupid? I felt like a man with a bad case of poison ivy going to the drugstore for a bottle of Calamine Lotion. Because that was what it was like—an itch. Counting and touching and placing could scratch it, but scratching affords only temporary relief at best. It’s more likely to spread whatever’s causing the itch. What I wanted was a cure. Going back to Ackerman’s Field wasn’t it, but I didn’t know that, did I? Like the man said, we learn by doing. And we learn even more by trying and failing.
    It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky. The leaves were still green, but the air had that brilliant clarity you only get when the seasons change. My ex-wife used to say that early fall days like that are our reward for putting up with the tourists and summer people for three months, standing in line while they use their credit cards to buy beer. I felt good, I remember that. I felt certain I was going to put all the crazy shit to rest. I was listening to a greatest-hits compilation by Queen and thinking how fine Freddie Mercury sounded, how pure. I sang along. I drove over the Androscoggin in Harlow—the water on either side of the old Bale Road Bridge bright enough to knock your eyes out—and I saw a fish jump. It made me laugh out loud. I hadn’t laughed like that since the evening in Ackerman’s Field, and it sounded so good I did it again.
    Then up over Boy Hill—I bet you know where that is—and past the Serenity Ridge Cemetery. I’ve taken some good photos in there, although I never put one in a calendar. I came to the dirt byroad not five minutes later. I started to turn in, then jammed on the brakes. Just in time, too. If I’d been any slower, I would have ripped my 4Runner’s grille in two. There was a chain across the road, and a new sign hanging from it: ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING.
    Now I could have told myself it was just a coincidence, that the person who owned those woods and that field—not