Stephen King - Needful Things

The Mr. Gaunt who now strode across the landscape of Brian’s imagination wore a formidable black suit-the suit of a funeral director-and his face was no longer friendly. His dark-blue eyes were even darker in anger, and his lips had pulled back from his crooked teeth… but not in a smile. His long, thin legs went scissoring up the walk to the Rusk front door, and the shadow-man attached to his heels looked like a hangman in a horror movie.

When he got to the door he would not pause to ring the bell, oh no. He would simply barge in. If Brian’s Ma tried to get in his way he would push her aside. If Brian’s Pa tried to get in his way he would knock him down. And if Brian’s little brother, Sean, tried to get in his way he would heave him the length of the house, like a quarterback throwing a Hail Mary. He would stride upstairs, bellowing Brian’s name, and the roses on the wallpaper would wilt when that hangman’s shadow passed over them.

He’dfind me, too, Brian thought. His face as he stood by the side of the jerzyck house was a study in dismay. It wouldn’t matter if I tried to hide. It wouldn’t matter if I went all the way to Bombay.

He’d find me. And when he did. He tried to block the picture, to turn it off, and couldn’t. He saw Mr. Gaunt’s eyes growing, turning into blue chasms which went down and down into some horrid indigo eternity. He saw Mr. Gaunt’s long hands, with their queerly even fingers, turning into claws as they descended upon his shoulders. He felt his skin crawl at that loathsome touch. He heard Mr. Gaunt bellowing: You have something of mine, Brian, and you haven’t Paidfor it!

I’ll give it back! he heard himself screaming at that twisted, burning face. Please oh please I’ll give it back I’ll give it back, Just don’t hurt me!

Brian returned to himself, as dazed as he had been when he came out of Needful Things on Tuesday afternoon. The feeling now wasn’t as pleasant as it had been then.

He didn’t want to give back the Sandy Koufax card, that was the thing.

He didn’t want to, because it was his.

Myra Evans stepped under the awning of Needful Things just as her best friend’s son was finally walking into Wilma jerzyck’s back yard.

Myra’s glance, first behind her and then across Main Street, was even more furtive than Brian’s glance across Willow Street had been.

If Cora-who really was her best friend-knew she was here, and, more important, why she was here, she would probably never speak to Myra again. Because Cora wanted the picture, too.

Never mind that, Myra thought. Two sayings occurred to her and both seemed to fit this situation. First come, first served was one.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her was the other.

All the same, Myra had donned a large pair of Foster Grant sunglasses before coming downtown. Better safe than sorry was another worthwhile piece of advice.

Now she advanced slowly on the door and studied the sign which hung there:

TUESDAYS AND THURSDAYS BY APPOINTMENT ONLY

Myra did not have an appointment. She had come down here on the spur of the moment, galvanized into action by a call from Cora not twenty minutes ago.

“I’ve been thinking about it all day! I’ve simply got to have it, Myra-I should have bought it on Wednesday, but I only had four dollars in my purse and I wasn’t sure if he’d take a personal check.

You know how embarrassing it is when people won’t. I’ve been kicking myself ever since. Why, I hardly slept a wink last night. I know you’ll think it’s silly, but it’s true.”

Myra didn’t think it was silly at all, and she knew it was true, because she had hardly slept a wink last night, either. And it was wrong of Cora to assume that picture should be hers simply because she had seen it first-as if that gave her some sort of divine right, or something.

“I don’t believe she saw it first, anyway,” Myra said in a small, sulky voice. “I think I saw it first.”

The question of who had seen that absolutely delicious picture first was really moot, anyway. What wasn’t moot was how Myra felt when she thought of coming into Cora’s house and seeing that picture of Elvis hung above the mantel, right between Cora’s ceramic Elvis figure and Cora’s porcelain Elvis beer-stein. When she thought of that, Myra’s stomach rose to somewhere just under her heart and hung there, knotted like a wet rag. It was the way she’d felt during the first week of the war against Iraq.

It wasn’t right. Cora had all sorts of nice Elvis things, had even seen Elvis in concert once. That had been at the Portland Civic Center, a year or so before The King was called to heaven to be with his beloved mother.

“That picture should be mine,” she muttered, and, summoning all her courage, she knocked on the door. it was opened almost before she could lower her hand, and a narrow-shouldered man almost bowled her over on his way out.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, not raising his head, and she barely had time to register the fact that it was Mr. Constantine, the pharmacist at LaVerdiere’s Super Drug. He hurried across the street and then onto the Town Common, holding a small wrapped package in his hands, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

When she looked back, Mr. Gaunt was in the doorway, smiling at her with his cheery brown eyes.

“I don’t have an appointment she said in a small voice.

Brian Rusk, who had grown used to hearing Myra pronouncing on things in a tone of total authority and assurance, would not have recognized that voice in a million years.

“You do now, dear lady,” Mr. Gaunt said, smiling and standing aside. “Welcome back! Enter freely, and leave some of the happiness you bring!”

After one final quick look around that showed her no one she knew, Myra Evans scurried into Needful Things.

The door swung shut behind her.

A long-fingered hand, as white as the hand of a corpse, reached up in the gloom, found the ring-pull which hung down, and drew the shade.

Brian didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he let it out in a long, whistling sigh.

There was no one in the jerzyck back yard.

Wilma, undoubtedly encouraged by the improving weather, had hung out her wash before leaving for work or wherever she had gone. It flapped on three lines in the sunshine and freshening breeze. Brian went to the back door and peered in, shading the sides of his face with his hands to cut the glare. He was looking into a deserted kitchen.

He thought of knocking and decided it was just another way to keep from doing what he had come to do. No one was here. The best thing was to complete his business and then get the hell out.

He walked slowly down the steps and into the jerzyck back yard.

The clotheslines, with their freight of shirts, pants, underwear, sheets, and pillow-cases, were to the left. To the right was a small garden from which all the vegetables, with the exception of a few puny pumpkins, had been harvested. At the far end was a fence of pine boards. On the other side, Brian knew, was the Haverhills’ place, only four houses down from his own.

The heavy rain of the night before had turned the garden into a swamp; most of the remaining pumpkins sat half-submerged in puddles.

Brian bent, picked up a handful of dark-brown garden muck in each hand, and then advanced on the clothesline with dribbles of brown water running between his fingers.

The clothesline closest to the garden was hung with sheets along its entire length. They were still damp, but drying quickly in the breeze. They made lazy flapping sounds. They were pure, pristine white.

Go on, Mr. Gaunt’s voice whispered in his mind. Go for it, Brian-just like Sandy Koufax. Go for i’t!