CHAPTER ONE
BANG.
Honey, I'm home.
The door of the one-bedroom apartment hit the wall with an ear-splitting crash. The television stand, the hanging lamp in the kitchen, and the few pictures on the tables rattled. Even though this welcoming was far from unordinary, Mark flinched involuntarily. In the kitchen, his aunt Joyce shouted something, then his uncle's deep, slurred voice mumbled an insult from the front room. Loud, angry footsteps rumbled from the kitchen to the next room, accompanied by the high-pitched, nagging voice of his aunt.
Mark no longer even attempted to hear what they were saying. Every conversation between the two of them was the same: Joyce would ask how her husband's day went (in a tone that showed she really didn't care), and Alan, in his drunken stupor, would answer something along the lines of "None of your business, you old hag". Then Hell spit out an argument so loud and fiery that it could be heard in the apartment building next door.
The small walk-in closet at the end of the hall was secluded enough to almost block out some of the shouts that echoed from the first half of the apartment. In this area, Mark was able to continue working on his book. He reread what he had just written:
"The real evil lies not in the people themselves, but in the clutch that holds them. In a small town, everyone has secrets. Damn it, will they never stop screaming?"
Mark stared at the last sentence, confused. Had he really written that? After scribbling it out, Mark lightly chewed on the cap of the pen, deep in thought. The story was missing something. Mark laughed at himself silently. Of course it was: the real author. But Ben was dead, rotting in some graveyard that housed unclaimed corpses. And buried with him were the roots to Ben?s book he had wanted to write; the reason he had come to ?Salem?s Lot. So Mark had taken up the pen where Ben left off, not for Ben?s satisfaction, but his own. He knew there was no way he could weave a story as intricate as Ben could, but it was more the reason behind the account that pushed Mark to complete his task.
A floorboard creaked in the hall, and Mark quickly stuffed his notebook into the loose tile in the corner of the closet. A second later, the door to the closet swung open. His step-uncle, Alan, stood in the doorway, his massive shoulders scraping against both sides of Mark?s exit. Alan reached out and single-handedly yanked Mark out of the closet. Mark was no longer the short and skinny boy he had been two years ago, but his uncle was just so?gigantic. Alan could have lifted Arnold Schwarzeneger out of his closet if he felt like it.
Alan threw Mark to the ground his a sickening crunch. Mark quickly made sure he hadn?t broken or sprained anything, then he propped himself up on his elbows gingerly, warily not making eye contact. Making eye contact with Alan was like making eye contact with an angry bull while wearing red. Mark stared fixedly at one of the beer stains on the carpet.
?Look at me, you piece of crap.?
Mark inhaled slowly, trying to contain his anger. He had never been good with one-on-one confrontations.
?Are you deaf, maggot? Look me in the eyes like a man!?
Sighing angrily, Mark closed his eyes. When he opened them a moment later, he was staring at his step-uncle?s huge red nose. His eyes traveled around Alan?s face, studying his round cheeks, his horse-like jaw, his many chins, but he refused to look into those piggish little eyes.
A grizzled and bloody knuckle came from out of nowhere and slammed into Mark?s jaw. He fell to his side, but he remained at least partially upright. He would not give Alan the satisfaction of seeing him lose his balance or his consciousness. Mark wiped his index finger against his lip and saw it was shiny and wet with crimson blood. He jerked his head around and met his uncle?s angry glare with an expression of utmost fury and hatred. Mark?s clear, brown eyes stared deep into Alan?s bloodshot, unfocused gray ones.
Shaking with rage, Mark slowly got to one knee, then rose unsteadily to his feet. He was two inches shy of Alan?s six-foot frame, but was still able to give his uncle a run for his money with his infuriating staring contest. Mark was saved by Joyce, who shouted to Alan about something on television.
Alan shoved Mark into the wall and proceeded towards the front room. Mark followed him slowly, slinking into their presence like a cat tip-toeing along the fence of a Doberman.
?There?s a bag of cheese cubes in the fridge,? Joyce called from her seat in front of the TV. Mark stood in the doorway of the kitchen, studying his aunt solemnly. She sat on the far edge of the couch, dressed in an old, tattered blue housecoat and curlers in her hair. Not for the first time, he wondered what had made her choose this husband, this life.
It was obvious that Joyce had been beautiful when she was younger. She had possessed a rare and true loveliness; not the fake kind that was seen plastered on magazine covers, but a dainty yet radiating appearance. But now, her auburn hair lay lank and flat on her shoulders, her cheeks sunken in. And her eyes, which had once been a shade not unlike the green of the ocean, now lay within the deep eye sockets of her face, dull and dark. No doubt a life filled with drugs, alcohol, and misery had followed her through high school, into college, and now showing their results with a vengeance in her forties.
Joyce?s eyes moved slowly from the television screen over to Mark, looking at but not seeing him. ?What, am I speaking another language? There are cheese cubes in the fridge,? she said in her low and chalky voice.
Mark moved into the kitchen, carefully avoiding the pile of over-flowing garbage, and opened the refrigerator door. He dug through the cans of beans and bottles of beer until he found a small bag of cheddar cheese cubes. Upon inspection, he discovered a large patch of greenish-blue hair growing on them. He checked the date of expiration: November of the year before.
Deciding he was no longer hungry, Mark searched for something to drink. He turned on the faucet above the sink, but only a faint rumbling sound greeted him. Alan probably hadn?t paid the water bill yet. Mark opened the fridge again and sighed. Beer. Lots and lots of beer. He hesitated, then grabbed a bottle. Then, loud footsteps were heard coming towards the kitchen.
Alan.
Mark threw the bottle back with lightning speed as if it were a poisonous snake, slammed the door to the refrigerator shut, and turned to see his step-uncle in the doorway.
?What-choo doin?? his uncle growled, his words slurred from the excessive drinking in front of the television. He clutched an empty beer can in his hand, gripping it with an impressive show of strength.
?Looking for something to drink,? Mark muttered, his not meeting his uncles eyes. Alan reached out his hand, and for a second, Mark thought he was going to hit him again. His muscles tensed, bracing himself for the punch, when Alan extended his hand to the faucet and flicked the handle upright. The rumbling started out slowly, grew louder, and finally a gush of ugly brown liquid gushed out. A moment later, it dissolved into the normal clear color.
Alan grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and left, muttering insults directed at Mark under his breath. When his uncle turned his back, Mark shot up his middle finger and then got a cup out of the cupboard.
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The shrill school bell could drive even the sanest out of their minds. It lasted for exactly a minute, and it almost reached the octave that could break glass. Most of the students didn?t need bells, though. They were, for the most part, in their rooms on time. Of course, since the high school?s total student population was under two hundred, there were fewer teenagers who thrived on breaking the rules. Mark was the exception. He rushed into his homeroom almost four minutes late and slid into his seat in the back of the room.
Mr. Gibbs, Marks?s homeroom teacher, pursed his lips and scratched his mustache delicately, as if he was afraid it would fall out at any given moment. ?Mr. Petrie?? He made his way through the rows of desks and stood before Mark, gazing down at him with piercing eyes, acting as intimidating as a skinny five-foot-two man was able. Mark, on the other hand, tossed his giant homemade rubber band ball back and forth between his callused hands, eyebrows raised in an act of complete indifference and boredom.
?Mr. Petrie, I believe this is?what, the sixth day of school? Tell me, how many times have you been tardy to this class??
Mark sighed and placed the rubber band ball on his desk. Slowly raising his head, he put on a mocking grin and said, ?Seven.?
Snickers went up and down the rows while Mr. Gibbs?s cheeks grew steadily redder. ?Try talking to the principal that way, Mr. Petrie, and see who has the last laugh.?
Throwing his rubber band ball into his old battered messenger bag, Mark pushed his chair back (loudly) and, with one long stride, walked through the door and slammed it shut. He took a deep breath and stood outside the door for a moment, listening to Mr. Gibbs complain about him to the class.
Smirking, he made his way down the hall to Mr. Chutton?s office. Although he knew the way by heart, he took his time, stopping to kick a bottle cap and spit his gum on the floor. When he arrived at the principal?s office, he did the classic ?Knock, knock, knock-knock, knock? routine and stepped inside.
?Come in,? came Mr. Chutton?s greasy voice a moment after Mark came in. Mr. Chutton was sitting on his computer chair, typing away on his keyboard. When he heard Mark enter, he swung around and glared at Mark above the rims of his glasses. ?Well, well, well. Look who it is. It?s Mister I-Can-Get-Away-With-Anything-And-Not-Get-Into-Trouble. Well, guess what, Petrie. As soon as I find out why you?re here, I?ll make sure you?ll get into major trouble today,? Mr. Chutton said with a smirk, trying to frighten Mark. There was, in truth, nothing intimidating about Chutton. He was a short, squat, little man with a voice as oily as the gray-black tuffs of hair on the sides of his head. Chutton often compared himself to J. Edgar Hoover because he believed he could find the culprit behind any school-related crime.
Mark often compared him to a cow because he was fat and very dense.
?Mr. Chutton?? someone called outside the office. Like Mark, the person behind the door didn?t wait to be invited in. The ?someone? turned out to be a tall black woman with a wide, handsome face. She swept majestically into the room and extended her hand to Mark. Mark shook it reluctantly.
?And you are??? Mr. Chutton demanded brusquely.
?Ms. Lawry, the school district?s new student psychologist. Surely the superintendent informed you of my visit??
Mr. Chutton stood up, scowling at Ms. Lawry. ?No one contacted me about this ?visit? you were having. But there is no need to talk with my students, Ms. Lawry. I can assure you that they are well taken care of.?
Mark turned around and rolled his eyes at the woman, silently informing her that this statement was utter B.S. ?Mr. Chutton,? Ms. Lawry began patiently, looking the principle dead in the eyes. ?I?m required to do this check. If you have a problem with my being here, you can take it up with the school board. Now, if you don?t mind, I?ll begin my visit with talking to Mr. Petrie here.? She pointed to Mark. Mark looked up, startled by the fact that she knew his last name.
Mr. Chutton snorted. ?Listen, lady, I strongly advise against starting with Petrie. He?ll have you running out of here so fast you?ll leave your teeth behind.?
Ms. Lawry took a step closer to him, making the difference in their heights incredibly obvious. Looking down on him, she put a hand on her hip and said, ?Mr. Chutton, with all due respect, I?ve made up my mind.? Pulling Mark out of his seat, she led him down the hall to an office in which he?d never been. She unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and pointed to a seat in front of a large desk. ?Sit there?? she paused for a moment. ?I?m sorry, I didn?t catch your first name,? she said, taking a seat behind her desk.
?Mark. Mark Petrie.? He paused as Ms. Lawry flipped through her papers, searching for his records.
She finished shuffling the documents and turned to face Mark with a somber look on her face. ?Well, Mark, all I plan to do today is??
?Let me guess,? Mark interrupted. ?You?re going to shrink me. Then, once you see that I?m a total nut-job, you?ll cart me off to foster care. Right?? He leaned back in his seat, looking smug.
Ms. Lawry frowned. ?No, all I?m going to do today is talk to you.?
?That?s what I said. You?re going to shrink me.? Slightly irritated, she pursed her lips. ?Did somebody tell you to talk to me specifically?? Mark asked suddenly and accusingly.
Hesitantly, she bit her lip and frowned. ?I?m afraid that?s?classified information, Mark.? She folded her hands under her chin and leaned forward. ?Now, let?s start off with the basics. You seem to be a very?angry person. Did something happen to you in your past??
Mark snorted. ?Yeah, you could say that??
?Does this have anything to do with the fact you live with your?? She checked her charts. ??aunt and her husband??
?Not only is that ?classified information,? it?s also a really long and complicated story that you wouldn?t believe.?
?We have as long as you like.?
Mark just glared at her.
?Alright then, tell me about your parents.?
Sighing, Mark looked up at the ceiling. ?My dad left before I was born,? he began, reciting the information as if he were naming the presidents in order. ?He died along with his parents in a car accident.? Mark blew a puff of air out of the corner of his mouth, making his bangs stand on end for a moment. Then his gaze shifted to the ground. ?My mom?? His voice cracked and lost its edginess, now sounding like a child backed up into a corner. Clearing his throat he began again. ?My mom died two years ago.?
Ms. Lawry stared at him intently, calculating him. ?Were you close with your mother??
?No. It was more the?? He searched for the right word. ?More the manner in which she died.?
After waiting a moment, Ms. Lawry said uncertainly, ?Would you care to elaborate??
That did it. ?Elaborate?? Mark exploded. ?Sure, I?ll elaborate for you. We were in the kitchen, the lights went out, the windows shattered, and then?? He broke off, shuddering. ?He was in my house,? he continued hoarsely. ?My mom, she pushed me behind her. I felt her being lifted off the ground. Next thing I knew, she was on the floor.?
Ms. Lawry stared at him. ?And how???
?He broke her neck by holding her head and twisting her body around like a rag doll.? She gaped at him. ?Want me to spell it out for you? He put her head on backwards.?
Without another word, Mark pushed his chair back and left Ms. Lawry speechless in her office, slamming the door on his way out. He didn?t stop there. Turning the corner, he proceeded to the end of the hall and, without hesitating, walked out the front door of the school.
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Mark stood behind the cash register at the gas station convenient store, still fuming. He had been short and angry with the customers, showing little patience and an insulting air of boredom. Most of them left quickly, casting cold glares as they walked out the door. Mark didn?t care. He was glad to see them go.
At half past nine, the bells above the backdoor rang, signaling Mark. ?Hey, Grant,? Mark called sullenly from the cash register. A moment later, a tall albino man walked in behind him.
?Yo, little buddy!? Grant shouted, pounding Mark?s fist. ?How?s it hanging, bro??
Mark smiled a little for the first time that day. Grant?s lingo always cheered him up. Grant Burnett was a twenty-year-old high school dropout who seemed to believe he was an inner-city black guy, which was especially humorous since both his hair and skin were the color of milk. Genetics had left his skin without pigment, thereby christening the term ?albino? upon him. Grant was the only person Mark felt he could trust or rely on; and yet, he had failed to relinquish very little if any at all about his past to his best friend.
When Mark only gave Grant a small smile, it dawned on Grant that something had happened. ?Dude, what?s up with you??
?My homeroom teacher got pissed at me??
?Wow, that?ll make newspaper headlines for sure?? muttered Grant sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Mark glared at him. ?So he sent me to Chutton?s office,? he continued.
?No. Way.? Grant slapped his hand to his cheek in mock surprise.
?Shut up and let me finish. Anyways, this shrink came in and talked to me. She wanted to know about my mom, so I left,? Mark said with a shrug.
?You left school? You mean, before it let out??
?Yeah, so? You did too!? said Mark, smirking.
Grant gave a loud, booming laugh. ?Quite true, quite true. So, do you wanna talk about it??
?Nah, that?s okay. Could you pick me up here around ten thirty??
?Better make it eleven, little bro. I got a hot date?? Mark grinned. By ?hot date,? Grant meant he had to catch the last hour of the Baywatch Marathon. ?After that, we could go out on the town, get a couple drinks??
Mark raised an eyebrow. ?Grant??
?What??
I just turned sixteen, in case you forgot,? Mark said, grinning.
?You mean the drinking age in California hasn?t been lowered yet? Damn it??
Mark snorted. ?Get outta here, Burnett, or I?ll sick the gas station guard dogs on you.? They pounded fists again and Grant strolled out of the store like he owned the place. He drove past the door, repeatedly honking the horn of his beat-up old 1982 Plymouth Horizon.
Grinning, Mark sat back on his stool behind the cash register. He glanced up at the clock: 9:50. The convenient store was supposed to close at ten. Mark debated whether or not he should close early. He glanced out the window and, seeing no headlights on the road, he got up and walked to the door. Mark was about to turn the ?OPEN? sign to the ?CLOSE? side when a redheaded girl appeared behind the glass door. She glanced at her watch and looked up at him.
?Is the store closed already?? she yelled through the glass.
?Uh, no,? Mark said quickly, opening the door for her. She thanked him and went to the back of the store towards the refrigerators. He watched her, feeling kind of embarrassed. She came back with a bottle of lemonade and a pack of gum. Mark rang up the items on his cash register ($2.04) and waited for her to get out her wallet. She did so, searching for the right amount of change, when a paper dropped out of her pocket and slid beneath the counter.
Mark quickly jumped off his seat and ducked behind the register, reaching under the stand. His fingers grasped the edge of the glossy paper, and he pulled it out. Quickly brushing off the dust and cobwebs that had covered it, he glanced at the paper. It was a brochure, one that had been looked over quite a few times judging by the wrinkled, folded appearance of it. He read the words at the top, and his blood ran cold. WELCOME TO JERUSALEM?S LOT!
?Excuse me???
Mark slowly stood up, staring at the title of the brochure. ?Is that ?Salem?s Lot, Maine?? he asked slowly.
?Yeah, you?ve heard of it?? she asked, a look of puzzlement on her face.
?I lived there.?
?Recently??
Mark nodded. ?All my life, up until two years ago.?
She peered at him curiously, examining his face. ?You?re not?you?re not Mark Petrie, are you??
He jerked his head up, startled. ?How did you know???
?You were all over the news in Maine,? she said, awestruck. ?Nobody knows where you are. You?re the only known survivor of the ?Salem?s Lot disappearance. Most of the people are missing, but they found your name registered in a hospital or a hotel or something, so everybody?s been wondering??
?Wait.? Mark stared at her. ?What do you mean, ?missing?? They must have found something??
She shook her head. ?You?re the only one ever located. Alive, I mean. They found the remains of a few of people?Dr. James Cody; that teacher, Matthew Burke?a couple others. Most of the people just?vanished.? She shook her head. ?I can?t believe the media never got to you. That?s all anyone was talking about a year ago?? Her voice trailed off.
Mark thought for a moment. ?What about Sheriff Gillespie? He said he was going to Florida and got away before?before things got bad.? He glanced down at the ground, brow furrowed. ?And Larry Crockett, he left the night we set?I mean, before the fires started. What about them??
?Gillespie?s car was found about ten miles outside of town, empty, no trace of him. They never found his body or anything. Larry Crockett was found in the dump. They think?? She hesitated, then leaned towards him. ?They think he was eaten,? she said in a low voice.
They were silent for a minute, both immersed in their own thoughts. Then Mark asked, ?How do you have a brochure from ?Salem?s Lot? I mean, the town was burned to the ground.?
She raised her eyebrows. ?Didn?t you hear? The town was restored a little while ago. People started moving in a couple months after that. My family just bought a house there. We?re on our way to Maine right now.? She paused. ?There was a lot of controversy over whether or not it would be right to rebuild the town so soon, and right on top of the original settlement.?
Mark sat down on the stool, shaking his head in disbelief. ?They reconstructed ?Salem?s Lot?? She nodded.
A moment or two of silence, then: ?Can I ask you something?? She bent forward, eyes wide.
Mark glanced up at her. ?Yeah, sure.?
?Did it all happen at once, or did people just start to disappear?? she asked in a low voice.
?One by one. Slowly.?
?What was it??
Mark snorted. ?You wouldn?t believe me even if I told you.?
She stared at him curiously, then she nodded and stood up suddenly, slapping a five down on the counter. ?Keep the change. My family is waiting for me,? she muttered. Then she rushed out of the convenient store without another word, the bell above the door jingling furiously.
Mark sat back on his stool, confused.
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Jerusalem?s Lot, two years earlier?
?I?m not afraid of dying, Mr. Mears. Not at all.? Sheriff Gillespie put his hand on top of his car door and cast a weary eye over his shoulder. ?But these people don?t die, do they?? Without another word, he left Mears, Cody, and Mark Petrie behind, along with a certain fate ultimately worse than death.
Sheriff Parkins Gillespie wasn?t a coward. Twenty-five years on the police force, ten of those spent as sheriff, would back this statement up. He really didn?t fear death; he had stared it in the face many times as it took the shape of an angry, violent mob during a rally, a drunken driver during a high-speed police force pursuit, and the long barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at the center of his forehead. No, the sheriff of Jerusalem?s Lot was no coward. But the face of death looks very different than the face of an eternity in Hell. With this is mind, many would understand Parkins?s decision. Some might even agree with it.
The white station wagon flew out of the Lot, reaching speeds of over eighty miles per hour. By the time he reached the beginning of the farm lands, however, the sky was already blotched with patches of inky gray-black. The sun rested lazily on the horizon, suspended for a moment, then dipped underneath the countryside in one quick, fluid movement.
Darkness came?and along with it, the creatures of the night. Parkins slowed down a little once he was out of the five mile radius. He watched the landscape change subtly, moving from flat farm land to gentle slopes, from the slopes to bumpy hills, then to the beginning of the mountains.
The sheriff peered out the window, searching for stars or at least the moon, but only jagged black clouds returned his stare. A memory came to him suddenly: He was sitting next to his daughter (who was eight at the time) at their bay window. Parkins pointed to the stars, then turned to his daughter and said, ?Good thing those stars are out, Jenny. Starless nights are bad luck??
It was going to be a very long ride. Maine to Florida, phew, that would take at least two days. But it would be worth it. He wanted to see his new grandson; play golf with Phil, his son-in-law; reminisce about the good old times with Jenny. He wanted to be able to relax all day without worrying about work But most of all, he wanted to escape.
?You abandoned them,? said that little voice in the back of his head. ?You abandoned Mr. Mears, the doctor, the priest. For God?s sake, you abandoned the boy. You left them behind.?
?Let Ben Mears play the hero,? he muttered to himself. ?It?s what he?s good at. Besides, they wouldn?t have come even if I had asked?? It was true. Mears most likely would have stuck to his beliefs, trying to convince Parkins to do the same. But the sheriff had clung to his principles: He wanted to get the hell away from the Lot and never come back.
But the kid. Oh, God, how the kid had looked at him through the window of the SUV as he, Parkins, had left. The boy had been so disappointed; no, not even that: shocked. Mark Petrie, he kid with whom he had had so much trouble over the past few years in the Lot, had looked shocked and so?vulnerable, as if he was ten years younger than what he really was. It was an expression the sheriff had never seen on the kid?s face before in his life.
Parkins?s thoughts were interrupted by a barely audible scratching noise coming from the back of the car. A chill went up and down his spine, much like his reaction would be if someone were dragging their nails across a chalkboard. Goosebumps popped up on his forearms and biceps, and his teeth chattered uncontrollably. He tried to take no notice of it, but his heart started hammering irregularly and faster than normal, and sweat was beginning to cover his neck, wrists, and palms. Glancing into the backseat of the car, he found nothing out of the ordinary. ?My mind is playing games with me, that?s all?? And he left it at that.
The scratching sound stopped for awhile, and Parkins almost forgot about it. The thought was simply a wisp of silly superstition in the back of his mind. He passed a sign that read YOU ARE NOW CROSSING THE CUMBERLAND COUNTY LINE. The sheriff breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.
And then, the scratching again. It was louder this time, and Parkins could no longer pretend that it was his imagination. Something, or someone, was back there. Should he continue driving? To pull over or not to pull over, that is the question. ?Why be stupid now?? He was smart enough to resist his conscious, leave town, and meet his daughter in Florida. ?Why be stupid now??
Sheriff Gillespie jerked the steering wheel over and pulled off to the side of the road. He sat there for a moment, trying to understand why he had just done such an idiotically heroic thing. Parkins pulled the keys out of the ignition and put his hand on the door of the car. His breathing accelerated, and beads of perspiration dripped off his forehead. He looked into the backseat of his station wagon one last time before determining that whatever was making the noises was in the trunk. Hesitantly, he grabbed his flashlight out of the front seat compartment and grabbed the handle of the car.
Parkins opened the door to his vehicle and put one foot out onto the gravel. Sliding himself out, he shut the car door slowly and precisely, then turned to stare down the road he had just come off of. It was dark and stormy; the breeze blew some dust from the fields across the road and into the forest to his right. Taking a deep breath, Parkins took a couple steps towards the back of his car. The wind howled, as if protesting his actions. Ignoring the warning, he placed his key in the keyhole and opened the trunk.
For a moment, the sheriff thought he saw two shiny orbs in the far corner of his trunk. He blinked, and they were gone. He grabbed the flashlight that lay right inside the trunk and shone it towards the dark nooks and crannies. A small bundle of blankets sat in the back. He had never seen them before, and had no use for them. Someone had put them inside his trunk on purpose?
?What the??? he muttered out loud. Shaking, Parkins opened the blankets slowly.
The McDougall baby lay inside.
For one hopeful instant, he thought the baby was dead. Then, it opened its pale, beady eyes and hissed, its hideously long fangs bared.
The sheriff screamed and screamed.