CHAPTER TWO

"Mark…"

Mark resisted.

"Mark!" The voice was more urgent.

He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking it out.

"Mark! Besides being a no-account, good-for-nothing smart aleck, do you suffer from impaired hearing and narcolepsies, too, Mr. Petrie?"

Mark looked up and met his teacher's eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gibbs, I'm afraid I dozed off. Would you mind repeating the question?" he said, putting on an overly-sweet smile.

Mr. Gibbs glared at Mark, then asked very articulately, "Why is it more effective to have two major political parties in America?"

"'Cause if we only had one, then they could impose their own laws and such on the American public without the opposition of another party," Mark said in a monotone, then slumped back onto his desk.

The loudspeaker above Mr. Gibbs's desk crackled, indicating someone was trying to get through. Moments later: "Is M…Pe…rie there?" a woman asked, the static jumbling her words. Mr. Gibbs got the message anyway.

"Yes, he is. Should he report to the office?" Mr. Gibbs replied, smiling to himself.

"No, …to Ms. L…ry's gui…offi…dow…hall fr…Chut…'s roo…" There was a click, and the loud speaker turned off.

Mr. Gibbs, who was at a loss from the last communication, turned to find Mark's seat empty and the door swinging shut. Mark knew exactly where he was supposed to go, and he wasn't happy about it. A minute later, he arrived in front of Ms. Lawry's office. Ms. Lawry sat regally behind her big oak desk, chin resting leisurely on her right hand. The corners of her mouth turned upward slightly as he walked through the doorway.

"Why the hell did you call me back down here?" Mark shouted, slamming the door. "You said you were just doing a routine check of the school, not a full out psych ward check!"

Ms. Lawry cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "If you must know, that whole "student visit" was a little white lie to Principal Chutton. I was called in to talk to you, specifically, by the school nurse who noticed some bruises on your arms and neck during your yearly physical. She also informed me not to tell Mr. Chutton because…" Ms. Lawry smiled in spite of herself. "Because due to some…previous encounters, he would probably not be very sympathetic towards you."

Mark was stunned, both by her deception and her honesty. Once he recovered from his shock, he turned to leave when Ms. Lawry called out, "I can help you, Mark."

Clenching his jaw, he turned around and said, "I seriously doubt that."

She stood and walked towards him slowly. "I may not be able to solve all your problems, but I can get you out of your aunt and uncle's house." Mark paused. "That's what you really want, right?"

For one optimistic moment, Mark almost believed she could. Then he sighed. "There's just one tiny with that plan." Ms. Lawry raised her eyebrows. "They have my money."

"Easily fixed, Mark. Once you are taken out of custody, they can't legally…"

"No, 'legal' is exactly the dilemma. Because 'legally'…" Mark stopped. His eyes gleamed, showing her that he was immersed in his thoughts. Finally, he looked up at her. "If I tell you something, do you swear not to use it against me?" he asked, frowning at her.

"Scout's Honor…as long as it isn't a danger to you or anyone else," she replied, holding up the two-finger Girl Scout pledge sign.

Mark nodded hesitantly. "All right. Legally, it isn't really my money. And if this whole thing went to court…"

"What do you mean, it isn't your money? Whose is it?" Mark didn't answer. "Mark, how much are we talking about here, exactly?"

"Well, I don't know exactly…"

"A rough estimate, then."

"Well, I'm not sure how much anymore, but two years ago it was…seventy grand." He rushed the last part, hoping she wouldn't catch it.

She did.

"Seventy…grand…" she whispered, taking a step backwards.

Mark nodded. "Yeah, I had seventy grand, but Alan and Joyce wouldn't take me in unless I paid them fifty thousand of it. They don't know about the rest."

"How, may I ask, did you come up with all this money?" Ms. Lawry asked, her breathing somewhat labored.

Mark stared at her hard. "Do you want me to tell you the story?"

Ms. Lawry met his gaze steadily, nodding.

He took a deep breath. "Before I came here, I lived in a town in Derry, Maine called Jerusalem's Lot, or just 'Salem's Lot for short. I swear, there were no more than five hundred people. I think that might be why…" Mark's voice drifted off. "Anyway, there was a… an incident there two years ago. Almost everybody died."

"Five hundred people just…died?" she repeated, shocked at the figure. "Surely there had to be some survivors…"

"Yeah. One." Ms. Lawry stared at him. "After the…event…me and this other guy, Ben Mears, tracked down the…"

"Wait. Do you mean Ben Mears, that author who wrote about Afghanistan?"

Mark nodded. "We tracked down Callahan, the guy who was, well, at least somewhat responsible. Father Callahan…a priest…was working in a soup kitchen in Colorado. They had a struggle and then fell out of a window three stories high. Ben passed away later in the hospital. Callahan…" Mark hesitated. "He died instantly."

This was the first lie he had told Ms. Lawry. For some reason, he felt compelled to tell her the story of 'Salem's Lot. Maybe not the all of it, but at least the important parts. In truth, Mark had killed Callahan in his hospital bed, suffocating him with a pillow. He was silent for a moment, remembering the expression of true shock and utter fear on the priest's face when Mark entered the priest's hospital room. Father Callahan had tried to reason with him, saying, "Could you live with yourself after killing a priest? Remember, I saved your life!"

Staring at him with a grave, sober look, Mark responded, "No you didn't. Father Callahan did." He descended upon Callahan, pressing the cushion to the priest's face. "And you're not Father Callahan."

Mark recalled Callahan's final moments, with his face growing steadily redder and his hands clawing madly at the air, scratching Mark across the neck. Then, his last words, choked and strained: "They'll find you someday, boy…" Then, Callahan's skin turned bluish-black and his veins became more pronounced. But his glassy eyes did not bulge as Mark suspected they would; instead, they seemed to shrink within his head until they looked like shiny marbles embedded in Callahan's saggy eye sockets. A single breath, slow and restrained, left his mouth like a faucet leaking water.

Hissss…

"You still haven't explained how you got all that money…although I have a guess…" Ms. Lawry began.

"Alright, so I took it from Ben. Before we found Callahan, we went to the bank and he withdrew most of the money that he had received from his Pulitzer Prize. It was about…" Mark looked up at the ceiling, calculating the amount in his head. "Eighty thousand. But he would have wanted me to take it!" Mark said defensively when he saw Ms. Lawry's accusing stare. "In fact, Ben said that if anything happened to him, I should take the car and the money and go. I think he forgot that I didn't have a driver's license…" Mark shook his head, eyes closed. "If you had known Ben, you would've believed me."

"I do believe you, Mark." He glanced up at her doubtfully, eyebrows raised. "But the court…"

"Yeah, that's the problem. There's no way a judge would sign over fifty grand to a punk-ass kid like me," Mark said, smirking.

Ms. Lawry gave him a small smile. "That's what I was getting at. And don't swear."

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Dearest Mark,

Greetings from Maine, young grandson! I would not be surprised if this letter comes as a shock to you. Your mother, I imagine, told you I was dead. Perhaps I should start at the beginning…

When my only daughter told me she planned to leave home and elope with your father, Henry Petrie, we had a heated and ultimately devastating argument. She left with feelings of utmost hatred and contempt, and she did not even tell me that she was pregnant with you. When your father left your mother, she was distraught, but she refused to come to me for aid. I did not, until very recently, even know of your existence.

When I learned of your mother's tragic death, I was horrified. Through some contacts who had connections with the 'Salem's Lot incident, I learned that the only survivor was one Mark Petrie. Upon seeing the last name, I knew immediately that you were my grandson. With some difficulty, I was able to track down your current address.

I am writing to you for many reasons, but the most essential one is this: I ask you to come live in my home here in your place of birth, Jerusalem's Lot. If staying here does not suit you, I would be more than willing to move elsewhere once my affairs are in order. Do not worry about the money: My late husband owned a successful business, and when he passed on, I received a small fortune. You may write back to me at the address written on the front of the envelope, inviting me to come and pick you up. Please let me know as soon as possible. I look forward to hearing from you shortly!

Your loving Grandmother,

Suzette Marie Bellefonte

Mark had found the letter, addressed to him, open on the kitchen table. After reading it, he stumbled onto the couch, stunned and a little dizzy. He had a grandmother? For two years, he had believed that Joyce and Alan were the only relatives he had in the world. Now, he had an opportunity to escape without the legal mess. "Do not worry about the money…" It was if she knew that money was the only thing he had to be anxious about.

He literally ran to the desk in the corner of the room, drew out a sheet of paper and a pen, and was about to begin the invitation when he thought of something: What if it was a prank? Or the obsession of a crazy nut who read about him in the papers? The girl at the convenient store had said that Mark was all over the news in Maine. It was quite possible that someone who had a few loose screws decided to track him down and write a letter to him, claiming to be his grandmother. For all Mark knew, the writer of the note could be a serial killer…

At the thought of serial killers, a memory shone through in his mind: He was in the kitchen of the Marsten House with Suzie Norton. Mark was talking about how to kill the head vampire, when Susan asked, "What if Barlow is just an ordinary serial killer?"

Mark remembered his response: "You wish."

"What if" questions flooded his mind, each more frightening but ultimately ridiculous than the rest. The question that sat most heavily on mind, however, was an uplifting one: What if it was true? What if he had a grandmother (a rich one, at that) waiting for him in Maine? It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, a chance to get away from Alan and Joyce without worrying about his fifty thousand dollars. Mark put away the paper slowly. Another question: What if this Suzette Marie Bellefonte was just as bad as Alan? Unlikely, but possible. She was probably just a nice, little old lady who was a bit lonely. But Mark wouldn't let himself get too optimistic. Hope was just a setup for a disappointment.

Mark didn't bother checking to see if anyone was in the apartment. He already knew no one was: Joyce always went to the store around the time Mark got back from school, and Alan wouldn't be expected home from his binge drinking until after dark. Glancing up at the clock, Mark quickly calculated he had approximately forty-five minutes until his aunt would return home. Even with this extra amount of time, he rushed to his closet and pulled out his few belongings: a couple sets of clothing, his messenger bag (the only thing he had from 'Salem's Lot), and the notebook in which he wrote the rest of Ben's story. He closed the door to the closet, turned around, and ran smack into something. Something large.

Alan stood behind him, barring Mark's way. His eyes were unusually clear and focused on Mark. Even without beer, he was as dangerous as a raging bear. Alan glanced down at the pile of belongings Mark held in his arms, then slowly raised his eyes to Mark's face. "What are you doing?" Alan growled, his voice full of suspicion.

Mark was about to turn his gaze to his uncle's shoes, mutter something along the lines of "Nothing…", when two years of holding in anger suddenly burst out of him like pressure exploding from a shaken can of soda. He looked his uncle dead in the face and said, "I'm packing my stuff and getting the hell out of here."

Alan blinked stupidly, then narrowed his eyes. Snorting like an angry bull, he grabbed Mark by the back of the neck and tossed him clear out of the hall and into the TV room. Mark landed on his back, then jumped up with an energy that surprised even himself. Alan came stomping out of the hall, eyes wide with rage, shoulders squared. Mark secured his footing, clenching his fists so tight that the color in his knuckles began to drain. His uncle was four feet away…three…two…one…wham.

Mark swung back hit Alan's jaw square beneath the chin. He felt his uncle's teeth break above his fist and saw the blood and spit fly from his mouth as if they were going in slow motion. Alan fell to the ground with a tremendous crash, shaking the entire apartment. But he wasn't giving up that easily. Getting to his feet, Alan let out an inhuman roar and took a hold of the top of Mark's head. Pulling him back towards the wall, Alan almost ripped a chunk of Mark's wavy brown hair out of his head, when Mark reached back behind him blindly, groping for any part of his uncle's head that he could find. He finally got a hold around his forehead and squeezed Alan's eye sockets with his thumbs. His uncle screamed and staggered backwards before losing his balance. He kept his grasp on Mark, however, and they both fell backwards.

Scrambling to get up, Mark grabbed the ledge of the desk and, fumbling, grasped onto the first thing he could find. Good fortune was with him: it was a sharp letter opener. He got to his feet unsteadily, then whipped around and turned the blade on his uncle.

"I'm leaving," Mark said, his heart hammering. Beads of sweat dripped into his eyes. He blinked them away furiously. "And I'm taking my money with me." He glared down at his uncle, who had a steady stream of blood flowing down his chin from the corner of his mouth. Alan tried to get up, but Mark took a step towards him and jabbed the knife at him threateningly. "Try anything funny…" Mark started. "Get me the cash right now, or so help me, I'll jam this thing down your throat."

Alan looked fiercely at Mark, and for a second, Mark almost lost his nerve. Then, he stepped closer to his uncle and growled, "Now." Alan, defeated and bloody, got to his feet after some difficulty and led Mark down the hall. Mark kept the letter opener pressed to his uncle's back as the door to Alan's room opened and they went inside. Alan got a key out of his dresser, reached under his bed, and pulled out a small metal box. He unlocked it and took out a wad of cash. Mark grabbed it from him and flipped through the bills. "Did you spend any of it?"

"Yeah. Ten grand."

Mark glanced around at the condition of the shambled and dirty room and asked, "On what?"

Narrowing his eyes, Alan muttered, "Beer. The rent and the bills. Lottery tickets."

"You had fifty grand. How much more did you expect to win in the lottery?" Alan shrugged, eyes glazed. "Why didn't you buy a new home, or at least fix up the one you have?"

"Listen, as long as I have my beer and my TV, I don't give a shit what my house looks like. Now if you don't get the hell out of my house, I call the cops. "

Mark stuffed the money into his jeans pocket and shouldered his messenger bag stuffed with clothes. Keeping the letter opener pointed directly at the exhausted and conquered Alan, he backed slowly out of the apartment.

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Maine, two and a half years earlier…

'Hungry…so hungry…feed…need to feed…' It crept slowly up the riverbank, leading the mass out of the water. Eyes gleaming, it clutched a trout in its teeth and devoured it. The cluster watched the blood trickle slowly down into the river, and one pounced. The guide spun around and gripped its attacker with its elongated fangs. The lesser yelped and scampered back to the pack. The one who had once been known as Sheriff Parkins Gillespie signaled the rest of the herd to follow it, circling around the town like the scavengers they were.

'Need…blood…soon…very soon…'

For almost two years, the cycle had been the same: Take one, any of them, but just one. Every week. Surrounding communities had noticed the disappearances, and some families decided to leave. The small pack was forced to feed on animals, a loathsome act. The blood of animals could not satisfy the driving, forceful hunger…the need…

Then the message from The Other. It had appeared a year after the rest of the vampires had been destroyed. Arriving subtly, like a whisper through the leaves, it brought tidings of great prosperity. 'It's coming…' From the east…someone who could help them, direct them. Without a leader, they were lost. They could not work together, plan attacks on an entire town. When this new One came, they would strike, hard. Strong. It was so close, they could feel it, smell it. There would be two; one to act as scout, one to lead…to command the rest.

The pack was getting anxious. They could tell something was happening, something important. Hunched over, they stared at their guide, eyes shining dangerously. "Is it here?" they asked.

"Almost…nearly…"

Then, instantaneously, it arrived. Like rain on a clear day, the presence surmounted the group with a powerful blow, physically overwhelming. They lay flat on the ground, panting, eyes shining brightly. Anticipation was in the air, circling like a vulture.

Gillespie looked around at them, an expression not unlike a disturbing smile spread across its face.

"We will dine well tonight."

California, Present Day

The loud, incessant pounding at the door had been continuing for over a minute. A tired and befuddled Grant opened the door a crack and rubbed his eyes. He was wearing long pajama bottoms and a long robe that was patched and frayed. Apparently, he had been sleeping. "Mark? Dude, what…why are you here?" he said, squinting at him.

"I'll explain as soon as you open the door."

Grant fumbled with the chain above his door and invited Mark in. "This had better be good…I was just in the middle of my afternoon nap." He let out a wide and noisy yawn.

Mark sat down on the raggedy old couch. "I'm leaving. I'm going back to the Lot." Grant blinked in surprise. "Please? I need a ride." Mark paused. "And I want you to come with me."

Suddenly wide awake, Grant stared down at Mark, hardly believing what he was hearing. "And where, pray tell, are we going?" he asked dubiously, eyebrow raised questioningly.

"Maine."

Utterly baffled, Grant blurted out, "Why?"

"Because I'm not going to let an opportunity to live with people other than Alan and Joyce pass me by," Mark said, frowning. "I need to get to Maine as soon as physically possible.

Grant stared at Mark like he was crazy. "Listen, man, that may be all well and good for you, but I've got a life here, and a decent one at that. I mean, I have my own apartment, a job…"

"Does selling soda and gum at the convenient store make more than forty thousand a year?"

"No, of course not, but…" Mark took the wad of cash out of his pocket and threw it to Grant. Flipping threw the roll of money, Grant's eyes grew wide. "Alright, when do we leave?"

-----------------------------------------

"Mark…"

Mark's eyelids flew open.

"Open the window…"

He rolled over and looked out the window, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.

It was Danny Glick…well, sort of. He was hovering at the window, dark circles around his shining, eerie eyes. From all the books he read about vampires, Mark could tell Danny was no longer living; he was in the midst of the undead. His sharp claws scraped the glass, producing a piercing screech.

"C'mon, Mark, open the window…" Mark turned over onto his side, trying to convince himself that this was a dream. "Mark…open the window, Mark!" Mark's breathing became labored, his pulse taking off. "It's not just me, Mark. He commands it. It's cold out here..."

Mark swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood up.

"Open the window, Mark…"

Turning on the light, Mark pressed his hands over his ears and began muttering a prayer under his breath. "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…What do you want?" he shouted through the glass.

Slowly, Mark lowered his hands. He quickly grabbed a cross-shaped tombstone from the graveyard scene he had built that sat next to his bed.

"C'mon, open the window…or I'll try another one…"

Mark took a deep breath and stared at Danny Glick. Clutching the cross, he breathed, "Ok. Come in."

The window flew open and Danny soared in, fangs bared. He leaned over Mark, ready to bite, when Mark pressed the cross onto Danny's cheek. Mark's heart beat was so loud that he feared it was as piercing as his breathing, which had grown steadily more audible. Danny screamed…it was a horrendous noise, full of pain, anger, and terror. Mark's breathing had turned into a desperate groan. The vampire took off backwards out of the open window, but not before shouting "I'll kill you, Petrie, and your mother!" Mark stood by the window, watching the dark shape fly threw the air, his shrieks echoing through the night sky.

Then, suddenly, he heard something behind him.

"Mark…"

'Not again…' Mark thought in terror. He turned slowly, then…

"Mark!"

Mark opened his eyes and turned his head to face Grant. The sky was an inky black, with few stars apparent behind the dark clouds. An orange harvest moon was rising out of the trees in the distance. "What time is it?" Mark asked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands.

"About eleven o'clock. I was just going to say that we have to pull over soon because I'm about to keel over from exhaustion." Mark nodded absentmindedly, still reminiscing about his dream. The Danny Glick incident was the most recurrent visualization that haunted his sleep, though many images floated through his mind nowadays.

"There's a motel right up the road, or we could just sleep in the car. You're going to have to start reading the map tomorrow, 'cause I only know my way to the border of Nevada. After that, we're in No Man's Land. Dig me?"

Smiling to himself, Mark said, "We have all the money we need to rent a really nice room, two if you want. But the car sounds fine to me, too. You decide." Grant answered by pulling off the exit and driving into the parking lot of a cozy-looking hotel. The illuminated red 'Vacancy' sign glowed almost unnaturally bright, temporarily blinding Mark when he saw it.

They got out of the car, and Grant yawed broadly and stretched. A breeze blew past Mark's face, and he shivered involuntarily. Crossing his arms over his chest and hugging himself tightly to keep warm, he said, "Better hurry up and get your stuff before I freeze to death out here."

Once inside, Grant bought a room for eighty dollars while Mark sat on one of the chairs and read a brochure. It read "Ely: Home of the Copper Rush!" in big, green letters across the top. Mark became increasingly bored with each turn of the page, until something caught his eye that made him shudder.

"One of the biggest mysteries in Nevada took place just ten miles from Ely: the mass disappearance and 'death scene' of the isolated suburban town of Fairview. On April 14th, 1969, the local sheriff at Ely attempted to get in touch with the small police force in Fairview. Hours later, he, along with almost twenty of his officers, were reported missing after heading to what appeared to authorities to be a 'ghost town'. A little while earlier, it had been home to over five thousand civilians. After an outbreak of vanishings went unsolved for almost a year, natives to Ely learned to stay away from Fairview. The disappearances are still being researched today, with theories ranging from a secret government project to extra-terrestrials. These rumors, however, have never been proven…"

Vampires.

Mark didn't know how or why he knew, but he did. Intuition, maybe. A mass disappearance? People entering a town, but never leaving? Mark read the statistic again: five thousand civilians. Was a group of vampires really capable of such destruction? 'Salem's Lot had been overtaken in only a few days, so it could only be assumed they were.

"Ready to go?" Grant asked, turning around. "I booked two rooms, just so we have enough space. The accommodations are kind of small…"

Mark nodded, distracted. He was still thinking about the brochure. Ten miles from here…for a town full of vampires, that seemed a little too close for comfort.

We also get free breakfast tomorrow, so I figured, 'Hey! Let's chow down!' Then I remembered paying for a breakfast wouldn't really matter, being that we have forty thousand bucks!…"

Mark saw the apparition of Danny Glick, floating next to his window…

"But then again, we should save up…I could buy a new car…"

'C'mon, Mark…'

"And with the gas prices skyrocketing…"

'Open the window…or I'll try another one…'

"But we only have about four more days of driving, maybe less if we don't stop anymore…Wait, you don't have a license…"

'I'll kill you , Petrie, and your mother!'

"SHUT UP!"

Grant looked over at Mark, startled. Mark was on his knees in front of the chair, hands over his ears. His breathing was labored, and sweat was visible on his forehead. "What? What did I say?" Grant asked, confused and sort of hurt.

Not…you…" Mark said through gritted teeth. His eyes were focused on the coffee table in front of him, but he wasn't seeing it. What he was seeing was Danny Glick shooting off backwards out of his bedroom window…Barlow breaking into the kitchen and climbing the walls, then picking up his mother and twisting her neck around…Straker's body, swinging upside down from the Marsten House bedroom, bled white…Then the voice in the basement…

"I admire you, boy…come down for a taste…there's enough of you for two of us…" Then, suddenly, he felt hands around his neck…they were choking him; he couldn't breathe. Barlow's face swam in front of his eyes, mouth wide, fangs ready to bite…

Mark gave an unconscious shudder and collapsed onto the floor.

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He awoke hours later, alone. Blinking, he looked around the room and came to the conclusion that he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. Mark threw the blankets off himself and slid out of bed. There, he came to another conclusion: He couldn't stand. Clutching the bed, he pulled himself back up, startled and bewildered. Gently rubbing the muscles in his legs, he bent his knees. They worked fine. He just couldn't support himself. "I'm just tired…" he muttered to himself.

Gingerly, he tried getting out of bed again. He held on to the side table for support, and managed to walk slowly to the dresser on the other side of the room. Mark grasped it, and took a few seconds to recuperate. He raised his head and looked into the mirror. For a second, his mind didn't comprehend what he was perceiving. Then his eyes grew wide with fear.

Long, red claw marks were slashed across Mark's neck, and two hand prints had been engraved into his skin below them. They looked almost as if they had been burned there, with flakes of his own skin hanging off of his neck. He remembered the night before: he had been strangled by two unseen hands, presumably by Barlow, whose face had been leering at him. Then his legs had buckled beneath him…and he had awoken here, in a room he had never seen before.

Thump, thump, thump.

Someone was at the door. Mark, still suspicious, called out, "What?", only all that came out was a low, raspy cough. He tried again. "Who is it?"

"It's Grant…hurry up and open the door before I drop everything!"

Mark hobbled to the door and fumbled with the lock. Opening the door, he saw a harried Grant with boxes of cereal and breakfast bars in his arms. "Room service!" he said, grinning. "What happened with you last night, bro?"

Shrugging, Mark quickly changed the subject. "Where'd you get all this stuff?"

Grant's smile turned into a scowl. He dumped the boxes on Mark's bed. "This," he said, indicating the cereal and bars, "is what they mean by 'complimentary breakfast.' I could have bought better food with two bucks!"

Mark picked up a box of cereal that read 'Crunchy Munchies' in bold, orange letters at the top. A cartoonish-looking frog sat beneath the title, complete with a speech bubble that said, "Yum!" Mark opened the box and found a half-filled bag of small brown flakes that looked and smelled very stale. The breakfast bars were no better: Mark tried to bend the "Soft & Chewy" bar with his hands, but he probably would have had more luck twisting a crowbar. After hitting it repeatedly against the bedpost, he gave up and said, "How about we just go to the grocery store?"

Grant nodded. "Anything's better than this crap…"

A half-hour later, they were on the road with a car filled with snacks and junk food. Mark sat in the passenger seat with the map, subconsciously rubbing his neck with his left hand. The scratches hadn't gotten any less noticeable; if anything, they were more evident.

"What's on your neck?" Grant asked, peering at the long red lines.

"I…must have scratched myself when I fell," Mark said hurriedly. He quickly dropped his hand to the map and started tracing their road with his finger. "We should be getting to the intersection between Routes 6 and 93 soon…"

They drove in silence for what seemed to be eons. Mark would occasionally catch Grant glancing at his scars, but he would quickly avert his eyes, staring intently at the road. Sleep didn't come easily for Mark even though he had only slept for four or five hours. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Barlow's leering, evil face…or the decaying, clay-like face of his mother, lying on the kitchen floor with her head on backwards.

Grant was uncharacteristically quiet, looking out the front of the window. He would occasionally switch on the radio; then, a couple seconds later, turn it off again. Grant also constantly bit his nails, a habit that Mark had never noticed before. His elongated, white fingers would work their way up Grant's face slowly. First, he would scratch his nose, rub his eye, or pull his earlobe inattentively, then his fingers would subtly move over his lips, like a spider on its prey.

"What happened last night?" Grant asked, hours after they had left the hotel.

"I…I don't know."

"It seemed like you were choking…your breathing was all weird and your face was turning purple…I thought you were dying or something." Grant looked over at Mark, an expression almost like fear on his pale face. But it wasn't fear of the event; it was like Grant was afraid of Mark. "But those scratches on your neck…did you do that to yourself? Subconsciously, maybe?"

Mark stared out the window. "Have you ever heard of stigmata?"

Grant snorted. "You're talking to the eleventh-grade drop-out, here." He sighed. "No, what is stigmata, Mark?" he asked in a sing-song voice.

Mark swallowed, but it felt like his saliva was being dripped down a tube of sandpaper. He cleared his throat. "Stigmata is when things happen to you just because you think about it. Like on Good Friday, some religious people bleed from holes in their hands and feet like Jesus, just from praying or something. I think maybe these cuts…" He traced one with his finger. "These cuts might be from that."

"You were thinking about somebody choking you?" Mark nodded. "Why? Was it Alan?

Mark shook his head. "No. It was…someone else." Grant waited for him to continue. When he saw Mark was done explaining, Grant turned his eyes back to the road, hands pressed steadfastly on the steering wheel in the ten o'clock and two o'clock positions.

Silence followed them until dark.