sk.petsematary-第14部分

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shared。
　　Gage　was　fast　asleep　before　Louis　had　gotten　the　mile　between　Missy's　house　and　their　own；　even　Ellie　was　yawning　and　glassy…eyed。　He　put　Gage　into　fresh　diapers；　poured　him　into　his　sleeper　suit；　and　popped　him　into　his　crib。　Then　he　read　Ellie　a　storybook。　As　usual；　she　clamored　for　Where　the　Wild　Things　Are；　being　a　veteran　wild　thing　herself。　Louis　convinced　her　to　settle　for　The　Cat　in　the　Hat。　She　was　asleep　five　minutes　after　he　carried　her　up；　and　Rachel　tucked　her　in。
　　When　he　came　downstairs　again；　Rachel　was　sitting　in　the　living　room　with　a　glass　of　milk。　A　Dorothy　Sayers　mystery　was　open　on　one　long　thigh。
　　〃Louis；　are　you　really　all　right？〃
　　〃Honey；　I'm　fine；〃　he　said。　〃And　thanks。　For　everything。〃
　　'　〃We　aim　to　please；〃　she　said　with　a　curving；　slightly　saucy　smile。　〃Are　you　going　over　to　Jud's　for　a　beer？〃
　　He　shook　his　head。　〃Not　tonight。　I'm　totally　bushed。〃
　　〃I　hope　I　had　something　to　do　with　that。〃
　　〃I　think　you　did。〃
　　〃Then　grab　yourself　a　glass　of　milk；　Doctor；　and　let's　go　to　bed。〃
　　He　thought　perhaps　he　would　lie　awake；　as　he　often　had　when　he　was　interning；　and　days　that　were　particularly　hairy　would　play　over　and　over　in　his　mind。　But　he　slid　smoothly　toward　sleep；　as　if　on　a　slightly　inclined；　frictionless　board。　He　had　read　somewhere　that　it　takes　the　average　human　being　just　seven　minutes　to　turn　off　all　the　switches　and　uncouple　from　the　day。　Seven　minutes　for　conscious　and　subconscious　to　revolve；　like　the　trick　wall　in　an　amusement…park　haunted　house。　Something　a　little　eerie　in　that。
　　He　was　almost　there　when　he　heard　Rachel　say；　as　if　from　a　great　distance；〃。　。　。　day　after　tomorrow。〃
　　〃Ummmmmm？〃
　　〃Jolander。　The　vet。　He's　taking　Church　the　day　after　tomorrow。〃
　　〃Oh。〃　Church。　Treasure　your　cojónes　while　you　got　em；　Church；　old　boy。　Then　he　slipped　away　from　everything；　down　a　hole；　sleeping　deeply　and　without　dreams。
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　　Something　woke　him　much　later；　a　crash　loud　enough　to　cause　him　to　sit　up　in　bed；　wondering　if　Ellie　had　fallen　onto　the　floor　or　if　maybe　Gage's　crib　had　collapsed。　Then　the　moon　sailed　out　from　behind　a　cloud；　flooding　the　room　with　cold　white　light；　and　he　saw　Victor　Pascow　standing　in　the　doorway。　The　crash　had　been　Pascow　throwing　open　the　door。
　　He　stood　there　with　his　head　bashed　in　behind　the　left　temple。　The　blood　had　dried　on　his　face　in　maroon　stripes　like　Indian　warpaint。　His　collarbone　jutted　whitely。　He　was　grinning。
　　〃e　on；　Doctor；〃　Pascow　said。　〃We　got　places　to　go。〃
　　Louis　looked　around。　His　wife　was　a　vague　hump　under　her　yellow　forter；　sleeping　deeply。　He　looked　back　at　Pascow；　who　was　dead　but　somehow　not　dead。　Yet　Louis　felt　no　fear。　He　realized　why　almost　at　once。
　　It's　a　dream；　he　thought；　and　it　was　only　in　his　relief　that　he　realized　he　had　been　frightened　after　all。　The　dead　do　not　return；　it　is　physiologically　impossible。　This　young　man　is　in　an　autopsy　drawer　in　Bangor　with　the　pathologist's　tattoo…a　Y…cut　stitched　back　up…on　him。　The　pathologist　probably　tossed　his　brain　into　his　chest　cavity　after　taking　a　tissue　sample　and　filled　up　the　skull　cavity　with　brown　paper　to　prevent　leaking…simpler　than　trying　to　fit　the　brain　back　into　the　skull　like　a　jigsaw　piece　into　a　puzzle。　Uncle　Carl；　father　of　the　unfortunate　Ruthie；　had　told　him　that　pathologists　did　that；　and　all　sorts　of　other　random　information　that　he　supposed　would　give　Rachel；　with　her　death　phobia；　the　screaming　horrors。　But　Pascow　was　not　here…no　way；　baby。　Pascow　was　in　a　refrigerated　locker　with　a　tag　around　his　toe。　And　he　is　most　certainly　not　wearing　those　red　jogging　shorts　in　there。
　　Yet　the　pulsion　to　get　up　was　strong。　Pascow's　eyes　were　upon　him。
　　He　threw　back　the　covers　and　swung　his　feet　onto　the　floor。　The　hooked　rug…a　wedding　present　from　Rachel's　grandmother　long　ago…pressed　cold　nubbles　into　the　balls　of　his　feet。　The　dream　had　a　remarkable　reality。　It　was　so　real　that　he　would　not　follow　Pascow　until　Pascow　had　turned　and　begun　to　go　back　down　the　stairs。　The　pulsion　to　follow　was　strong；　but　he　did　not　want　to　be　touched；　even　in　a　dream；　by　a　walking　corpse。
　　But　he　did　follow。　Pascow's　jogging　shorts　glimmered。
　　They　crossed　the　living　room；　dining　room；　kitchen。　Louis　expected　Pascow　to　turn　the　lock　and　then　lift　the　latch　on　the　door　which　connected　the　kitchen　to　the　shed　where　he　garaged　the　station　wagon　and　the　Civic；　but　Pascow　did　no　such　thing。　Instead　of　opening　the　door；　he　simply　passed　through　it。　And　Louis；　watching；　thought　with　mild　amazement：　Is　that　how　it's　done？　Remarkable！　Anyone　could　do　that！
　　He　tried　it　himself…and　was　a　little　amused　to　meet　only　unyielding　wood。　Apparently　he　was　a　hard…headed　realist；　even　in　his　dreams。　Louis　twisted　the　knob　on　the　Yale　lock；　lifted　the　latch；　and　let　himself　into　the　shed…garage。　Pascow　was　not　there。　Louis　wondered　briefly　if　Pascow　had　just　ceased　to　exist。　Figures　in　dreams　often　did　just　that。　So　did　locations…first　you　were　standing　nude　by　a　swimming　pool　with　a　raging　hardon；　discussing　the　possibilities　of　wife　swapping　with；　say；　Roger　and　Missy　Dandridge；　then　you　blinked　and　you　were　climbing　the　side　of　a　Hawaiian　volcano。　Maybe　he　had　lost　Pascow　because　this　was　the　beginning　of　Act　II。
　　But　when　Louis　emerged　from　the　garage；　he　saw　him　again；　standing　in　the　faint　moonlight　at　the　back　of　the　lawn…at　the　head　of　the　path。
　　Now　fear　came；　entering　softly；　sifting　through　the　hollow　places　of　his　body　and　filling　them　up　with　dirty　smoke。　He　didn't　want　to　go　up　there。　He　halted。
　　Pascow　glanced　back　over　his　shoulder；　and　in　the　moonlight　his　eyes　were　silver。　Louis　felt　a　hopeless　crawl　of　horror　in　his　belly。　That　jutting　bone；　those　dried　clots　of　blood。　But　it　was　hopeless　to　resist　those　eyes。　This　was　apparently　a　dream　about　being　hypnotized；　being　dominated。　。　。　being　unable　to　change　things；　perhaps；　the　way　he　had　been　unable　to　change　the　fact　of　Pascow's　death。　You　could　go　to　school　for　twenty　years　and　you　still　couldn't　do　a　thing　when　they　brought　a　guy　in　who　had　been　rammed　into　a　tree　hard　enough　to　open　a　window　in　his　skull。　They　might　as　well　have　called　a　plumber；　a　rainmaker；　or　the　Man　from　Glad。
　　And　even　as　these　thoughts　passed　through　his　mind；　he　was　drawn　forward　onto　the　path。　He　followed　the　jogging　shorts；　as　maroon　in　this　light　as　the　dried　blood　on　Pascow's　face。
　　He　didn't　like　this　dream。　Oh　God；　not　at　all。　It　was　too　real。　The　cold　nubbles　in　the　rug；　the　way　he　had　not　been　able　to　pass　through　the　shed　door　when　a　person　could　（or　should）　be　able　to　walk　through　doors　and　walls　in　any　self…respecting　dream　。　。　。　and　now　the　cool　brush　of　dew　on　his　bare　feet；　and　the　feel　of　the　night　wind；　just　a　breath　of　it；　on　his　body；　which　was　naked　except　for　his　Jockey　shorts。　Once　under　the　trees；　pine　needles　stuck　to　the　soles　of　his　feet。　。　。　another　little　detail　that　was　just　a　bit　more　real　than　it　needed　to　be。
　　Never　mind。　Never　mind。　I　am　home　in　my　own　bed。　It's　just　a　dream；　no　matter　how　vivid；　and　like　all　other　dreams；　it　will　seem　ridiculous　in　the　morning。　My　waking　mind　will　discover　its　inconsistencies。
　　The　small　branch　of　a　dead　tree　poked　his　bicep　rudely　and　he　winced。　Up　ahead；　Pascow　was　only　a　moving　shadow；　and　now　Louis's　terror　seemed　to　have　crystallized　into　a　bright　sculpture　in　his　mind：　I　am　following　a　dead　man　into　the　woods；　I　am　following　a　dead　man　up　to　the　Pet　Sematary；　and　this　is　no　dream。　God　help　me；　this　is　no　dream。　This　is　happening。
　　They　walked　down　the　far　side　of　the　wooded　hill。　The　path　curved　in　lazy　S…shapes　between　the　trees　and　then　plunged　into　the　underbrush。　No　boots　now。　The　ground　dissolved　into　cold　jelly　under　his　feet；　grabbing　and　holding；　letting　go　only　reluctantly。　There　were　ugly　sucking　noises。　He　could　feel　the　mud　oozing　between　his　toes；　trying　to　separate　them。
　　He　tried　desperately　to　hold　on　to　the　dream　idea。
　　It　wouldn't　wash。
　　They　reached　the　clearing；　and　the　moon　sailed　free　of　its　reef　of　clouds　again；　bathing　the　graveyard　with　ghastly　effulgence。　The　leaning　markers…bits　of　board　and　tin　cans　that　had　been　cut　with　a　father's　tinsnips　and　then　hammered　into　rude　squares；　chipped　chunks　of　shale　and　slate…stood　out　with　three…dimensional　clarity；　casting　shadows　perfectly　black　and　defined。
　　Pascow　stopped　near　SMUCKY　THE　CAT；　HE　WAS　OBEDIANT　and　turned　back　toward　Louis。　The　horror；　the　terror…he　felt　these　things　would　grow　in　him　until　his　body　blew　apart　under　their　soft　yet　implacable　pressure。　Pascow　was　grinning。　His　bloody　lips　were　wrinkled　back　from　his　teeth；　and　his　healthy　road…crew　tan　in　the　moon's　bony　light　had　bee　overlaid　with　the　white　of　a　corpse　about　to　be　sewn　into　its　winding　shroud。
　　He　lifted　one　arm　and　pointed。　Louis　looked　in　that　direction　and　moaned。　His　eyes　grew　wide；　and　he　crammed　his　knuckles　against　his　mouth。　There　was　coolness　on　his　cheeks；　and　he　realized　that　in　the　extremity　of　his　terror　he　had　begun　to　weep。
　　The　deadfall　from　which　Jud　Crandall　had　called　Ellie　in　alarm　had　bee　a　heap　of　bones。　The　bones　were　moving。　They　writhed　and　clicked　together；　mandibles　and　femurs　and　ulnas　and　molars　and　incisors；　he　saw　the　grinning　skulls　of　humans　and　animals。　Fingerbones　clittered。　Here　the　remains　of　a　foot　flexed　its　pallid　joints。
　　Ah；　it　was　moving；　it　was　creeping…　Pascow　was　walking　toward　him　now；　his　bloody　face　grim　in　the　moonlight；　and　the　last　of　Louis's　coherent　mind　began　to　slip　away　in　a　yammering；　cyclic　thought：　You　got　to　scream　yourself　awake　doesn't　matter　if　you　scare　Rachel　Ellie　Gage　wake　the　whole　household　the　whole　neighborhood　got　to　scream　yourself　awake　screamscreamscreamyourselfawakeawakeawake…　But　only　a　thin　whisper　of　air　would　e。　It　was　the　sound　of　a　little　kid　sitting　on　a　stoop　somewhere　and　trying　to　teach　himself　to　whistle。
　　Pascow　came　closer　and　then　spoke。
　　〃The　door　must　not　be　opened；〃　Pascow　said。　He　was　looking　down　at　Louis　because　Louis　had　fallen　to　his　knees。　There　was　a　look　on　his　face　which　Louis　at　first　mistook　for　passion。　It　wasn't　really　passion　at　all；　only　a　dreadful　kind　of　patience。　Still　he　pointed　at　t