sk.everythingseventual-第7章

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　　At　some　point　I　think　every　writer　of　scary　stories　has　to　tackle　the　subject　of　premature　burial；　if　only　because　it　seems　to　be　such　a　pervasive　fear。　When　I　was　a　kid　of　seven　or　so；　the　scariest　TV　program　going　was　Alfred　Hitchcock　Presents；　and　the　scariest　AHP…my　friends　and　I　were　in　total　agreement　on　this…was　the　one　starring　Joseph　Gotten　as　a　man　who　has　been　injured　in　a　car　accident。　Injured　so　badly；　in　fact；　that　the　doctors　think　he's　dead。　They　can't　even　find　a　heartbeat。　They　are　on　the　verge　of　doing　a　postmortem　on　him…cutting　him　up　while　he's　still　alive　and　screaming　inside；　in　other　words…when　he　produces　one　single　tear　to　let　them　know　he's　still　alive。　That　was　touching；　but　touching　isn't　in　my　usual　repertoire。　When　my　own　thoughts　turned　to　this　subject；　a　more…shall　we　say　modern？…method　of　municating　liveliness　occurred　to　me；　and　this　story　was　the　result。　One　final　note；　regarding　the　snake：　I　doubt　like　hell　if　there's　any　such　reptile　as　a　Peruvian　boomslang；　but　in　one　of　her　Miss　Marple　capers；　Dame　Agatha　Christie　does　mention　an　African　boomslang。　I　just　liked　the　word　so　much　（boomslang；　not　African；）　I　had　to　put　it　in　this　story。
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　THE　MAN　IN　THE　BLACK　SUIT
　　
　　
　　I　am　now　a　very　old　man　and　this　is　something　which　happened　to　me　when　I　was　very　young…only　nine　years　old。　It　was　1914；　the　summer　after　my　brother　Dan　died　in　the　west　field　and　three　years　before　America　got　into　World　War　I。　I've　never　told　anyone　about　what　happened　at　the　fork　in　the　stream　that　day；　and　I　never　will　。　。　。　at　least　not　with　my　mouth。　I've　decided　to　write　it　down；　though；　in　this　book　which　I　will　leave　on　the　table　beside　my　bed。　I　can't　write　long；　because　my　hands　shake　so　these　days　and　I　have　next　to　no　strength；　but　I　don't　think　it　will　take　long。
　　Later；　someone　may　find　what　I　have　written。　That　seems　likely　to　me；　as　it　is　pretty　much　human　nature　to　look　in　a　book　marked　DIARY　after　its　owner　has　passed　along。　So　yes…my　words　will　probably　be　read。　A　better　question　is　whether　or　not　anyone　will　believe　them。　Almost　certainly　not；　but　that　doesn't　matter。　It's　not　belief　I'm　interested　in　but　freedom。　Writing　can　give　that；　I've　found。　For　twenty　years　I　wrote　a　column　called　'Long　Ago　and　Far　Away'　for　the　Castle　Rock　Call；　and　I　know　that　sometimes　it　works　that　way…what　you　write　down　sometimes　leaves　you　forever；　like　old　photographs　left　in　the　bright　sun；　fading　to　nothing　but　white。
　　I　pray　for　that　sort　of　release。
　　A　man　in　his　nineties　should　be　well　past　the　terrors　of　childhood；　but　as　my　infirmities　slowly　creep　up　on　me；　like　waves　licking　closer　and　closer　to　some　indifferently　built　castle　of　sand；　that　terrible　face　grows　clearer　and　clearer　in　my　mind's　eye。　It　glows　like　a　dark　star　in　the　constellations　of　my　childhood。　What　I　might　have　done　yesterday；　who　I　might　have　seen　here　in　my　room　at　the　nursing　home；　what　I　might　have　said　to　them　or　they　to　me　。　。　。　those　things　are　gone；　but　the　face　of　the　man　in　the　black　suit　grows　ever　clearer；　ever　closer；　and　I　remember　every　word　he　said。　I　don't　want　to　think　of　him　but　I　can't　help　it；　and　sometimes　at　night　my　old　heart　beats　so　hard　and　so　fast　I　think　it　will　tear　itself　right　clear　of　my　chest。　So　I　uncap　my　fountain　pen　and　force　my　trembling　old　hand　to　write　this　pointless　anecdote　in　the　diary　one　of　my　great…grandchildren…I　can't　remember　her　name　for　sure；　at　least　not　right　now；　but　I　know　it　starts　with　an　S…gave　to　me　last　Christmas；　and　which　I　have　never　written　in　until　now。　Now　I　will　write　in　it。　I　will　write　the　story　of　how　I　met　the　man　in　the　black　suit　on　the　bank　of　Castle　Stream　one　afternoon　in　the　summer　of　1914。
　　
　　The　town　of　Motton　was　a　different　world　in　those　days…more　different　than　I　could　ever　tell　you。　That　was　a　world　without　airplanes　droning　overhead；　a　world　almost　without　cars　and　trucks；　a　world　where　the　skies　were　not　cut　into　lanes　and　slices　by　overhead　power　lines。
　　There　was　not　a　single　paved　road　in　the　whole　town；　and　the　business　district　consisted　of　nothing　but　Corson's　General　Store；　Thut's　Livery　&　Hardware；　the　Methodist　Church　at　Christ's　Corner；　the　school；　the　town　hall；　and　Harry's　Restaurant　half　a　mile　down　from　there；　which　my　mother　called；　with　unfailing　disdain；　'the　liquor　house。'
　　Mostly；　though；　the　difference　was　in　how　people　lived…how　apart　they　were。　I'm　not　sure　people　born　after　the　middle　of　the　twentieth　century　could　quite　credit　that；　although　they　might　say　they　could；　to　be　polite　to　old　folks　like　me。　There　were　no　phones　in　western　Maine　back　then；　for　one　thing。　The　first　one　wouldn't　be　installed　for　another　five　years；　and　by　the　time　there　was　one　in　our　house；　I　was　nineteen　and　going　to　college　at　the　University　of　Maine　in　Orono。
　　But　that　is　only　the　roof　of　the　thing。　There　was　no　doctor　closer　than　Casco；　and　no　more　than　a　dozen　houses　in　what　you　would　call　town。　There　were　no　neighborhoods　（I'm　not　even　sure　we　knew　the　word；　although　we　had　a　verb…neighboring…that　described　church　functions　and　barn　dances）；　and　open　fields　were　the　exception　rather　than　the　rule。　Out　of　town　the　houses　were　farms　that　stood　far　apart　from　each　other；　and　from　December　until　middle　March　we　mostly　hunkered　down　in　the　little　pockets　of　stovewarmth　we　called　families。　We　hunkered　and　listened　to　the　wind　in　the　chimney　and　hoped　no　one　would　get　sick　or　break　a　leg　or　get　a　headful　of　bad　ideas；　like　the　farmer　over　in　Castle　Rock　who　had　chopped　up　his　wife　and　kids　three　winters　before　and　then　said　in　court　that　the　ghosts　made　him　do　it。　In　those　days　before　the　Great　War；　most　of　Motton　was　woods　and　bog；　dark　long　places　full　of　moose　and　mosquitoes；　snakes　and　secrets。　In　those　days　there　were　ghosts　everywhere。
　　
　　This　thing　I'm　telling　about　happened　on　a　Saturday。　My　father　gave　me　a　whole　list　of　chores　to　do；　including　some　that　would　have　been　Dan's；　if　he'd　still　been　alive。　He　was　my　only　brother；　and　he'd　died　of　being　stung　by　a　bee。　A　year　had　gone　by；　and　still　my　mother　wouldn't　hear　that。　She　said　it　was　something　else；　had　to　have　been；　that　no　one　ever　died　of　being　stung　by　a　bee。　When　Mama　Sweet；　the　oldest　lady　in　the　Methodist　Ladies'　Aid；　tried　to　tell　her…at　the　church　supper　the　previous　winter；　this　was…that　the　same　thing　had　happened　to　her　favorite　uncle　back　in　'73；　my　mother　clapped　her　hands　over　her　ears；　got　up；　and　walked　out　of　the　church　basement。　She'd　never　been　back　since；　either；　and　nothing　my　father　could　say　to　her　would　change　her　mind。　She　claimed　she　was　done　with　church；　and　that　if　she　ever　had　to　see　Helen　Robichaud　again　（that　was　Mama　Sweet's　real　name）；　she　would　slap　her　eyes　out。　She　wouldn't　be　able　to　help　herself；　she　said。
　　That　day；　Dad　wanted　me　to　lug　wood　for　the　cookstove；　weed　the　beans　and　the　cukes；　pitch　hay　out　of　the　loft；　get　two　jugs　of　water　to　put　in　the　cold　pantry；　and　scrape　as　much　old　paint　off　the　cellar　bulkhead　as　I　could。　Then；　he　said；　I　could　go　fishing；　if　I　didn't　mind　going　by　myself…he　had　to　go　over　and　see　Bill　Eversham　about　some　cows。　I　said　I　sure　didn't　mind　going　by　myself；　and　my　Dad　smiled　like　that　didn't　surprise　him　so　very　much。　He'd　given　me　a　bamboo　pole　the　week　before…not　because　it　was　my　birthday　or　anything；　but　just　because　he　liked　to　give　me　things；　sometimes…and　I　was　wild　to　try　it　in　Castle　Stream；　which　was　by　far　the　troutiest　brook　I'd　ever　fished。
　　'But　don't　you　go　too　far　in　the　woods；'　he　told　me。　'Not　beyond　where　it　splits。'
　　'No；　sir。'
　　'Promise　me。'
　　'Yessir；　I　promise。'
　　'Now　promise　your　mother。'
　　We　were　standing　on　the　back　stoop；　I　had　been　bound　for　the　springhouse　with　the　waterjugs　when　my　Dad　stopped　me。　Now　he　turned　me　around　to　face　my　mother；　who　was　standing　at　the　marble　counter　in　a　flood　of　strong　morning　sunshine　falling　through　the　double　windows　over　the　sink。　There　was　a　curl　of　hair　lying　across　the　side　of　her　forehead　and　touching　her　eyebrow…you　see　how　well　I　remember　it　all？　The　bright　light　turned　that　little　curl　to　filaments　of　gold　and　made　me　want　to　run　to　her　and　put　my　arms　around　her。　In　that　instant　I　saw　her　as　a　woman；　saw　her　as　my　father　must　have　seen　her。　She　was　wearing　a　housedress　with　little　red　roses　all　over　it；　I　remember；　and　she　was　kneading　bread。　Candy　Bill；　our　little　black　Scottie　dog；　was　standing　alertly　beside　her　feet；　looking　up；　waiting　for　anything　that　might　drop。　My　mother　was　looking　at　me。
　　'I　promise；'　I　said。
　　She　smiled；　but　it　was　the　worried　kind　of　smile　she　always　seemed　to　make　since　my　father　brought　Dan　back　from　the　west　field　in　his　arms。　My　father　had　e　sobbing　and　bare…chested。　He　had　taken　off　his　shirt　and　draped　it　over　Dan's　face；　which　had　swelled　and　turned　color。　My　boy！　he　had　been　crying。　Oh；　look　at　my　boy！　Jesus；　look　at　my　boy！　I　remember　that　as　if　it　had　been　yesterday。　It　was　the　only　time　I　ever　heard　my　Dad　take　the　Savior's　name　in　vain。
　　'What　do　you　promise；　Gary？'　she　asked。
　　'Promise　not　to　go　no　further　than　where　it　forks；　ma'am。'
　　'Any　further。'
　　'Any。'
　　She　gave　me　a　patient　look；　saying　nothing　as　her　hands　went　on　working　in　the　dough；　which　now　had　a　smooth；　silky　look。
　　'I　promise　not　to　go　any　further　than　where　it　forks；　ma'am。'
　　'Thank　you；　Gary；'　she　said。　'And　try　to　remember　that　grammar　is　for　the　world　as　well　as　for　school。'
　　'Yes；　ma'am。'
　　
　　Candy　Bill　followed　me　as　I　did　my　chores；　and　sat　between　my　feet　as　I　bolted　my　lunch；　looking　up　at　me　with　the　same　attentiveness　he　had　shown　my　mother　while　she　was　kneading　her　bread；　but　when　I　got　my　new　bamboo　pole　and　my　old；　splintery　creel　and　started　out　of　the　dooryard；　he　stopped　and　only　stood　in　the　dust　by　an　old　roll　of　snowfence；　watching。　I　called　him　but　he　wouldn't　e。　He　yapped　a　time　or　two；　as　if　telling　me　to　e　back；　but　that　was　all。
　　'Stay；　then；'　I　said；　trying　to　sound　as　if　I　didn't　care。　I　did；　though；　at　least　a　little。　Candy　Bill　always　went　fishing　with　me。
　　My　mother　came　to　the　door　and　looked　out　at　me　with　her　left　hand　held　up　to　shade　her　eyes。　I　can　see　her　that　way　still；　and　it's　like　looking　at　a　photograph　of　someone　who　later　became　unhappy；　or　died　suddenly。　'You　mind　your　Dad　now；　Gary！'
　　'Yes；　ma'am；　I　will。'
　　She　waved。　I　waved；　too。　Then　I　turned　my　back　on　her　and　walked　away。
　　
　　The　sun　beat　down　on　my　neck；　hard　and　hot；　for　the　first　quarter…mile　or　so；　but　then　I　entered　the　woods；　where　double　shadow　fell　over　the　road　and　it　was　cool　and　fir…smelling　and　you　could　hear　the　wind　hissing　through　the　deep　needled　groves。　I　walked　with　my　pole　on　my　shoulder　like　boys　did　back　then；　holding　my　creel　in　my　other　hand　like　a　valise　or　a　salesman's　sample…case。　About　two　miles　into　the　woods　along　a　road　which　was　really　nothing　but　a　double　rut　with　a　grassy　strip　growing　up　the　center　hump；　I　began　to　hear　the　hurried；　eager　gossip　of　Castle　Stream。　I　thought　of　trout　with　bright　speckled　backs　and　pure　white　bellies；　and　my　heart　went　up　in　my　chest。
　　The　stream　flowed　under　a　little　wooden　bridge；　and　the　banks　leading　down　to　th