Stephen King - Carrie

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STEPHEN KING "CARRIE"

News item from the Westover (Me.) weekly Enterprise, August

19, 1966:

RAIN OF STONES REPORTED

It was reliably reported by several persons that a rain of stones fell from a clear

blue sky on Carlin Street in the town of Chamberlain on August 17th. The stones fell

principally on the home of Mrs. Margaret White, damaging the roof extensively and

ruining two gutters and a downspout valued at approximately $25. Mrs. White, a widow,

lives with her three-year-old daughter, Carietta.

Mrs. White could not he reached for comment.

Nobody was really surprised when it happened, not really, not at the subconscious

level where savage things grow. On the surface, all the girls in the shower room were

shocked, thrilled, ashamed, or simply glad that the White bitch had taken it in the

mouth again. Some of ~hem might also have claimed surprise, but of course their claim

was untrue. Carrie had been going to school with some of them since the first grade,

and this had been building since that time, building slowly and immutably, in

accordance with all the laws that govern human nature, building with all the steadiness

of a chain reaction approaching critical mass.

What none of them knew, of course, was that Carrie White was telekinetic.

Graffiti scratched on a desk of the Barker Street Grammar School in Chamberlain:

Carrie White eats shit.

The locker room was filled with shouts, echoes, and the subterranean sound of showers

~plashing on tile. The girls had been playing volleyball in Period One, and their

morning sweat was light and eager.

Girls stretched and writhed under the hot water, squalling, flicking water, squirting

white bars of soap from hand to hand. Carrie stood among them stolidly, a frog among

swans. She was a chunky girl with pimples on her neck and back and buttocks, her wet

hair completely without color. It rested against her face with dispirited sogginess and

she simply stood, head slightly bent, letting the water splat against her flesh and

roll off. She looked the part of the sacrificial goat, the constant butt, believer in

left-handed monkey wrenches, perpetual foul-up, and she was. She wished forlornly and

constantly that Ewen High had individual-and thus private-showers, like the high

schools at Westover or Lewiston. They stared. They always stared.

Showers turning off one by one, girls stepping out, removing pastel bathing caps,

toweling, spraying deodorant, checking the clock over the door. Bras were hooked,

underpants stepped into. Steam hung in the air; the place might have been an Egyptian

bathhouse except for the constant rumble of the Jacuzzi whirlpool in the corner. Calls

and catcalls rebounded with all the snap and flicker of billiard balls after a hard

break.

"-so Tommy said he hated it on me and I-"

"-I'm going with my sister and her husband. He picks his nose but so does she, so

they're very-"-shower after school and-"

"-too cheap to spend a goddam penny so Cindi and I-"

Miss Desjardin, their slim, nonbreasted gym teacher, stepped in, craned her neck

around briefly, and slapped her hands together once, smartly. "What are you waiting

for, Carrie? Doom? Bell in five minutes." Her shorts were blinding white, her legs not

too curved but striking in their unobtrusive muscularity. A silver whistle, won in

college archery competition, hung around her neck.

The girls giggled and Carrie looked up, her eyes slow and dazed from the heat and the

steady, pounding roar of the water. "Ohuh?"

It was a strangely froggy sound, grotesquely apt, and the girls giggled again. Sue

Snell had whipped a towel from her hair with the speed of a magician embarking on a

wondrous feat and began to comb rapidly. Miss Desjardin made an irritated cranking

gesture at Carrie and stepped out.

Carrie turned off the shower. It died in a drip and a gurgle.

It wasn't until she stepped out that they all saw the blood running down her leg.

From The Shadow Exploded: Documented Facts and Specific Conclusions Derived from the

Case of Carietta White, by David R. Congress (Tulane University Press: 1981), p.34:

It can hardly be disputed that failure to note specific instances of telekinesis

during the White girl's earlier years must be attributed to the conclusion offered by

White and Stearns in their paper Telekinesis: A Wild Talent Revisited-that the ability

to move objects by effort of the will alone comes to the fore only in moments of

extreme personal stress. The talent is well hidden indeed; how else could it have

remained submerged for centuries with only the tip of the iceberg showing above a sea

of quackery?

We have only skimpy hearsay evidence upon which to lay our foundation in this case,

but even this is enough to indicate that a "TK" potential of immense magnitude existed

within Carrie White. The great tragedy is that we are now all Monday morning

quarterbacks ...

"Per-iod!"

The catcall came first from Chris Hargensen. It struck the tiled walls, rebounded,

and struck again. Sue Snell gasped laughter from her nose and felt an odd, vexing

mixture of hate, revulsion, exasperation, and pity. She just looked so dumb, standing

there, not knowing what was going on. God, you'd think she never-"PERiod!"

It was becoming a chant, an incantation. Someone in the background (perhaps Hargensen

again, Sue couldn't tell in the jungle of echoes) was yelling, "Plug it up!" with

hoarse, uninhibited abandon.

"PER-jod, PER-iod, PER-iod!"

Carrie stood dumbly in the center of a forming circle, water rolling from her skin in

beads. She stood like a patient ox, aware that the joke was on her (as always), dumbly

embarrassed but unsurprised.

Sue felt welling disgust as the first dark drops of menstrual blood struck the tile

in dime-sized drops. "For God's sake, Carrie, you got your period!" she cried. "Clean

yourself up!"

"Ohuh?"

She looked around bovinely. Her hair stuck to her cheeks in a curving helmet shape.

There was a cluster of acne on one shoulder. At sixteen, the elusive stamp of hurt was

already marked clearly in her eyes.

"She thinks they're for lipstick!" Ruth Gogan suddenly shouted with cryptic glee, and

then burst into a shriek of laughter. Sue remembered the comment later and fitted it

into a general picture, but now it was only another senseless sound in the confusion.

Sixteen? She was thinking. She must know what's happening, she-More droplets of blood.

Carrie still blinked around at her

classmates in slow bewilderment.

Helen Shyres turned around and made mock throwing-up gestures.

"You're bleeding!" Sue yelled suddenly, furiously. "You're bleeding, you big dumb

pudding!"

Carrie looked down at herself.

She shrieked.

The sound was very loud in the humid locker room.

A tampon suddenly struck her in the chest and fell with a plop at her feet. A red

flower stained the absorbent cotton and spread.

Then the laughter, disgusted, contemptuous, horrified, seemed to rise and bloom into

something jagged and ugly, and the girls were bombarding her with tampons and sanitary

napkins, some from purses, some from the broken dispenser on the wall. They flew like

snow and the chant became: "Plug it up, plug it up, plug it up, plug it-"

Sue was throwing them too, throwing and chanting with the rest, not really sure what

she was doing-a charm had occurred to her mind and it glowed there like neon: There's

no harm in it really no harm in it really no harm- It was still flashing and glowing,

reassuringly, when Carrie suddenly began to howl and back away, flailing her arms and

grunting and gobbling.

The girls stopped, realizing that fission and explosion had finally been reached. It

was at this point, when looking back, that some of them would claim surprise. Yet there

had been all these years, all these years of let's short-sheet Carrie's bed at

Christian Youth Camp and I found this love letter from Carrie to Flash Bobby Pickett

let's copy it and pass it around and hide her underpants somewhere and put this snake

in her shoe and duck her again, duck her again; Carrie tagging along stubbornly on

biking trips, known one year as pudd'n and the next year as truck-face, always smelling

sweaty, not able to catch up; catching poison ivy from urinating in the bushes and

everyone finding out (hey, scratch-ass, your bum itch?); Billy Preston putting peanut

butter in her hair that time she fell asleep in study hall; the pinches, the legs

outstretched in school aisles to trip her up, the books knocked from her desk, the

obscene postcard tucked into her purse; Carrie on the church picnic and kneeling down

clumsily to pray and the seam of her old madras skirt splitting along the zipper like

the sound of a huge wind-breakage; Carrie always missing the ball, even in kickball,

falling on her face in Modern Dance during their sophomore year and chipping a tooth,

running into the net during volleyball; wearing stockings that were always run,

running, or about to run, always showing sweat stains under the arms of her blouses;

even the time Chris Hargensen called up after school from the Kelly Fruit Company

downtown and asked her if she knew that pig poop was spelled C-A-R-R-I-E: Suddenly all

this and the critical mass was reached. The ultimate shit-on, gross-out, put-down, long

searched for, was found. Fission.

She backed away, howling in the new silence, fat forearms crossing her face, a tampon

stuck in the middle of her pubic hair.

The girls watched her, their eyes shining solemnly.

Carrie backed into the side of one of the four large shower compartments and slowly

collapsed into a sitting position. Slow, helpless groans jerked out of her. Her eyes

rolled with wet whiteness, like the eyes of a hog in the slaughtering pen.

Sue said slowly, hesitantly: "I think this must be the first time she ever-That was

when the door pumped open with a flat and

hurried bang and Miss Desjardin burst in to see what the matter was.

From The Shadow Exploded (p. 41):

Both medical and psychological writers on the subject are in agreement that Carrie

White's exceptionally late and traumatic commencement of the menstrual cycle might well

have provided the trigger for her latent talent.

It seems incredible that, as late as 1979, Carrie knew nothing of the mature woman's

monthly cycle. It is nearly as incredible to believe that the girl's mother would

permit her daughter to reach the age of nearly seventeen without consulting a

gynecologist concerning the daughter's failure to menstruate.

Yet the facts are incontrovertible. When Carrie White realized she was bleeding from

the vaginal opening, she had no idea of what was taking place. She was innocent of the

entire concept of menstruation.

One of her surviving classmates, Ruth Gogan, tells of entering the girls' locker room

at Ewen High School the year before the events we are concerned with and seeing Carrie

using a tampon to blot her lipstick with. At that time Miss Gogan said: "What the hell

are you up to?" Miss White replied: "Isn't this right?" Miss Gogan then replied: "Sure.

Sure it is." Ruth Gogan let a number of her girl friends in on this (she later told

this interviewer she thought it was "sorta cute"), and if anyone tried in the future to

inform Carrie of the true purpose of what she was using to make up with, she apparently

dismissed the explanation as an attempt to pull her leg. This was a facet of her life

that she had become exceedingly wary of. .

When the girls were gone to their Period Two classes and the bell had been silenced

(several of them had slipped quietly out the back door before Miss Desjardin could

begin to take names), Miss Desjardin employed the standard tactic for hysterics: She

slapped Carrie smartly across the face. She hardly would have admitted the pleasure the

act gave her, and she certainly would have denied that she regarded Carrie as a fat,

whiny bag of lard. A first-year teacher, she still believed that she thought all

children were good.

Carrie looked up at her dumbly, face still contorted and working. "M-M-Miss D-D-Des-

D~"

"Get up," Miss Desjardin said dispassionately. "Get up and tend to yourself."

"I'm bleeding to death!" Carrie screamed, and one blind, searching hand came up and

clutched Miss Desjardin's white shorts. It left a bloody handprint.

"I ... you . . . The gym teacher's face contorted into a pucker of disgust, and she

suddenly hurled Carrie, stumbling, to her feet. "Get over there!"

Carrie stood swaying between the showers and the wall with its dime sanitary-napkin

dispenser, slumped over, breasts pointing at the floor, her arms dangling limply. She

looked like an ape. Her eyes were shiny and blank.

"Now," Miss Desjardin said with hissing, deadly emphasis, you take one of those

napkins out... no, never mind the coin slot, it's broken anyway . . . take one and . .

. damn it, will you do it! You act as if you never had a period before."

"Period?" Carrie said.

Her expression of complete unbelief was too genuine, too full of dumb and hopeless

horror, to be ignored or denied. A terrible and black foreknowledge grew in Rita

Desjardin's mind. It was incredible, could not be. She herself had begun menstruation

shortly after her eleventh birthday and had gone to the head of the stairs to yell down

excitedly: "Hey, Mum, I'm on the rag!"

"Carrie?" she said now. She advanced toward the girl. "Carrie?"

Carrie flinched away. At the same instant, a rack of softball bats in the corner fell

over with a large, echoing bang. They rolled every which way, making Desjardin jump.

"Carrie, is this your first period?"

But now that the thought had been admitted, she hardly had to ask. The blood was dark

and flowing with terrible heaviness. Both of Carrie's legs were smeared and splattered

with it, as though she had waded through a river of blood.

"It hurts," Carrie groaned. "My stomach . .

"That passes," Miss Desjardin said. Pity and self-shame met in her and mixed

uneasily. "You have to ... uh, stop the flow of blood. You-"

There was a bright flash overhead, followed by a flashgun-like pop as a light bulb

sizzled and went out. Miss Desjardin cried out with surprise, and it occurred to her

(the whole damn place is falling in)

that this kind of thing always seemed to happen around Carrie when she was upset, as

if bad luck dogged her every step. The thought was gone almost as quickly as it had

come. She took one of the sanitary napkins from the broken dispenser and unwrapped it.

"Look," she said. "Like this-"

From The Shadow Exploded (p. 54):

Carrie White's mother, Margaret White, gave birth to her daughter on September 21,

1963, under circumstances which can only be termed bizarre. In fact, an overview of the

Carrie White case leaves the careful student with one feeling ascendant over all

others: that Carrie was the only issue of a family as odd as any that has ever been

brought to popular attention.

As noted earlier, Ralph White died in February of 1963 when a steel girder fell out

of a carrying sling on a housing-project job in Portland. Mrs. White continued to live

alone in their suburban Chamberlain bungalow.

Due to the Whites' near-fanatical fundamentalist religious beliefs, Mrs. White had no

friends to see her through her period of bereavement. And when her labor began seven

months later, she was alone.

At approximately 1:30 P.M. on September 21, the neighbors on Carlin Street began to

hear screams from the White bungalow. The police, however, were not summoned to the

scene until after 6:00 P.M. We are left with two unappetizing alternatives to explain

this time lag: Either Mrs. White's neighbors on the street did not wish to become

involved in a police investigation, or dislike for her had become so strong that they

deliberately adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Mrs. Georgia McLaughlin, the only one of

three remaining residents who were on the street at that time and who would talk to me,

said that she did not call the police because she thought the screams had something to

do with "holy rollin'."

When the police did arrive at 6:22 P.M. the screams had become irregular. Mrs. White

was found in her bed upstairs, and the investigating officer, Thomas G. Mearton, at

first thought she had been the victim of an assault. The bed was drenched with blood,

and a butcher knife lay on the floor. It was only then that he saw the baby, still

partially wrapped in the placental membrane, at Mrs. White's breast. She had apparently

cut the umbilical cord herself with the knife.

It staggers both imagination and belief to advance the hypothesis that Mrs. Margaret

White did not know she was pregnant, or even understand what the word entails, and

recent scholars such as J. W. Bankson and George Fielding have made a more reasonable

case for the hypothesis that the concept, linked irrevocably in her mind with the "sin"

of intercourse, had been blocked entirely from her mind. She may simply have refused to

believe that such a thing could happen to her.

We have records of at least three letters to a friend in Kenosha, Wisconsin, that

seem to prove conclusively that Mrs. White believed, from her fifth month on, that she

had "a cancer of the womanly parts" and would soon join her husband in heaven....

When Miss Desjardin led Carrie up to the office fifteen minutes later, the halls were

mercifully empty. Classes droned onward behind closed doors.

Carrie's shrieks had finally ended, but she had continued to weep with steady

regularity. Desjardin had finally placed the napkin herself, cleaned the girl up with

wet paper towels, and gotten her back into her plain cotton underpants.

She tried twice to explain the commonplace reality of menstruation, but Carrie

clapped her hands over her ears and continued to cry.

Mr. Morton, the assistant principal, was out of his office in a flash when they

entered. Billy deLois and Henry Trennant, two boys waiting for the lecture due them for

cutting French I, goggled around from their chairs.

"Come in," Mr. Morton said briskly. "Come right in." He glared over Desjardin's

shoulder at the boys, who were staring at the bloody handprint on her shorts. "What are

you looking at?"

"Blood," Henry said, and smiled with a kind of vacuous surprise.

"Two detention periods," Morton snapped. He glanced down at the bloody handprint and

blinked.

He closed the door behind them and began pawing through the top drawer of his filing

cabinet for a school accident form.

"Are you all right, uh-"

"Carrie," Desjardin supplied. "Carrie White." Mr. Morton had finally located an

accident form. There was a large coffee stain on it. "You won't need that, Mr. Morton."

"I suppose it was the trampoline. We just . . . I won't?"

"No. But I think Carrie should be allowed to go home for the rest of the day. She's

had a rather frightening experience." Her eyes flashed a signal which he caught but

could not interpret.

"Yes, okay, if you say so. Good. Fine." Morton crumpled the form back into the filing

cabinet, slammed it shut with his thumb in the drawer, and grunted. He whirled

gracefully to the door, yanked it open, glared at Billy and Henry, and called: "Miss

Fish, could we have a dismissal slip here, please? Carrie Wright."

"White," said Miss Desjardin.

"White," Morton agreed.

Billy deLois sniggered.

"Week's detention!" Morton barked. A blood blister was forming under his thumbnail.

Hurt like hell. Carrie's steady, monotonous weeping went on and on.

Miss Fish brought the yellow dismissal slip and Morton scrawled his initials on it

with his silver pocket pencil, wincing at the pressure on his wounded thumb.

"Do you need a ride, Cassie?" he asked. "We can call a cab if you need one."

She shook her head. He noticed with distaste that a large bubble of green mucus had

formed at one nostril. Morton looked over her head and at Miss Desjardin.

"I'm sure she'll be all right," she said. "Carrie only has to go over to Carlin

Street. The fresh air will do her good."

Morton gave the girl the yellow slip. "You can go now, Cassie," he said

magnanimously.

"That's not my name!" she screamed suddenly.

Morton recoiled, and Miss Desjardin jumped as if struck from behind. The heavy

ceramic ashtray on Morton's desk (it was Rodin's Thinker with his head turned into a

receptacle for cigarette butts) suddenly toppled to the rug, as if to take cover from

the force of her scream. Butts and flakes of Morton's pipe tobacco scattered on the

pale-green nylon rug.

"Now, listen," Morton said, trying to muster sternness. "I know you're upset, but

that doesn't mean I'll stand for-"

"Please," Miss Desjardin said quietly.

Morton blinked at her and then nodded curtly. He tried to project the image of a

lovable John Wayne figure while performing the disciplinary functions that were his

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摘要：

STEPHENKING"CARRIE"NewsitemfromtheWestover(Me.)weeklyEnterprise,August19,1966:RAINOFSTONESREPORTEDItwasreliablyreportedbyseveralpersonsthatarainofstonesfellfromaclearblueskyonCarlinStreetinthetownofChamberlainonAugust17th.ThestonesfellprincipallyonthehomeofMrs.MargaretWhite,damagingtheroofextensivel...

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Stephen King - Carrie

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