Stephen King - Bag Of Bones

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Bag of BBones [030-011-4.9]

By: Stephen KING

Synopsis:

A chilling story of ghosts and horror told as oly the Master can

tellit: yes, Bag of bones, by Stephen King. After the tragic death of

his wife, a writer returns to his Maine summer home and there confronts

internal and external ghosts, as well as a very special child and her

mother.

SCRIBNER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are products of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

part in any form. SCRIBNER and design are trademarks of Simon & Schuster

Inc.

Set in Garamond No. 3

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data King, Stephen,

1947Bag of bones / Stephen King. p cm. I. Title.

PS3561.I483B34 1998

813'.54c21 98-23801 CIP

ISBN 0-684-85350-7

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from

the following copyrighted material:

Publications U.S. INC., Miami, FL. 33014

"Don't Worry Baby" by Brian Wilson, Roger Christian,. lay Siegel, Philip

Renewed, Assigned to Irving Music, Inc, and Careers-BMG Music

Publications U.S. INC., Miami, FL. 33014

University Press, 1980 by Edmund Keetey and Philip Sherrard Greek M.

Seferiades 1972, 1976. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University

Press.

"Welcome r the Jungle" words and music by W. Axl Rose, Slash, lzzy

Reprinted by permission of Cherry Lane Music Company.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

To an extent, this novel deals with the legal aspects of child custody

in the State of Maine. I asked for help in understanding this subject

from my friend Warren Silver, who is a fine attorney. Warren guided me

carefully, and along the way he also told me about a quaint old device

called the Stenomask, which I immediately appropriated for my own fell

purposes. If I've made procedural mistakes in the story which follows,

blame me, not my legal resource. Warren also asked me--rather

plaintively--if I could maybe put a "good" lawyer in my book. All I can

say is that I did my best in that regard.

Thanks to my son Owen for technical support in Woodstock, New York, and

to my friend (and fellow Rock Bottom Remainder) Ridley Pearson for

technical support in Ketchum, Idaho. Thanks to Pam Dorman for her

sympathetic and perceptive reading of the first draft. Thanks to Chuck

Verrill for a monumental editing job--your personal best, Chuck. Thanks

to Susan Mold w, Nan Graham, Jack Roman s, and Carolyn Reidy at Scribner

for care and feeding. And thanks to Tabby, who was there for me again

when things got hard. I love you, hon.

S.K.

This is for Naomi.

Still.

Yes, Bartleby, stay there behind your screen, thought I;

I shall persecute you no more; you are harmless and noiseless as any of

these old chairs; in short, I never feel so private as when I know you

are here.

"Bartleby,"

HERMAN MELVILLE

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again... As I stood there,

hushed and still, I could swear that the house was not an empty shell

but lived and breathed as it had lived before.

Rebecca,

DAPHNE DU MAURIER

Mars is heaven.

RAY BRADBURY

On a very hot day in August of 1994, my wife told me she was going down

to the Derry Rite Aid to pick up a refill on her sinus medicine

prescription--this is stuff you can buy over the counter these days, I

believe. I'd finished my writing for the day and offered to pick it up

for her. She said thanks, but she wanted to get a piece of fish at the

supermarket next door anyway; two birds with one stone and all of that.

She blew a kiss at me off the palm of her hand and went out. The next

time I saw her, she was on TV. That's how you identify the dead here in

Derry--no walking down a subterranean corridor with green tiles on the

walls and long fluorescent bars overhead, no naked body rolling out of a

chilly drawer on casters; you just go into an office marked PRIVATE and

look at a TV screen and say yep or nope.

The Rite Aid and the Shopwell are less than a mile from our house, in a

little neighborhood strip mall which also supports a video store, a

used-book store named Spread It Around (they do a very brisk business in

my old paperbacks), a Radio Shack, and a Fast Foto. It's on Up-Mile

Hill, at the intersection of Witcham and Jackson.

She parked in front of Blockbuster Video, went into the drugstore, and

did business with Mr. Joe Wyzer, who was the druggist in those days;

he has since moved on to the Rite Aid in Bangor. At the checkout she

picked up one of those little chocolates with marshmallow inside, this

one in the shape of a mouse. I found it later, in her purse. I unwrapped

it and ate it myself, sitting at the kitchen table with the contents of

her red handbag spread out in front of me, and it was like taking

Communion. When it was gone except for the taste of chocolate on my

tongue and in my throat, I burst into tears. I sat there in the litter

of her Kleenex and makeup and keys and half-finished rolls of Certs and

cried with my hands over my eyes, the way a kid cries. The sinus inhaler

was in a Rite Aid bag. It had cost twelve dollars and eighteen cents.

There was something else in the bag, too--an item which had cost

twenty-two-fifty. I looked at this other item for a long time, seeing it

but not understanding it. I was surprised, maybe even stunned, but the

idea that Johanna Arlen Noonan might have been leading another life, one

I knew nothing about, never crossed my mind. Not then.

Jo left the register, walked out into the bright, hammering sun again,

swapping her regular glasses for her prescription sunglasses as she did,

and just as she stepped from beneath the drugstore's slight overhang (I

am imagining a little here, I suppose, crossing over into the country of

the novelist a little, but not by much; only by inches, and you can

trust me on that), there was that shrewish howl of locked tires on

pavement that means there's going to be either an accident or a very

close call. This time it happened--the sort of accident which happened

at that stupid X-shaped intersection at least once a week, it seemed. A

1989 Toyota was pulling out of the shopping-center parking lot and

turning left onto Jackson Street. Behind the wheel was Mrs. Esther

Easterling of Barrett's Orchards. She was accompanied by her friend Mrs.

Irene Deorsey, also of Barrett's Orchards, who had shopped the video

store without finding anything she wanted to rent. Too much violence,

Irene said. Both women were cigarette widows. Esther could hardly have

missed the orange Public Works dump truck coming down the hill; although

she denied this to the police, to the newspaper, and to me when I talked

to her some two months later, I think it likely that she just forgot to

look. As my own mother (another cigarette widow) used to say, "The two

most common ailments of the elderly are arthritis and forgetfulness.

They can't be held responsible for neither." Driving the Public Works

truck was William Fraker, of Old Cape. Mr. Fraker was thirty-eight years

old on the day of my wife's death, driving with his shirt off and

thinking how badly he wanted a cool shower and a cold beer, not

necessarily in that order. He and three other men had spent eight hours

putting down asphalt patch out on the Harris Avenue Extension near the

airport, a hot job on a hot day, and Bill Fraker said yeah, he might

have been going a little too fast--maybe forty in a thirty-mile-an-hour

zone. He was eager to get back to the garage, sign off on the truck, and

get behind the wheel of his own F-150, which had air conditioning. Also,

the dump truck's brakes, while good enough to pass inspection, were a

long way from tip-top condition.

Fraker hit them as soon as he saw the Toyota pull out in front of him

(he hit his horn, as well), but it was too late. He heard screaming

tires--his own, and Esther's as she belatedly realized her danger--and

saw her face for just a moment. "That was the worst part, somehow," he

told me as we sat on his porch, drinking beers--it was October by then,

and although the sun was warm on our faces, we were both wearing

sweaters. "You know how high up you sit in one of those dump trucks? " I

nodded. "Well, she was looking up to see me---craning up, you'd say--and

the sun was full in her face. I could see how old she was. I remember

thinking, "Holy shit, she's gonna break like glass if I can't

stop.' But old people are tough, more often than not. They can surprise

you. I mean, look at how it turned out, both those old biddies still

alive, and your wife..." He stopped then, bright red color dashing into

his cheeks, making him look like a boy who has been laughed at in the

schoolyard by girls who have noticed his fly is unzipped. It was

comical, but if I'd smiled, it only would have confused him. "Mr.

Noonan, I'm sorry. My mouth just sort of ran away with me."

"It's all right," I told him. "I'm over the worst of it, anyway." That

was a lie, but it put us back on track. "Anyway," he said, "we hit.

There was a loud bang, and a crumping sound when the driver's side of

the car caved in. Breaking glass, too. I was thrown against the wheel

hard enough so I couldn't draw a breath without it hurting for a week or

more, and I had a big bruise right here." He drew an arc on his chest

just below the collarbones. "I banged my head on the windshield hard

enough to crack the glass, but all I got up there was a little purple

knob.., no bleeding, not even a headache.

My wife says I've just got a naturally thick skull. I saw the woman

driving the Toyota, Mrs. Easterling, thrown across the console between

the front bucket seats. Then we were finally stopped, all tangled

together in the middle of the street, and I got out to see how bad they

were. I tell you, I expected to find them both dead." Neither of them

was dead, neither of them was even unconscious, although Mrs. Easterling

had three broken ribs and a dislocated hip. Mrs. Deorsey, who had been a

seat away from the impact, suffered a concussion when she rapped her

head on her window. That was all; she was "treated and released at Home

Hospital," as the Derry News always puts it in such cases. My wife, the

former Johanna Arlen of Malden, Massachusetts, saw it all from where she

stood outside the drugstore, with her purse slung over her shoulder and

her prescription bag in one hand. Like Bill Fraker, she must have

thought the occupants of the Toyota were either dead or seriously hurt.

The sound of the collision had been a hollow, authoritative bang which

rolled through the hot afternoon air like a bowling ball down an alley.

The sound of breaking glass edged it like jagged lace. The two vehicles

were tangled violently together in the middle of Jackson Street, the

dirty orange truck looming over the pale-blue import like a bullying

parent over a cowering child. Johanna began to sprint across the parking

lot toward the street. Others were doing the same all around her. One of

them, Miss Jill Dun-barry, had been window-shopping at Radio Shack when

the accident occurred. She said she thought she remembered running past

Johanna--at least she was pretty sure she remembered someone in yellow

slacks--but she couldn't be sure. By then, Mrs. Easterling was screaming

that she was hurt, they were both hurt, wouldn't somebody help her and

her friend Irene.

Halfway across the parking lot, near a little cluster of newspaper

dispensers, my wife fell down. Her purse-strap stayed over her shoulder,

but her prescription bag slipped from her hand, and the sinus inhaler

slid halfway out. The other item stayed put. No one noticed her lying

there by the newspaper dispensers; everyone was focused on the tangled

vehicles, the screaming women, the spreading puddle of water and

antifreeze from the Public Works truck's ruptured radiator. ("That's

gas!" the clerk from Fast Foto shouted to anyone who would listen.

"That's gas, watch out she don't blow, fellas!") I suppose one or two of

the would-be rescuers might have jumped right over her, perhaps thinking

she had fainted. To assume such a thing on a day when the temperature

was pushing ninety-five degrees would not have been unreasonable.

Roughly two dozen people from the shopping center clustered around the

accident; another four dozen or so came running over from Strawford

Park, where a baseball game had been going on. I imagine that all the

things you would expect to hear in such situations were said, many of

them more than once. Milling around. Someone reaching through the

misshapen hole which had been the driver's-side window to pat Esther's

.trembling old hand. People immediately giving way for Joe Wyzer; at

such moments anyone in a white coat automatically becomes the belle of

the ball. In the distance, the warble of an ambulance siren rising like

shaky air over an incinerator. All during this, lying unnoticed in the

parking lot, was my wife with her purse still over her shoulder (inside,

still wrapped in foil, her uneaten chocolate-marshmallow mouse) and her

white prescription bag near one outstretched hand. It was Joe Wyzer,

hurrying back to the pharmacy to get a compression bandage for Irene

Deorsey's

head, who spotted her. He recognized her even though she was lying

face-down. He recognized her by her red hair, white blouse, and yellow

slacks. He recognized her because he had waited on her not fifteen

minutes before. "Mrs. Noonan?" he asked, forgetting all about the

compression bandage for the dazed but apparently not too badly hurt Irene

Deorsey.

"Mrs. Noonan, are you all right?" Knowing already (or so I suspect;

perhaps I am wrong) that she was not.

He turned her over. It took both hands to do it, and even then he had to

work hard, kneeling and pushing and lifting there in the parking lot

with the heat baking down from above and then bouncing back up from the

asphalt. Dead people put on weight, it seems to me; both in their flesh

and in our minds, they put on weight. There were red marks on her face.

When I identified her I could see them clearly even on the video

monitor. I started to ask the assistant medical examiner what they were,

but then I knew. Late August, hot pavement, elementary, my dear Watson.

My wife died getting a sunburn. Wyzer got up, saw that the ambulance had

arrived, and ran toward it. He pushed his way through the crowd and

grabbed one of the attendants as he got out from behind the wheel.

"There's a woman over there," Wyzer said, pointing toward the parking

lot. "Guy, we've got two women right here, and a man as well," the

attendant said. He tried to pull away, but Wyzer held on. "Never mind

them right now," he said. "They're basically okay. The woman over there

isn't." The woman over there was dead, and I'm pretty sure Joe Wyzer

knew it... but he had his priorities straight. Give him that. And he was

convincing enough to get both paramedics moving away from the tangle of

truck and Toyota, in spite of Esther Easterling's cries of pain and the

rumbles of protest from the Greek chorus. When they got to my wife, one

of the paramedics was quick to confirm what Joe Wyzer had already

suspected. "Holy shit," the other one said. "What happened to her?"

"Heart, most likely," the first one said. "She got excited and it just

blew out on her." But it wasn't her heart. The autopsy revealed a brain

aneurysm which she might have been living with, all unknown, for as long

as five years. As she sprinted across the parking lot toward the

accident, that weak vessel in her cerebral cortex had blown like a tire,

drowning her control-centers in blood and killing her. Death had

probably not been instantaneous, the assistant medical examiner told me,

but it had still come swiftly enough.., and she wouldn't have suffered.

Just one big black nova, all sensation and thought gone even before she

hit the pavement.

"Can I help you in any way, Mr. Noonan?" the assistant ME asked, turning

me gently away from the still face and closed eyes on the video monitor.

"Do you have questions? I'll answer them if I can."

"Just one," I said.

I told him what she'd purchased in the drugstore just before she died.

Then I asked my question.

The days leading up to the funeral and the funeral itself are dreamlike

in my memory--the clearest memory I have is of eating Jo's chocolate

mouse and crying.., crying mostly, I think, because I knew how soon the

taste of it would be gone. I had one other crying fit a few days after

we buried her, and I will tell you about that one shortly. I was glad

for the arrival of Jo's family, and particularly for the arrival of her

oldest brother, Frank. It was Frank Arlen--fifty, red-cheeked, portly,

and with a head of lush dark hair--who organized the arrangements.., who

wound up actually dickering with the funeral director. "I can't believe

you did that," I said later, as we sat in a booth at Jack's Pub,

drinking beers. "He was trying to stick it to you, Mikey," he said. "I

hate guys like that." He reached into his back pocket, brought out a

handkerchief, and wiped absently at his cheeks with it. He hadn't broken

down--none of the Arlens broke down, at least not when I was with

them--but Frank had leaked steadily all day; he looked like a man

suffering from severe conjunctivitis. There had been six Arlen sibs in

all, Jo the youngest and the only girl. She had been the pet of her big

brothers. I suspect that if I'd had anything to do with her death, the

five of them would have torn me apart with their bare hands. As it was,

they formed a protective shield around me instead, and that was good. I

suppose I might have muddled through without them, but I don't know how.

I was thirty-six, remember. You don't expect to have to bury your wife

when you're thirty-six and she herself is two years younger. Death was

the last thing on our minds. "If a guy gets caught taking your stereo

out of your car, they call it theft and put him in jail," Frank said.

The Arlens had come from Massachusetts, and I could still hear Malden in

Frank's voice--caught was coowat, car was cah, call was caul. "If the

same guy is trying to sell a grieving husband a three-thousand-dollar

casket for forty-five hundred dollars, they call it business and ask him

to speak at the Rotary Club luncheon. Greedy asshole, I fed him his

lunch, didn't I?"

"Yes. You did."

"You okay, Mikey?"

"I'm okay."

"Sincerely okay?"

"How the fuck should I know?" I asked him, loud enough to turn some

heads in a nearby booth. And then: "She was pregnant." His face grew

very still. "What?" I struggled to keep my voice down.

"Pregnant. Six or seven weeks, according to the.., you know, the

autopsy. Did you know? Did she tell you?"

"No! Christ, no!" But there was a funny look on his face, as if she had

told him something. "I knew you were trying, of course.., she said you

had a low sperm count and it might take a little while, but the doctor

thought you guys'd probably.., sooner or later you'd probably..." He

trailed off, looking down at his hands. "They can tell that, huh? They

check for that?"

"They can tell.

As for checking, I don't know if they do it automatically or not. I

asked."

"Why?"

"She didn't just buy sinus medicine before she died. She also bought one

of those home pregnancy-testing kits."

"You had no idea?

No clue?" I shook my head. He reached across the table and squeezed my

shoulder. "She wanted to be sure, that's all. You know that, don't you?"

A refill on my sinus medicine and a piece of fish, she'd said. Looking

like always. A woman off to run a couple of errands. We had been trying

to have a kid for eight years, but she had looked just like always.

"Sure," I said, patting Frank's hand. "Sure, big guy. I know."

It was the Arlens--led by Frank who handled Johanna's sen doff. As the

writer of the family, I was assigned the obituary. My brother came up

from Virginia with my mom and my aunt and was allowed to tend the

guest-book at the viewings. My mother--almost completely ga-ga at the

age of sixty-six, although the doctors refused to call it

Alzheimer's--lived in Memphis with her sister, two years younger and

only slightly less wonky. They were in charge of cutting the cake and

the pies at the funeral reception. Everything else was arranged by the

Arlens, from the viewing hours to the components of the funeral

ceremony. Frank and Victor, the second-youngest brother, spoke brief

tributes. Jo's dad offered a prayer for his daughter's soul. And at the

end, Pete Breedlove, the boy who cut our grass in the summer and raked

our yard in the fall, brought everyone to tears by singing "Blessed

Assurance," which Frank said had been Jo's favorite hymn as a girl. How

Frank found Pete and persuaded him to sing at the funeral is something I

never found out. We got through it--the afternoon and evening viewings

on Tuesday, the funeral service on Wednesday morning, then the little

pray-over at Fairlawn Cemetery. What I remember most was thinking how

hot it was, how lost I felt without having Jo to talk to, and that I

wished I had bought a new pair of shoes. Jo would have pestered me to

death about the ones I was wearing, if she had been there. Later on I

talked to my brother, Sid, told him we had to do something about our

mother and Aunt Francine before the two of them disappeared completely

into the Twilight Zone. They were too young for a nursing home; what did

Sid advise? He advised something, but I'll be damned if I know what it

was. I agreed to it, I remember that, but not what it was. Later that

day, Siddy, our mom, and our aunt climbed back into Siddy's rental car

for the drive to Boston, where they would spend the night and then grab

the Southern Crescent the following day. My brother is happy enough to

chaperone the old folks, but he doesn't fly, even if the tickets are on

me. He claims there are no breakdown lanes in the sky if the engine

quits. Most of the Arlens left the next day. Once more it was dog-hot,

the sun glaring out of a white-haze sky and lying on everything like

melted brass. They stood in front of our house--which had become solely

my house' by then--with three taxis lined up at the curb behind them,

big galoots hugging one another amid the litter of tote-bags and saying

their goodbyes in those foggy Massachusetts accents. Frank stayed

another day. We picked a big bunch of flowers behind the house--not

those ghastly-smelling hothouse things whose aroma I always associate

with death and organ-music but real flowers, the kind Jo liked best--and

stuck them in a couple of coffee cans I found in the back pantry. We

went out to Fairlawn and put them on the new grave. Then we just sat

there for awhile under the beating sun. "She was always just the

sweetest thing in my life," Frank said at last in a strange, muffled

voice. "We took care of Jo when we were kids. Us guys. No one messed

with Jo, I'll tell you. Anyone tried, we'd feed em their lunch."

"She told me a lot of stories."

"Good ones?"

"Yeah, real good."

"I'm going to miss her so much."

"Me, too," I said. "Frank... listen... I know you were her favorite

brother. She never called you, maybe just to say that she missed a

period or was feeling whoopsy in the morning? You can tell me. I won't

be pissed."

"But she didn't. Honest to God. Was she whoopsy in the morning?"

"Not that I saw." And that was just it. I hadn't seen anything. Of

course I'd been writing, and when I write I pretty much trance out. But

she knew where I went in those trances. She could have found me and

shaken me fully awake. Why hadn't she? Why would she hide good news? Not

wanting to tell me until she was sure was plausible.., but it somehow

wasn't Jo. "Was it a boy or a girl?" he asked. "A girl."

We'd had names picked out and waiting for most of our marriage. A boy

would have been Andrew. Our daughter would have been Kia. Kia Jane

Noonan.

Frank, divorced six years and on his own, had been staying with me. On

our way back to the house he said, "I worry about you, Mikey. You

haven't got much family to fall back on at a time like this, and what

you do have is far away."

"I'll be all right," I said. He nodded.

"That's what we say, anyway, isn't it?"

"We?"

"Guys. Tll be all right.'

And if we're not, we try to make sure no one knows it." He looked at me,

eyes still leaking, handkerchief in one big sunburned hand. "If you're

not all right, Mikey, and you don't want to call your brother--I saw the

way you looked at him--let me be your brother. For Jo's sake if not your

own."

"Okay," I said, respecting and appreciating the offer, also knowing I

would do no such thing. I don't call people for help. It's not because

of the way I was raised, at least I don't think so; it's the way I was

made. Johanna once said that if I was drowning at Dark Score Lake, where

we have a summer home, I would die silently fifty feet out from the

public beach rather than yell for help. It's not a question of love or

affection. I can give those and I can take them. I feel pain like anyone

else. I need to touch and be touched. But if someone asks me, "Are you

all right?" I can't answer no. I can't say help me. A couple of hours

later Frank left for the southern end of the state. When he opened the

car door, I was touched to see that the taped book he was listening to

was one of mine. He hugged me, then surprised me with a kiss on the

mouth, a good hard smack. "If you need to talk, call," he said. "And if

you need to be with someone, just come." I nodded. "And be careful."

That startled me. The combination of heat and grief had made me feel as

if I had been living in a dream for the last few days, but that got

through. "Careful of what?"

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know, Mikey." Then he got into his

car--he was so big and it was so little that he looked as if he were

wearing it--and drove away. The sun was going down by then. Do you know

how the sun looks at the end of a hot day in August, all orange and

somehow squashed, as if an invisible hand were pushing down on the top

of it and at any moment it might just pop like an overfilled mosquito

and splatter all over the horizon? It was like that. In the east, where

it was already dark, thunder was rumbling. But there was no rain that

night, only a dark that came down as thick and stifling as a blanket.

All the same, I slipped in front of the word processor and wrote for an

hour or so. It went pretty well, as I remember. And you know, even when

it doesn't, it passes the time.

My second crying fit came three or four days after the funeral. That

sense of being in a dream persisted--I walked, I talked, I answered the

phone, I worked on my book, which had been about eighty percent

complete when Jo died--but all the time there was this clear sense of

disconnection, a feeling that everything was going on at a distance from

the real me, that I was more or less phoning it in.

Denise Breedlove, Pete's mother, called and asked if I wouldn't like her

to bring a couple of her friends over one day the following week and

give the big old Edwardian pile I now lived in alone--rolling around in

it like the last pea in a restaurant-sized can--a good stem-to-stern

cleaning. They would do it, she said, for a hundred dollars split even

among the three of them, and mostly because it wasn't good for me to go

on without it. There had to be a scrubbing after a death, she said, even

if the death didn't happen in the house itself.

I told her it was a fine idea, but I would pay her and the women she

brought a hundred dollars each for six hours' work. At the end of the

six hours, I wanted the job done. And if it wasn't, I told her, it would

be done, anyway.

"Mr. Noonan, that's far too much," she said.

"Maybe and maybe not, but it's what I'm paying," I said. "Will you do

it?"

She said she would, of course she would.

Perhaps predictably, I found myself going through the house on the

evening before they came, doing a pre-cleaning inspection. I guess I

didn't want the women (two of whom would be complete strangers to me)

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BagofBBones[030-011-4.9]By:StephenKINGSynopsis:AchillingstoryofghostsandhorrortoldasolytheMastercantellit:yes,Bagofbones,byStephenKing.Afterthetragicdeathofhiswife,awriterreturnstohisMainesummerhomeandthereconfrontsinternalandexternalghosts,aswellasaveryspecialchildandhermother.SCRIBNER1230Avenueoft...

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Stephen King - Bag Of Bones

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