Insomnia by Stephen King Read Free Book Online Page A

woolgathering,’ Ralph said. He stepped past the library cart, leaned in the doorway (Winston Smith held his place with regal indifference), and grabbed the two papers he bought every day: a Boston Globe and a USA Today . The Derry News came right to the house, courtesy of Pete the paperboy. Ralph sometimes told people that he was sure one of the three papers was comic relief, but he had never been able to make up his mind which one it was. ‘I haven’t—’
    He broke off as Ed Deepneau’s face came into his mind. It was Ed he’d heard that nasty little chant from, last summer, out by the airport, and it really wasn’t any wonder it had taken him a little while to retrieve the memory. Ed Deepneau was the last person in the world from whom you’d expect to hear something like that.
    ‘Ralphie?’ Davenport said. ‘You just shut down on me.’
    Ralph blinked. ‘Oh, sorry. I haven’t been sleeping very well, that’s what I started to say.’
    ‘Bummer . . . but there are worse problems. Just drink a glass of warm milk and listen to some quiet music half an hour before bed.’
    Ralph had begun to discover this summer that everyone in America apparently had a pet remedy for insomnia, some bit of bedtime magic that had been handed down through the generations like the family Bible.
    ‘Bach’s good, also Beethoven, and William Ackerman ain’t bad. But the real trick’ – Davenport raised one finger impressively to emphasize this – ‘is not to get up from your chair during that half hour. Not for anything. Don’t answer the phone, don’t wind up the dog and put out the alarm-clock, don’t decide to brush your teeth . . . nothing ! Then, when you do go to bed . . . bam! Out like a light!’
    ‘What if you’re sitting there in your favorite easy-chair and all at once you realize you have a call of nature?’ Ralph asked. ‘These things can come on pretty suddenly when you get to be my age.’
    ‘Do it in your pants,’ Davenport said promptly, and burst out laughing. Ralph smiled, but it had a dutiful feel. His insomnia was rapidly losing whatever marginal humor value it might once have had. ‘In your pants !’ Ham chortled. He slapped the library cart and wagged his head back and forth.
    Ralph happened to glance down at the cat. Winston Smith looked blandly back at him, and to Ralph his calm yellow gaze seemed to say, Yes, that’s right, he’s a fool, but he’s my fool .
    ‘Not bad, huh? Hamilton Davenport, master of the snappy comeback. Do it in your . . .’ He snorted laughter, shook his head, then took the two dollar bills Ralph was holding out. He slipped them into the pocket of his short red apron and came out with some change. ‘That about right?’
    ‘You bet. Thanks, Ham.’
    ‘Uh-huh. And all joking aside, try the music. It really works. Mellows out your brain-waves, or something.’
    ‘I will.’ And the devil of it was, he probably would, as he had already tried Mrs Rapaport’s lemon and hot water recipe, and Shawna McClure’s advice on how to clear his mind by slowing his respiration and concentrating on the word cool (except when Shawna said it, the word came out cuhhhh-ooooooooooool ). When you were trying to deal with a slow but relentless erosion of your good sleep-time, any folk remedy started to look good.
    Ralph began to turn away, then turned back. ‘What’s with that poster next door?’
    Ham Davenport wrinkled his nose. ‘Dan Dalton’s place? I don’t look in there at all, if I can help it. Screws up my appetite. Has he got something new and disgusting in the window?’
    ‘I guess it’s new – it’s not as yellow as the rest of them, and there’s a notable lack of flydirt on it. Looks like a wanted poster, only it’s Susan Day in the photos.’
    ‘Susan Day on a – son of a bitch!’ He cast a dark and humorless look at the shop next door.
    ‘What is she, President of the National Organization of Women, or something?’
    ‘Ex-President and