Needful Things by Stephen King Read Free Book Online Page A

cents,” Mr. Gaunt said. “Does that seem fair?”
    â€œYes,” Brian said. His voice was far and wee. He felt himself dwindling, dwindling away . . . and approaching the point where any clear memory would cease.
    â€œGood,” Mr. Gaunt’s caressing voice said. “Our trading has progressed well thus far. As for the deed . . . do you know a woman named Wilma Jerzyck, Brian?”
    â€œWilma, sure,” Brian said out of his growing darkness. “She lives on the other side of the block from us.”
    â€œYes, I believe she does,” Mr. Gaunt agreed. “Listen carefully, Brian.” So he must have gone on speaking, but Brian did not remember what he said.
7
    The next thing he was aware of was Mr. Gaunt shooing him gently out onto Main Street, telling him how much he had enjoyed meeting him, and asking him to tell his mother and all his friends that he had been well treated and fairly dealt with.
    â€œSure,” Brian said. He felt bewildered . . . but he also felt very good, as if he had just awakened from a refreshing early-afternoon nap.
    â€œAnd come again,” Mr. Gaunt said, just before he shut the door. Brian looked at it. The sign hanging there now read
    CLOSED.
8
    It seemed to Brian that he had been in Needful Things for hours, but the clock outside the bank said it was only ten of four. It had been less than twenty minutes. He prepared to mount his bike, then leaned the handlebars against his belly while he reached in his pants pockets.
    From one he drew six bright copper pennies.
    From the other he drew the autographed Sandy Koufax card.
    They apparently had made some sort of deal, although Brian could not for the life of him remember exactly what it had been—only that Wilma Jerzyck’s name had been mentioned.
    To my good friend Brian, with best wishes, Sandy Koufax.
    Whatever deal they had made, this was worth it.
    A card like this was worth practically anything.
    Brian tucked it carefully into his knapsack so it wouldn’t get bent, mounted his bike, and began to pedal home fast. He grinned all the way.

CHAPTER TWO
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1
    When a new shop opens in a small New England town, the residents—hicks though they may be in many other things—display a cosmopolitan attitude which their city cousins can rarely match. In New York or Los Angeles, a new gallery may attract a little knot of might-be patrons and simple lookers-on before the doors are opened for the first time; a new club may even garner a line, and police barricades with paparazzi, armed with gadget bags and telephoto lenses, standing expectantly beyond them. There is an excited hum of conversation, as among theatergoers on Broadway before the opening of a new play which, smash hit or drop-dead flop, is sure to cause comment.
    When a new shop opens in a small New England town, there is rarely a crowd before the doors open, and never a line. When the shades are drawn up, the doors unlocked, and the new concern declared open for business, customers come and go in a trickle which would undoubtedly strike an outsider as apathetic . . . and probably as an ill omen for the shopkeeper’s future prosperity.
    What seems like lack of interest often masks keen anticipation and even keener observation (Cora Rusk and Myra Evans were not the only two women in Castle Rock who had kept the telephone lines buzzing about Needful Things in the weeks before it opened). That interest and anticipation do not change the small-town shopper’s conservative code of conduct, however. Certain things are simply Not Done, particularly not in the tight Yankee enclavesnorth of Boston. These are societies which exist for nine months of every year mostly sufficient unto themselves, and it is considered bad form to show too much interest too soon, or in any way to indicate that one has felt more than a passing interest, so to speak.
    Investigating a new shop in a small town and