Night Shift by Stephen King Read Free Book Online Page B

Mark of the Beast was on him, although he walked in the clothes of the Lamb. And on the night of October 31, 1789, Philip Boone disappeared . . . and the entire populace of that damned village with him.”
    She would say little more; in fact, seemed to know little more. She would only reiterate her pleas that I leave, giving as reason something about “blood calling to blood” and muttering about “those who
watch
and those who
guard.”
As twilight drew on she seemed to grow more agitated rather than less, and to placate her I promised that her wishes would be taken under strong consideration.
    I walked home through lengthening, gloomy shadows, my good mood quite dissipated and my head spinning with questions which still plague me. Cal greeted me with the news that our noises in the walls have grown worse still—as I can attest at this moment. I try to tell myself that I hear only rats, but then I see the terrified, earnest face of Mrs. Cloris.
    The moon has risen over the sea, bloated, full, the colour of blood, staining the ocean with a noxious shade. My mind turns to that church again and
    (here a line is struck out)
    But you shall not see that, Bones. It is too mad. It is time I slept, I think. My thoughts go out to you.
    Regards,
CHARLES .

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    (The following is from the pocket journal of Calvin McCann.)

    Oct. 20, '50
    Took the liberty this morning of forcing the lock which binds the book closed; did it before Mr. Boone arose. No help; it is all in cypher. A simple one, I believe. Perhaps I may break it as easily as the lock. A diary, I am certain, the hand oddly like Mr. Boone's own. Whose book, shelved in the most obscure corner of this library and locked across the pages? It seems old, but how to tell? The corrupting air has largely been kept from its pages. More later, if time; Mr. Boone set upon looking about the cellar. Am afraid these dreadful goings-on will be too much for his chancy health yet. I must try to persuade him—
    But he comes.

    Oct. 20, 1850.
    BONES ,
    I can't write I cant
[sic]
write of this yet I I I

    (From the pocket journal of Calvin McCann)

    Oct. 20, '50.
    As I had feared, his health has broken—
    Dear God, our Father Who art in Heaven!
    Cannot bear to think of it; yet it is planted, burned on my brain like a tin-type; that horror in the cellar—!
    Alone now; half-past eight o'clock; house silent but—
    Found him swooned over his writing table; he still sleeps; yet for those few moments how nobly he acquitted himself while I stood paralyzed and shattered!
    His skin is waxy, cool. Not the fever again, God be thanked. I daren't move him or leave him to go to the village. And if I did go, who would return with me to aid him? Who would come to this cursed house?
    O, the cellar! The things in the cellar that have haunted our walls!

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    Oct. 22, 1850.
    DEAR BONES ,
    I am myself again, although weak, after thirty-six hours of unconsciousness. Myself again . . . what a grim and bitter joke! I shall never be myself again, never. I have come face to face with an insanity and a horror beyond the limits of human expression. And the end is not yet.
    If it were not for Cal, I believe I should end my life this minute. He is one island of sanity in all this madness.
    You shall know it all.
    We had equipped ourselves with candles for our cellar exploration, and they threw a strong glow that was quite adequate—hellishly adequate! Calvin tried to dissuade me, citing my recent illness, saying that the most we